#god and only after he’d repeatedly check that i’m okay i’m safe and finally crack a smile bc i’m so cute and silly

[puppys-preytime]

Getting high and instantly plagued with thoughts of him noticing my state and asking me if I want to be tickled to “get those giggles out”

[romanoffswifey]

Stupid Sexy Romanoff

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: Tony takes the avengers on a snowy retreat, where he finds out about your crush on Natasha. He and Clint convince you to do something a little bit stupid and it does not go according to plan. At least you get Natasha’s attention.

Contents/Warnings: Fluffy fluff, some dumbass energy from many people

Words: 1,539

AN - Yes, this was absolutely originally inspired by that one Simpsons scene and it would not let me rest until I had written it. Stupid sexy Flanders.

“Woah, Y/N, I didn’t know you could shred like that,” Tony says as you come skidding to a stop next to him and Clint on the alpine snow.

The billionaire had decided to take you all on a trip to a Swiss ski resort, in the name of relaxation and team bonding.

“There’s a dry ski slope about an hour away from the town I grew in, I haven’t been in a long while but I guess snowboarding is like riding a bike,” you offer. Plopping yourself down near Clint, who was currently sitting on Steve’s shield after he’d been using it as a sledge.

“Maybe now you’re here you can convince Stark to actually go down the mountain, instead of just standing here like a baby,” the archer points to the man’s skis, “you know they have instructors here to teach you how to use those things.”

Tony scoffs. “I don’t need any instructing, Barton. It can’t be that hard surely, I mean children can do it.”

“You could always ask our friendly god of hammers for some pointers,” you say, gesturing behind you as Thor shoots past, screaming with joy. The asgardian had turned out to be surprisingly good at the winter sport and was currently having the time of his life.

When the men next to you descend into bickering, you zone out. Letting your gaze wander until it lands on Natasha, who’s stood chatting with Steve further down the slope.

You’d had a crush on the redhead ever since you’d met her during the whole thing with Loki, but hadn’t said anything to her in fear of ending up looking like an idiot. 

Clint was the only one who knew and he’d been pretty useless at helping. Simply teasing you about it, as he’d decided to be an adult, for once, and respect Natasha’s privacy on the matter.

You sigh softly as you look at her now. She was beautiful, and kind of cute, with her little bobble hat and her googles on top of her head. The tips of her nose and ears slightly pink from the cold, and her flawless tresses only highlighted by the white around her.

As you follow the fall of her hair down to her outfit, you inhale sharply, coughing as the icy air hits the back of your throat.

The assassin was clad in a black and red ski suit, with a close enough fit that you could see the lines of her muscles. Along with a great view of her assets. It was safe to say that it left nothing to the imagination, and your imagination was certainly running wild right now.

Your little coughing fit had gained the attention of Tony and Clint. Making them pause their argument and follow your line of slight.

“Well, Romanoff certainly isn’t bothered by the cold. You’d think she’d want to wear something more comfortable since we’re out of the office,” says the billionaire.

“Actually it is comfy, and warm, and incredibly aerodynamic. She got it for this one mission where she had to go undercover as a prospect for the winter olympics,” Clint explains, “I tried it on once. It felt like I was wearing nothing at all.”

That comment did absolutely nothing to help your thoughts, in fact it only made them less PG then they already were. You’re pretty sure the heat coming from your face could turn the slope below you into a waterfall if you put your head close enough.

Unfortunately for you, your flustered state draws Tony’s questioning gaze from the archer to yourself.

“Erm, Y/N are you okay? You look kind of...wait a minute,” his eyes light up as he interrupts himself, “Oh. My. God. You totally have the hots for Romanoff don’t you?”

“Finally, someone noticed,” Clint happily exposes you.

“Barton, you little shit!” you exclaim in shock, repeatedly trying to jab him in the ribs.

“Oh this is great,” Tony laughs before starting to sing, “Y/N and Natasha sitting in a tre-”

“Shut it, Stark,” you hiss. Taking one of his ski poles and smacking him around the back of the legs, causing him to fall on his back in front of the pair of you with a small ‘oof’.

“Rude. But since you’re like the little sister I never had, I’ll elect to ignore it in favour of being the annoying brother right now. Does she know about the little heart eyes routine you got going on over here?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

You roll your eyes. “Does it look like she’s even remotely interested in me?”

“I don’t know, have you tried asking her?”

“This is Natasha Romanoff we’re talking about here, you think I want to risk making a fool out of myself and ruining our friendship?” you sigh dejectedly and put your chin on top of your knees. “And don’t bother asking Clint about it, I already tried,” you add when you see Tony turn toward the man, who was suddenly very quiet.

The billionaire huffs when he notices his glare isn’t doing anything to crack the archer’s resolve. But when his eyes land on the ramps that sat on one half of the snowy incline, the gears in his head start to turn.

His smirk widens when Clint throws him an encouraging look, clearly thinking along the same lines.

“Hey Y/N, why don’t you do a cool trick or something?” Tony asks while nodding toward the ramps.

“What?” you ask in reply, “What makes you think I can even do a trick?”

“Well, it can’t be that hard. I’ve seen you do loads of complicated acrobatics in training, and what about that time you flipped your motorbike over that bridge?”

“I’m sure Nat would be impressed if you did it,” Clint murmurs, trying to be subtle while eating some snow.

You cut your eyes at them both, wondering what they were up to.

“Fine,” you say. Pulling yourself up and setting off down the hill after thinking about it, it would be pretty cool if you did manage to pull it off.

Once you hit one of the bigger ramps, you lock eyes with Natasha, and your whole mind goes blank. You can’t stop staring and you’re quickly reminded of all those thoughts you’d just had. Which was not ideal, considering you had just launched yourself about 20 feet in the air. 

Shit.

Instead of doing some epic flip in the air, you just sail through it and start plummeting to the earth. But lucky for you, you’re an avenger. You’re also heading for a nice pile of snow.

Snow is surprisingly hard, and you groan as you lay buried there, regretting many of your life choices. Not only had you eaten complete shit, you had done it in front of your long time crush. This was the worst trip you had ever been on.

“Leave me to my shame,” you whine as you feel someone undoing your boots from your snowboard before pulling you out by your leg.

Your embarrassment only grows as you look up into green eyes that are filled with worry.

“Are you alright, Y/N?” Natasha asks. Checking you over for any sign of blood or broken bones.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you say, not quite meeting her eyes.

“You gonna explain what that was about then?” she asks with a hint of amusement as she helps you up.

You smile sheepishly and admit, “I was trying to show off.”

“Why?”

Being this close to her now, with her hands still lightly clasping yours and an adorable little frown on her face, you can’t find it in you to lie.

“I was trying to impress you. I really like you Natasha,” you confess quietly.

Her face slackens at your words, and you can feel your stomach sink. You gentle pull your hands from hers, letting out a long breath as you look down. Waiting for whatever her reaction might be.

To your surprise, a gloved hand comes up and cups your jaw. Tilting your head back up before a pair of soft lips land on your own.

You relax into the kiss as she holds you there. Blinking slowly when she pulls back with a sigh.

“I like you too, Y/N,” she says shyly. A smile tugging at her mouth and her face just a bit redder than it was before.

“How come you never said anything?” you ask, still not quite believing this was actually happening.

“I’m not really the best when it come to this whole feelings thing, so I wanted to makes sure that you might have felt the same about me before I did anything,” she trails off.

“Oh.”

The redhead hums. “And for the record you don’t have to impress me. I’ve seen what you can do, it’s pretty badass,” she says with a wink, before holding out her hand. “Now come on, I’ll get you a hot chocolate. Think of it as our first date.”

You can’t help the grin that breaks out onto your face as you take Natasha’s hand and let her drag you back up the mountain. 

Maybe this trip wasn’t so bad after all.

[softbiker]

Steve Rogers Oneshot

Warnings: some language and violence

Word count: 3.1k

Summary: Steve and Agent 14 work together for the first time. Best laid plans go awry. 

A/N: Here’s another installment of Cap and our beloved barista agent - if you haven’t read ‘Extra Whip’ or ‘Tall Blonde’, you might want to look at those first so you’ll know what’s going on! As always, please let me know what you think! I really love these two together <3

“So…it’s a quick intel grab?”

“Yep,” Fury nods. 

“And you want me on this?” She glances up from the dossier in her hands. 

Another nod.

“Care to explain why? Considering you have perfectly good agents in-house who can handle this?” 

Fury just shrugs. “You’ve been out of the field for quite a while on your…assignment, figured you might want the chance to stretch your legs a bit.”

Her eyes narrow at him. 

“And the real reason?”

“…you were requested.”

The dossier snaps closed, dropped to his desk with a quiet thump. Agent 14 settles her hands on her hips, eyebrow lifted as she stares down her boss. 

“By whom?” 

With a whoosh, the automatic door slides open, and there he is, all long legs and purposeful strides and shoulders that overwhelm the doorframe. American jaw hidden under that scruffy layer of beard he seemingly refuses to shave. She wonders if anyone has even tried - stylists, publicists, all the staff in charge of their Avengers image - to get him to go back to his classic style, boyish bare cheeks and sweetly combed hair. The boy you’d take to meet your mother. But some time has passed now, since the rifts caused by the Accords were repaired and SHIELD’s prodigal son came home - rough around the edges and unapologetic. 

“Oh,” he sees her, breaks the rhythm of his stride for half a beat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt-”

“Not at all, Captain,” Fury waves off his manners. “We were just discussing your upcoming mission.”

Half-turned to watch him, a look of understanding passes across her face and she crosses her arms. To his credit, Steve doesn’t shrink from her gaze, merely squares his shoulders, looping his thumbs in his belt. She’s not looking at the way the dark blue suit strains across his chest. He’s not looking at the tight white catsuit she’s wearing, nor the dagger strapped to her thigh. Sarah Rogers raised a damn gentleman, thank you. 

Clearing his throat, Steve nods and takes a step forward, gesturing towards the dossier spilling onto Fury’s desk. 

“May I?” 

Without a word, she scoops up the file and hands it to him. It falls open to a set of blueprints - floor plans scribbled here and there with notes on suitable entry and exit points. Licking the pad of his thumb, he continues to flip through the file, scanning the provided notes on security details, including a very thorough breakdown of the guard rotation schedule.

“Impressive recon,” he comments, still reading. “Who’d you have on this?” 

“Couple of my best agents,” Fury shrugged. His good eye slides over to Agent 14 and he nods graciously. “Present company excepted.”

“Please, my ego’s not that fragile, Nick,” 14 sighs, sarcastic smirk tilting up her mouth. “You don’t have to pat me on the head and give me a gold star.” Leaning her hip against his desk, she spares a glance at the Captain, bemused eyes bouncing between their exchange. “He always tells us that he doesn’t play favorites - we all annoy him equally.”

“Even Stark?” Steve quirks an eyebrow. 

“He’s in a class all his own - and technically not an agent of SHIELD.” The scowl around Fury’s mouth deepens by a fraction. “Not that that’s ever stopped him.”

“If Pepper Potts can’t stop him, then it’s a lost cause.” Reeling the conversation back to business, 14 tamps down her smile. “So what’s our timeline here, boss?”

“48 hours. I want a clean extraction.” He points a finger at Steve. “No theatrics, Captain. No explosions. And for God’s sake, no toppling entire organizations without calling me first.”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to send in the Star Spangled Man? Not exactly the best play for subtlety.” She turns her face to Steve with a placating gesture of her hands. “No offense.”

“None taken.” He rolls his shoulders, feeling the edges of the shield against his muscles. “This thing doesn’t exactly scream ‘stealth’.” The corners of her eyes wrinkle as she fights a smile, and if he seems to puff his chest a little, well, this suit is a bit tight on him now. 

“I’m trusting Captain Rogers’s discretion in this case, Agent.” How does a single eyepatch manage to look so stern? “Romanoff has taught him a thing or two over the years. Should be fine. Any further questions?” 

Their eyes meet over the dossier - no questions in that gaze; at least, none that Fury can answer. 

“Alright, then - please see yourselves out of my office.” Nick falls into his chair, kicking his feet up on the desk. “And don’t come back without coffee.” 

 **********                                                                                                   

It’s quiet in the cockpit. Autopilot holds the jet steady, somewhere over the Arctic Ocean. Starkpad in his lap, Steve runs back over their notes and schematics, holding the picture in his mind: two exit points on the south side, three on the east. Heavier security on the south side, near the main entrance; they’d have easier access to the server if they could get in that way, but it was too much of a risk. Too easy to be seen, and then they’d end up fighting their way out - which was the last thing they needed. He wanted in and out - efficient, quiet, clean. 

A glance over at 14, who has her headphones in, studying her own tablet. The soft blue glow of the screen lights up her features, soft shadows cast by her lashes. It’s been quiet since they loaded up the jet, each falling into their own preparations, little habits to find their headspace. She chews on her thumbnail as her other hand flicks through pages on her screen. 

Still an hour out, according to their navigation system, and Steve is certain the blueprints are tattooed on the backs of his eyelids. With a sigh, he abandons the tablet and swivels to the side to face his teammate. It takes a moment for her to notice him, pluck one of her earphones out with a sheepish little smile. 

“Sorry, did you say something?” 

“Not yet,” he shakes his head. Chews his lip. Cracks the knuckles of one hand. 

“Did you…need something?” she laughs a little, a nervous bubble and quirk of her eyebrows. 

He blows a breath past his lips and looks up. 

“Honestly? I’m bored,” Steve chuckles. “And I know you don’t want to talk about you, so I thought maybe we could play a game?”

Eyebrows arching up, she sits a little straighter in her seat. 

“A game?” 

Turning to reach behind him, Steve digs in his duffel bag for a few moments, producing a deck of cards. The cardboard is worn down, corners practically broken through, and he waves the pack in his hand, earnest offer in his soft blue eyes. 

“You like gin rummy?” 

Smile growing, she pulls out the other headphone and puts her tablet to the side. 

“I’m more of a Texas Hold’em girl, Cap.” 

  **********                                                                                                  

“Alright - you approach to the east, as planned. I’ll follow and cover you.” 

“Roger that, Captain.” 

Clock counting down, they stand in the gangway of the jet, conducting a final weapons check. 14 settles a gun on her left thigh, knife on her right and in each of her boots. Extra ammo in her belt. His own guns and knives in place, Steve spins the shield in his hands, before securing it on his back - he feels practically naked without it. Flag design be damned, he’s not going into a mission without it now. 

Two fingers tap at the comm device in her ear.

“Line 1, test.” Her voice comes through clear and soft in his ear. 

“Line secure.” 

They’re minutes away now, shuffling on their feet, prickles of adrenaline beginning to flex in their twitching fingers. It’s quiet, only the hum of the jet’s engines, the whir of the fans pressurizing the cabin. Steve’s jaw works back and forth. 

“Hey, can I ask you something?” 

She tilts her head to the side and lifts a brow in invitation. 

Steve scratches the back of his neck. “Just, uh…don’t tell Bucky about that, okay?” His smile, an embarrassed smirk aimed at the floor, is achingly sweet, his long lashes fanning against flushed cheeks. 

“Embarrassed you got cleaned out, Captain?” Oh, that grin, a cat with two paws in the cream. 

“Well, he taught me to play, back when we were kids…” he huffs, rolling his eyes. “He’d never let me hear the end of it.”

It’s soft, the way she considers him then, taking in the hunched shoulders, the curious blue eyes, the hand sweeping hair back from his face. Softer than a moment between strangers has any right to be, longer than one between friends should. The jet beats it’s way through the air, bringing them closer to their objective. 

She licks her lips. 

“Your secret’s safe with me, Captain.”

**********                                                                                                   

Not the plan, not the plan, not the goddamn plan.

Steve books it down the hallway, long legs and enhanced muscles letting him eat up the distance in seconds. Alarms blare at each end of the hall, echoing down the staircase as he throws the door open and leaps down one flight after another. On his left, a door slams open against the wall, kicked by a screaming guard who enters the stairwell with his gun, only to be on the receiving end of the red right hand of Steve Rogers. His feet barely slow as the unfortunate soldier slumps against the wall, taking the steps 3 at a time. 

Short story is that their intel was faulty; the long story is that Steve is going to throttle whoever sent him and 14 right into the lion’s den with no backup, no heavy firepower, and no goddamn plan. 

“14? 14 do you copy?” He pants into the comm, tapping the button repeatedly when he’s met with taught seconds of silence. 

With a growl, he bursts through a door to his left, marked ‘G’ for what he hopes is the ground floor. The planned rendezvous point with Agent 14. But the relentless static buzzing in his ear doesn’t fill him with much confidence, and he turns about, looking for her along the corners of the room. 

“14, what’s your location?” He can hear the harsh scrape in his voice, the tightness in his throat that threatens to close in his words, his commands. “Tell me where you are and I’ll find you.” 

A heartbeat, two. A breath between.

“Incoming, Captain -” His shoulders sag at the sound. “Bringing a few friends with me.”

He swivels his head back and forth, scanning the room - she was late, she was without backup, she was-

- Falling from the ceiling, a cable attached to her belt barely controlling the descent as she plummets downward headfirst, her knees curling up as she aims her gun directly upward. A limp arm dangles from the hole she dropped through, masked faces appearing in the space above; panicked shouts mingle with the shrill sirens, the clipped staccato of gunfire punctuating their frantic cries. 

About 10 feet above the floor, Agent 14 cuts her cable and backflips neatly to the ground, bouncing up on her toes and tensed to spring as her quick fingers change the clip in her gun. Her head whips around to find him striding over, boots stomping and tight-lipped authority. 

“Where’ve you been?” Concealed by his beard, the muscle in his jaw jumps. “We were supposed to meet back at the rendezvous point the minute something went wrong.”

Her eyes narrow and he could choke on the overbearing tone in his own voice. 

“The plan went south. I improvised.” The arch in her brow is imperious, immune, invulnerable. “And now I’m here.” The shouts above them grow louder, accompanied by pounding footsteps approaching from the stairwell. She runs a quick hand through her hair, pushing the sweaty loose strands away from her face. 

“Would you like to save this discussion for the jet ride home?” she quips, no longer looking at him as she eyes the stairwell door. 

Before he can answer, the door bursts open - guns pointed their way, a spatter of bullets erupting on sight. Twisting behind him, 14 crouches down, shoulder pressed against his back as he swings his shield in front of them just in time. In moments, there’s a phalanx of guards standing between them and their exit point, the jet, home.

“Stay back!” he yells over his shoulder, one arm reaching behind to tuck her against his back as he turns and shuffles them closer to the wall, finding marginal cover against a column rising up from the floor. 

“Yeah, no shit,” she mutters back, his enhanced ears catching the sass under the chaos of their failed escape. 

Pressed against the column, he edges back an inch, layering the shield and his own body against the hail of bullets volleying their way. With quickened breaths, he calculates their odds - each passing second, the number of goons standing between them and the quinjet grows. No reason to call in for support or evac; it would take too long for a SHIELD strike team to be deployed to their location, and the Avengers were otherwise occupied. 14’s fist curls against his shoulder blades, and he scans the room, maybe they could skirt the perimeter somehow…?

Her voice appears in his ear.

“I’ve got an idea.” The grip on the back of his uniform tightens by a fraction. “When I say, throw the shield on an angle, against that far wall, got it?” 

With little time to debate, he nods and adjusts his feet, turning his hips in a better stance to aim for the spot she’d pointed out. He slows his breaths, counting between each beat of his heart, each pounding bullet. 

“Now!”

A swing of his arm sends a bright red arc spinning across the room, the ricochet bouncing off one wall to the next at the corner, then arcs back to sweep out the legs of the front guards in the formation. On impact, it bounces away and clangs against the floor, rolling towards…Agent 14, who has already scooped up the rolling disc and is running back towards their enemies, drawing fire as she raises the shield in front of her face. 

Mid-run, she dives for the floor, holding the shield overhead to catch her in a somersault and then springing up to crash the shield against the nearest guards head. She spins and whirls, using the shield to block bullets as she pistol whips another thug, then kicks out the knees of a third and knocks him out with a shield blow to the head. Over her shoulder, she sees Steve approaching; she twists, kicking her leg around high and throwing his keepsake back to him, taking out the nearest guard with her boot. 

Running up on the last remaining soldier, Steve deals him a quick right cross - just like Bucky taught him - and turns to survey the damage…and his partner. 

She’s wondering if she’ll have to scrape his jaw off the floor. If he’ll say something. And for that matter, she’s unsure whether to be offended or flattered by his reaction.

“Don’t tell me you thought I was a full-time barista, Rogers?” Hands on her hips, chin raised, the perfect arch of her brow daring him to open his mouth and answer at all. The corners of his mouth twitch as he raises his hands in surrender. 

“In my defense, your resume is classified above top secret.” 

Rolling her eyes, 14 turns away and starts jogging towards the exit. Steve watches her ponytail swing for a moment, before shaking his head and following behind. 

 **********                                                                                                   

Fury doesn’t look up from his desk when the door glides open. 

“You know, I’m starting to doubt you learned anything from Agent Romanoff.”

“Well you know what they say about old dogs and new tricks.” Steve tucks his thumbs in his belt, planting himself in front of the director’s desk. Fury’s good eye rolls. 

“Sure, and when they get too old, we take them out of the field.” The folder in his hand snaps closed, punctuating his sentence. It slides across the table towards Steve. “Luckily for you, I trust 14’s judgment. Her report indicates there was a problem with the intel - the two of you ran into some unexpected company.”

Lips pursed, Steve nods, a stark crease forming between his dark brows. 

“We were caught off guard. They backed us into a corner, too, but we made it out. No injuries, but I wouldn’t exactly call the mission a success.”

Leaning back in his chair, Fury makes a noise of protest. 

“I wouldn’t exactly say that,” he shrugs, producing a shiny flash drive from his pocket. “14 always delivers.”

Steve blinks. Bullets and broken bones for this, such a little thing - the drive slides back into Fury’s pocket. 

“In short, Captain, I won’t be needing a report from you, unless you have an issue with Agent 14’s.” He taps the file with a pointed finger. “Feel free to look it over, leave your John Hancock if you’ve got nothing to add.” 

Mutely, Steve takes the file, his thumb flipping it open and scanning down the page with quick eyes. Speed reading was an underrated super-soldier skill, one that didn’t really make the history books, but he made use of it getting through the daily set of security briefings and news headlines and mission reports that came across his desk. A long-suffering sigh passes his lips. 

“You got a pen?” He glances up at Fury, who’s sipping at a familiar paper cup, green logo bright against the cardboard sleeve. Wordlessly, he extends a black fountain pen to Steve with his unoccupied hand, the only sound in the room the quiet slurp of his mouth against the cup. 

Placing the pen on top of the file, Steve returns it back to the desk and nods at the drink in Fury’s hand. 

“Americano? Dark roast?” A wry quirk of his eyebrow. “Pumpkin spice latte?” 

With a flat stare, Fury shakes his head. 

“Black coffee with a shot of espresso.” He takes a long drink. “14 knows just how I like it.”

On his way down, Steve takes the stairs at a jog, wondering how fast he can squeeze in a coffee run before his next meeting. Through the windows, the sun is strong and high, a spring morning with summer at its heels. He’s got 20 minutes to change, grab his notes, and be back down to the 10th floor for a weekly update from the team. 

Ah, what the hell. They can wait. 

[argylemikewheeler]

pls do something where will’s favorite nickname for mike is baby because it always calms mike down

|| cw: panic attacks ||

They stood on exact opposite ends of the issue: Mike didn’t want anyone to know what Will chose as his loving nickname, and Will only wanted to gush about how much he loved Mike and loved calling him “baby”. Mike refused to feel embarassed about it-- it was a sweet name, and not too corny and not too original that it felt grossly romantic. He refused to feel embarassed for the summer before his senior year, biking to Will’s house-- and experiencing his first panic attack.

The July air was thick; breathing deep felt like trying to suck a tennis ball through a straw. Mike was in a cold sweat, felt chilled even though his palms were burning on his black handlebars and the asphalt made the bottom of his sneakers feel gummy. His chills had started as he turned down Will’s street, his chest tightening and the prospect of seeing Will becoming such an enormous relief-- to fear he wasn’t sure where he was hiding.

He’d left the house after a fight with his parents-- Ted really, but Karen had tried to run defense, but of course couldn’t get a word in edge-wise. They were trying to talk about where Mike wanted to go to college, what he wanted to study, and how he would not be allowed to go anywhere near New York City. It was dangerous. It was infected, Ted had said. It was a no, loud and clear, upsetting Holly in the other room. When she’d started to cry, Mike grabbed his backpack to leave. Ted stood in front of him at the door briefly, crossing his arms and telling Mike what a “bad example” he was for his younger sister. Mike knew his father wasn’t referring to the yelling or flippant attitude.

Now that he’d left the house, Mike felt homeless. He didn’t think he could go back without inciting World War III-- or having to fold to his parents’ wishes before he’d even started his last year of high school. Or maybe he’d have to just pack up and leave for New York anyway, and be banished. What options did he have where did he have to go what could he do what was he supposed to do when no one listening and no one wanted to listen or even help him he was all alone and-

Mike stepped off his bike and started running down Will’s driveway, just to see if his feet still worked. They were starting to get pins and needles, sliding off the pedals and dragging against the ground. Mike wasn’t sure how he was able to run with the humidity, the heat, and his heaving chest, but he’d done a lot more with a lot worse injuries. God, the winter of freshman year was enough--

“Mike?” Will was outside, hanging towels over the clothesline. He lowered his arms slowly, letting them hover at waist-height, as if he’d have to stop Mike from running into him. There must’ve been terror drenching Mike’s face too. “Mike, what’s wrong? What happened?”

“I think I’m gonna die.” Mike panted. He tried to stop, falling into the laundry line and bracing himself on the post. Will grabbed him, feeling his arms and sides. He kept checking his hands, as if they’d come up dripping maroon.

“What happened? What did you see? What’s coming?” He looked back toward the driveway. “Mike? Talk to me.”

“T-Ted. He got all... all in my face about... Fuck, I can’t breathe. I think I’m choking-- I can’t breathe.” Mike yanked on his shirt collar. It was loose already, hanging down by his collarbone.

“You’re okay, Mike. You’re not going to choke. You’re okay-- why don’t we sit down in the shade. The heat probably isn’t help--”

“I can’t feel my feet or my hands. I can’t feel them. I think I’m dying. Will, I’m dying.” Mike had no control over his words, it seemed. The fear of literally dying right there on his boyfriend’s lawn was too overpowering to try and negotiate Will’s treatment plan.

“You aren’t dying.” Will wasn’t angry. He was firm-- he was sure-- but he wasn’t angry. “You aren’t dying, Mike. Try to take a deep breath-- with me, ready?”

Any attempt to breathe slowly on Mike’s part became short, shallow gasps. He started to feel dizzy, his brain getting and losing its weak stream of oxygen repeatedly with every failed breath. Mike closed his eyes and grabbed the wooden laundryline post, trying to splinter it with his fingernails. Will held his face, trying to guide him through just one steady breath.

“You’re okay I’ve got you. I just need you to breathe, Mike. You’re okay, baby.”

Will’s voice was quiet; so soft it slipped through the hard, cracked pounding in Mike’s head. Nothing in it was broken, nothing was breaking. There was still a home for Mike, even just in the sound of Will’s voice. In the words he delicately wrapped around him. The names he’d saved just for their shared moments that no one could dictate.

Mike opened his eyes to try and match Will’s breathing again. “B-B-B-”

"What? What is it? Bad? Break? B-Beat?” Will guessed, looking like he was going to start shaking himself. “Mike--”

“Baby.” Mike managed a choppy exhale. “B-Baby.”

“Yeah. T-That’s you.” Will smiled, crinkles forming by his eyes. “My very tall and capable and strong boyfriend, who is the sweetest boy. And who I just have to call baby.” Mike’s laugh was something like a hiss, but it managed to force his diaphragm to constrict. He inhaled through a wonky, awkward smile.

Behind Will, Mike could clearly see his house: standing firm, windows and curtains open. The sun was practically lifting it off the ground. The sunstreaked patio furniture would be a great seat, for both of them. Nothing had collapsed, no one had gone anywhere. Mike had just left his house after a disagreement with his parents. He wasn’t in the in-between of being loved and rejected. He was still loved-- there and especially here.

“Are you okay now?” Will grabbed Mike’s hands. “Can you feel this? Can you feel my hand?” Mike nodded, easing his breathing down. “See? You’re okay! I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. You’re alive. I’m right here.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

“Baby, it’s okay.” Will eased Mike’s head down to his shoulder, wrapping his arms around Mike. His hands splayed over Mike’s back, despite his shirt being soaked to the skin. He chuckled as Mike groaned another apology. “You’re safe, baby. I’ve got you-- you’ve got this.”

Will was right-- and Mike was finally more than willing to admit it to him. Mike could handle whatever his senior year was deciding to throw his way, but he also had backup. Will always had him-- had his back, his best interest, and his heart. There was nothing to be afraid of.

Not even the barbs Mike knew he’d have to attach to his already thorny attitude he had with his parents. Mike would have to harden, but that didn’t mean he still wasn’t kind inside. He was someone’s... well, he was Will’s “baby”. His sweet and loved and anxious and awkward boyfriend. And Mike wasn’t ashamed of it-- he wasn’t. He refused. He loved it.

[caraidean]

First Flirtations || Ced & Tine

Participant(s): Ced of Silesse, @sireneia / Tine

Words: 3,500

Type: C-Support

Summary: Ced saves Tine from a nasty fall, and finds himself with a genuine, deep attraction to her that neither expected to find. 

        MENTIONS OF WIND magic brings Tine’s mind to images of her brother excitedly talking about the home they had supposedly once shared. A bit of that love had rubbed off on her; how could it not when he seemed so happy speaking of Silesse and its affinity for the sky and all that made it up?

She’s thinking of that home as she squeezes her eyes shut, wondering if maybe in the afterlife if her mother is enjoying a place like that. Soon she could be joining her, she thinks— find out on her own. Tine hadn’t taken a step back into that wondrous land herself so she wouldn’t be able to recognize anything like it, only match descriptors, but she could learn to love it, she thinks.

She doesn’t get that chance— at least, not yet. Though she had been bracing herself for a horrible fall when the earth of the cliff cracked beneath her ( her fault for wanting a good last look at Alster but not knowing the lay of the land, what terrain was safe and what was not, due to her lack of… really going out anywhere ), there’s a curious floating sensation unlike anything she’s ever felt. Her eyes flutter open, her hands still clasped around the red pendant looped around her neck in a prayer that betrayed her thoughts, and the sky floods her sight.

The mage feels herself smile before she looks down and yelps. The fantastical feeling of flying wears off and she’s back to drawing inward towards herself in fear. She does notice the man who seems to be directing the wind, guiding her back to even ground again and it’s only when she’s standing back on her feet that she eases up, though her hands still remain closed tightly around her necklace.

“ I um… thank you. ” Her eyes hover over the tome in his possession, and she finds her voice again to ask, “Did you save me with that ? I’ve never been able to do anything like that with my magic… ”

Ced was having a hard time fitting in with the rest of the Liberation Army, if he could speak frankly. He’d spent the last several years alternating between working alone or leading his own group, only pausing for that brief allegiance with Leif towards the end of the last year. It had been a relief, certainly - finally getting rid of the sense of responsibility, the crushing self-doubt that had been following him around.

But something so mundane as scouting with two or three of the other members of the army? It just felt so strange to be doing this instead of lurking in a tent planning, or forcing himself to give some moral raising speech. He stood on the cliffs and sighed, looking back at Alster and feeling his eyebrow quirk up a little - and then he heard a sharp crack, and the starts of a scream. He whipped around, knowing instinctively what must have happened, and thrust out his hands–

Got her

Ced let out a sigh of relief when he ‘felt’ Holsety’s winds wrap around the girl, curving his fingers back into his palm and tugging her upright before setting her carefully back on solid ground. He extended his hands in case she needed to steady herself, but the poor girl seemed to be clutching her pendant too tightly to notice.

“It’s fine.” Ced assured her quietly, following her eyes to his tome. He shifted his cloak to cover it instinctively, before remembering what Seliph had told him - no more secrets. Not after the damage secrets had caused to their parents. So he reluctantly let her look, even tugging it out of his cloak and holding it in his hand.

“Holsety is…special.” He glanced at her hair and blinked for a second in surprise. “You…you’re from Friege, aren’t you? I would have thought you knew the Holy Weapons can do things most can’t.”

That came off as too aggressive, so he sighed and put it back in the pouch on his hip. “Are you alright? Sometimes the fright of a fall can cause as much harm as the fall itself. You’ve not gone into shock, have you?”

        THIS THEN MUST be Holsety. Legendary weapons truly were something else, that much Tine was aware, but to give humans the ability to defy gravity? Wind, in her mind, was either light or something that could cut your very flesh— so she had been warned as a mage proficient in thunder magic herself. But what Holsety just displayed to her was neither the gentle breeze nor the deadly tornado.

It was a tender strength she had never known ‘til now.

“ …Of course. ” She surely must have looked dumb with her question, and her throat feels as if it is closing up with her shame. Still, she can’t leave him without a response when she asks about her state— surely coming off as ignoring him would only make things worse for her. “ I’m fine. Sorry about the trouble I’ve caused… ”

Her head tilts down slightly, and she is about to keep herself in check, not to speak back or say anything more than necessary, until she remembers where she is now.

Memories of her apologizing to Seliph only for him to forgive her so easily flash through her mind. She didn’t need to fear as much as she had in days past. Her wavering gaze moves upward, back to try and meet Ced’s own. Perhaps Silesse’s prince would not be as surprisingly gentle as Seliph was, but he did save her. She did not imagine the wind that granted her both exhilaration and safety, and maybe she was deluding herself in hoping so, but she wanted to believe that that wind spoke for the man who controlled it– that he too could be kindand she need not fear him.

“ A-About earlier, um… what you were saying… ” She loosens her grip on her necklace, though her posture is still very much so reserved as she gathers the courage to speak again. “ I’ve seen Mjolnir a few times, yes. It is strong, can strike anything down and protects us… but it makes Ishtar a feared goddess. I’ve only seen Holy Weapons as things that can cut down people but you’re different. You saved me without bloodshed… Mjolnir can’t do anything like that. You and Holsety are something wonderful and… ”

You made me feel safe without being family.

She cups her hands over her mouth, that bravery seeping out of her rapidly now and her voice grows softer as she averts her gaze. “ I’m sorry. I said too much, didn’t I ? ”

“It wasn’t any trouble. You just…need to be more careful.” Ced said quietly, trying to reassure her. He paused and glanced at the poor girl walking behind him, slowing his pace so they fell into step together - although considering how much taller he was than her, his current pace was actually quite uncomfortable for him. He resisted the urge to just pick the girl up and carry her, either with Holsety or just physically.

She didn’t look like she weighed much. She looked…slight, and delicate almost. Ced’s brow furrowed for a second after realizing that, for the first time in a while, he was attracted to someone…outside his taste. Still, it would be incredibly poor form to start flirting with her now. If he could remember how to flirt in the first place.

Gods knew what his sister would do to him if she thought he was trying to pressure a poor girl after saving her life. So instead he focused on the conversation proper, listening to her slight rambling about Mjolnir and raising an eyebrow.

“I’m sure it could do something similar, if they just…experimented.” He said quietly after a few moments, unsure how to speak about Tine’s family. “All too often, people forget that magic doesn’t have to just be a weapon-”

And he found his words snatched away by her frantic apologies, Ced raising an eyebrow slightly in what was almost disbelief. Someone had done a number on this poor girl, that was for sure. Gods. What was it that he was feeling now? Not the surge of pure attraction from earlier, but…not quite pity, either. He didn’t know what to think.

“You didn’t say too much.” He assured her, quietly. “We have quite a distance left before we get back to camp. Please…keep talking.”

          HER FACE IS a canvas, one repeatedly painted in different shades of confusion every time that the male replies to her. She thinks her hunch at least was right however, that he could be kind. His voice is a foreign sound both literally and figuratively — a far cry from Hilda’s scoldings.

Tine realizes that she would very much like to continue hearing him speak that way to her, to draw out whatever gentleness she could from him, though she had not even the first idea of how to.

Somehow, his claim that magic ( besides Holsety ) doesn’t have to just be a weapon seems believable to her despite more than a decade of her life spent not knowing anything like it. She wishes she hadn’t cut him off, taking away that voice she so wished to hear more of right now.

How ironic it is that her babbling was what stopped it, yet she can’t make herself implore him to continue. She really does think she’s said too much now, though not because she’s offended him. If she’s done anything, it’s deprive herself of something nice.

“ …Okay. ” She inhales, trying to think of what even to say. She’s not used to this much freedom, but could she at least take this to mean he might not find her horrible to listen to? Could she be hopeful that he would talk to her again after they stopped today?

Ah. What was she doing, being so hopeful about this? Regardless of that, she was supposed to be filling in the lull between them now. It looks like she hadn’t blundered this as badly as she had initially thought.

“ I wonder… when you say that magic doesn’t have to just be a weapon… could even I be capable of that ? I don’t have anything special, ” she looks down at her Elthunder tome attached to her belt, an attempt at mimicking how her cousin wore her own holy tome, “ but… I would love to be as kind and dashing as you to others if I could. All I know is magic, and that’s about all of what I’m useful at. ”

Sometime along when she was sharing her honest thoughts, she had begun to break out in an unconscious smile. It was small, but it was definitely there and likely to grow as she said whatever came to mind from her heart.

“It doesn’t have to be a certain kind of magic.” Ced said after a few moments of quiet thought, considering her words. He’d always felt a need to use his to help people, one way or another - and perhaps wind magic was the second best inclined in that direction. Beside healing magic, his wind let him do a great deal for the common people, even before he discovered the sheer elemental force that Holsety brought with it - he had broken storms, carried supplies over chasms to build bridges, granted pegasus riders a tailwind to move faster. Holsety had amplified that…thousandfold. Thunder magic, however, proved difficult.

“If someone knows one kind of magic, they have two options.” Ced spoke carefully with these thoughts in his mind, falling back into step with her when he noticed he’d pulled ahead. Not by any deliberate design, just…the height difference that he was growing increasingly aware of. His legs were longer, so he walked faster.

It had been almost adorable, watching her suddenly up her pace to make sure she didn’t fall behind again. She was all…eager energy, a desire to speak and spend time with him. Or at least, that’s what he thought.

She was endearing - and he was a hopeless romantic at heart. He’d gotten that from his mother and father both, as much as he wished to deny it.

“You can learn a form of magic that might be more useful, outside of fighting.“He said, gesturing towards the cleric in their group. “Or you can think outside of the box, growing creative. In Silesse, during the winters, Fire mages are some of the most desired to help combat the chill that can set in. I’ve heard rumors in Thracia proper that Thunder and Wind mages have been trying to combine their magics to bring about rainfall, to try and fight the droughts that plague their lands. For my part, I can move supplies, break storms, hold back disasters…catch pretty women who stumble off of cliffs.”

He cursed himself for that last line, feeling himself slipping into how his father talked almost instinctively - but he looked over at Tine and smiled reassuringly anyway, nodding his head. “Just think about it. You can figure it out.”

    Two options, huh? Where some might find being limited to just two as restricting, it was very freeing for Tine on the other hand. It meant a choice, something to try and wrest, and from the look of things, neither option seemed terrible or utterly confusing! Difficult, perhaps, but if being helpful to others in ways she hadn’t been before was the consequence, then the price was more than worth it.

“ Thunder and wind mages working together… Southern Thracia must be full of very resilient people. ” Word of mouth was all she could rely on as a cooped up princess, and even then all she had heard of Thracia was how they were dogs that had no choice but to take the mercenary life to survive. It was always so derisive, sountrusting of them whenever there was commentary — to hear of the steps they were taking to help against their fates was inspiring in a way and so very personal in a way it had been lacking before. Her voice as she mused her thoughts out loud to herself had a dream-like quality, one that shattered when when her mind finally registered the rest of what her walking companion had said.

“ Oh… ”

Her heart skipped a beat. That… meant her, right? She was pretty? Honest to goodness? And as a woman and not just a cute child!

But as quickly as she let her thoughts run with her, they took a turn for the greener. Pouting a bit, she says with much delay, “ I bet you catch a lot of pretty women then. ”

It was dumb, and she’s unsure if the blush high on her cheeks at this point is due to the warm feeling from earlier or if it’s from her current shame at making such a comment. She speeds up slightly, a small attempt to run away from what she had just said.

"So far I’ve only managed one.” Ced was amazed that that line had worked at all, even if it had apparently struck her confidence. What had happened to the poor girl…were her guardians like his father was? Worse, even? From neglect to abuse?

He couldn’t dwell on it for too long, turning on his foot and deciding to clear the air. A hand reached out as he stepped down a ledge, offering her support, and when she took it he smiled at her.

“I hope you didn’t take any offense.” He said calmly, even as a part of his head started to scream at him. Gods help him, he was acting like his father - but he refused to play it out like he would. He wouldn’t toy with the poor girl’s heart. “But, yes…the Thracians are very resilient. Like you, from what I’ve heard.”

   She stops, face stuck in its beet red shock. Though she had been slow to realize at first the flirtatious implication of his words from earlier, it was like noticing them at all made her hyper-sensitive to any future thing he said.

Her timing is fortuitous with how they reach the ledge, and she gently lays her hand in his. Even if she had thought herself rather foolish for her little show of envy, she was no match for this downright princely gesture. His smile was just the icing on the cake really. The moment was so short, yet for that small time of support, she feels a little bit like a princess out of one of those tales she would read on her lonesome when her mother was too busy being the focus of Aunt Hilda’s wrath.

“ No, I didn’t… No offense taken, I mean. ” She bites her lip, unsure how to dissuade him with her meek voice. However that was not at the front of her mind. Instead, her thoughts lingered on where they were connected, and perhaps with more daring than she would have had at the start of their conversation, she moves her fingers to wrap around his hand and tighten their hold. “ Um, sorry to say something that won’t make me sound so resilient then, but… may I hold your hand until we get closer to camp? It’s a bit hard to keep up with your legs…”

In the end, it was a bit of an excuse, and maybe this was a bit much to spring onto him. He surely didn’t intend to lead things this way, did he? Yet here she was, being too clingy…

“Why not. It’s not that far.”

Ced gave her a gentle smile, squeezing her hand to assure her. He noted just how much shorter than him he was for the first time, a somewhat intrusive thought that made him raise an eyebrow and blink in surprise. She seemed so small, so…delicate. But she’d made it through a life which he could only assume…ah, well. He’d said that she was resilient. It might not be clear to the eyes at first, but there was something about what he could see past the nervousness in her eyes, something…

No matter.

Maybe that’s why I’m so drawn to her…if the Magi Squad were here, they’d laugh at me for finally straying away from my ‘type’. I suppose it’s harder to get any more distant from tall, brash dark-haired warriors than a cute, tiny and timid mage girl. But…

He was snapped out of his thoughts when the camp came into view, letting go of her hand with a small amount of reluctance - before clearing his throat and coming to a stop, tugging lightly on her forearm to get her attention.

“Before we return, I…would like to see you again. Other than on patrol, if you’d allow it.” He smiled, although this one was a little more nervous, a little more wary. “I know a place in the next city, well, hopefully it survives the battle intact at least…I’d like to take you there.”

   Her worries prove for naught. She doesn’t dare lace her fingers through his but she finds herself content enough with the warmth of his hand meeting her palm. For a few minutes, she could live a little dream and maybe tell her brother about it– sigh in reflection of how she looked like a fool in front of a handsome hero within their army’s ranks.

The time is fleeting. Tine expects this, yet she still feels disappointment when his hand leaves hers. Her gaze falls back down to the ground until she feels his touch again beckoning her focus to him, both a little curious and a little afraid of what he could want to say.

“ …You want to? ” The emphasis falls on the second word, and it’s clear she hardly believes what she’s heard. When Ced continues, adding details to his invitation, she can picture this as more than just a jest or fantasy.

“ I’d… really like that. I promise you I’ll go! ” She realizes she’s raised her voice unintentionally, and she covers her mouth with her other hand for a few moments before releasing herself of worry. So what if she got carried away with her excitement there a little? She lowers her hand to over the center of her chest, revealing the smile that’s formed on her face now. “ Um, you can find me anytime. If I’m not doing something for Seliph or my brother at the time, that is. ”

She’s the one to put some distance between them now, but as she resumes her walk to the camp, she turns back to Ced and waves her temporary farewell, her heart feeling a little lighter than when she initially came out here.

[captainsimagines]

RENT - Part 6

In which eight old friends in dire need move in together for one year. 

Warnings: language; mentions of drug overdose; mentions of drugs; PTSD; Bucky being stupid lol

Word Count: 4,800+

A/N: Is this a late AS FUCK update or what? I'm sorry, but writer’s block is a bitch. Enjoy, babes.

PART SIX

Natasha - “Tango: Natasha”

(5) (7)

TEN YEARS AGO

“I just... need some time for myself.”

Steve shuffled slightly on the hot concrete, head down and face somber. The extra heat this spring made soccer practice that much more difficult. Although, Natasha’s words added a foreign heat within his chest- one that he chose to ignore.

He didn’t want to look Natasha in the eyes because if he knew himself, he would break down sobbing in the middle of the quad. But surprisingly, he held it together and managed to look up for once, taking in her purple highlights mixed in somewhere with all that blonde, just blazing in the spring sunlight. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he replied, interlocking his fingers with hers for the last time. Natasha stuttered over her next few words, pulling her hand back and giving Steve an equally devastating grin.

“Alone, babe.”

He didn’t want to fight and he didn’t want to pressure her. All he could think about was Sam’s constant blabbering about love and how it never works. ‘If you love something or someone, let it free!’ Sam would cry, making his words even more dramatic with the sound effects he would include. Gunshots, bell noises, yodeling- literally anything you can think of to make Sam even more annoying than he already was.

But Steve ignored his inspirational words, letting go of Natasha physically but not emotionally.

Natasha stood from the playground bench and dusted herself off. “You understand, right?”

No, he didn’t.

“Yeah. Some time apart might do us good.”

With an almost unnoticeable nod, Natasha walked away and left Steve to ponder about what the hell just happened. Two years they had dated and Natasha woke up one morning calling it quits. Steve knew she must have had her reasons, but he forgot to ask what they were.

With a broken heart and a wad of cash in one hand, Natasha sprinted down the alleyway looking for a familiar face. Checking to see if the coast was clear, she jumped up and held onto the balcony railing, pulling herself up and unlocking the bedroom window. On the inside sat a couple men in a circle, each rolling up their own specialty treat.

“Where’s Scott?” Natasha asked, avoiding eye contact at all possible costs.

No one responded, but one man pointed through the doorway and resumed his work. Natasha followed instructions, heading through the wooden, swinging doors. Once in, she saw the man she bargained with almost every week.

“I’ve got his money,” Natasha sighed, holding up the cash and stuffing her free hand in her pocket. Scott looked up from his paperwork and hummed, holding his hand up in the air so Natasha could throw it.

“Think he’ll have the rest ready by next week?” Scott asked, putting the money in a nearby drawer.

“He’d be lucky to have half.”

Scott chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “I’m sorry you have to do this for him.”

Natasha gave a nonchalant shrug, struggling to hide her true feelings about the whole situation. “He’s my dad. If I can’t get him off the needle then the least I can do is make sure he doesn’t go into massive debt.”

Scott opened another drawer and threw Natasha a new iPod, with new headphones and everything. “For all your hard work.”

Natasha rolled the gift over in her hands and sighed deeply, “You don’t have to.”

Scott held his hand up, “Don’t even mention it. You deserve so much more. Now go, before the scum of the operation show up.”

Natasha always took that advice, leaving from the same window she climbed through to get in. And every single time she left Scott to run his business to enter her own reality, Natasha wanted to scream. She wanted to scream and run away, tell you, Sam, Bucky... Steve!- about everything she had to fix and suffer with everyday after school.  

Ironically, the entrance into her own reality allowed her to finally scream once she opened her father’s bedroom door to let him know she got home safely, that she was heartbroken over Steve and wanted to talk, that she had dealt with his debt and would most likely take care of it next month as well. Rolling him over and slapping him repeatedly did nothing- shaking him and yelling did nothing- and when she dragged his limp body from his messy bed and removed his clothing to submerge him in the freezing tub water, it did nothing. So, she called 911 and sat on the closed toilet seat while watching her father’s index finger twitch every so often, his eyeballs brushing alongside his thin blue eyelids as if he were peacefully dreaming.  

TEN YEARS LATER

Steve stumbled out of bed, stretching his sore muscles and cracking almost every bone. Looking over at the clock he noticed it was only six in the morning, December 24th, early as shit.  

He wrapped a blanket around his shoulders before standing from his bed to walk to the bathroom, eyes closed halfway and body sagging. Without thinking twice because let’s face it, he has only had roommates for three days now, he pushed open the bathroom door to take his morning piss. 

 “Oh my god!”  

Steve tumbled to the ground at the sudden yell, scrambling across the floor to find some sort of balance. “I am so sorry!” 

You held the towel close to your wet body, an expression of surprise and absolute mortification etched into your sleepy face. You rushed to the door to close it, to slam it in the pervert’s face, but you were quickly met with another tired individual who rubbed at his eyes in order to make sure he was seeing what he was really seeing. Except this individual- the exact individual responsible for your perplexed state- ran in with a handgun held high.  

“What’s going on?”  Bucky’s yells of confusion and Steve’s cries of “Bucky! Fuck! Bucky, put that shit down!” coupled with your outbursts of curses as well. You shielded your face, as if that was going to stop a bullet, and Steve just held onto the side of the door, looking in between you and the scared veteran.  

“Boy, if you don’t-“ Sam stumbled in, yawning until he noticed Bucky’s current weapon in hand. “Oh, hell!”  

It was a funny scene, a rather comical one, one that neither one of you would ever forget, but it caused mayhem. Two men cowering on the floor, you gripping onto the sink both angry and terrified, and Bucky just being... Bucky? No, he wasn’t in that moment because his sudden approach to the whole situation was a bit overdone and exaggerated. That was saying something- running in with a loaded handgun, and all. 

All of you fiddled with your fingers and knocked your knees together, avoiding eye contact with the one and only Peggy Carter.  

She stood there with her arms crossed, her left foot tapping, and her eyebrows raised in an almost comical sense. “Well?” 

It was silent for a second, just for a bloody second, before Steve spoke and if he had known any better, he would have realized that his input wasn’t really needed. “I didn’t even know Y/N was here...” 

The three of you facepalmed. You could literally feel Peggy’s cheeks redden in absolute anger.  

“Okay... let’s get one thing straight,” Peggy started, pacing slowly from one side of the room to the other. You were sat in between Steve and Sam, normal clothes on now, hiding your face in your hands. “Why is there a gun in the apartment?” 

You all looked at Bucky. He cleared his throat and shrugged. “Ex-vet.”  

Peggy’s face seemed to change dramatically, almost as if she understood the obvious struggle. “I understand... but Bucky, I have to ask- why was your first instinct to pull out your gun?”  

Bucky looked to the floor, “Like you said, it’s an instinct.”  

Steve shuffled slightly, changing the focus for Bucky’s sake. “Why did no one tell me Y/N was here?”  

“Dude, you got home at like... two,” Sam answered. You decided to finally speak up.  

“I needed a place to crash for a couple of nights. Only until I get this creep to stop following me home.”  

Bucky was about ready to pull his gun again, obviously forgetting it was in the hands of the ex-cop. “Some guy is following you?” 

You brushed off his surprise, “It’s fine. Luke’s got it covered.”  

Sam almost flew off the couch, “Ooo! Who’s Luke?”  

Answering for you, Steve waved his hands. “Co-worker who could beat all of ours asses... at once.”  

“Alright,” Bucky fist-bumped. “I trust this, Luke!”  You rolled your eyes and stood from the couch.

“Yeah, and I also have to head to work.”  

“Woah, this early in the morning?” Sam asked.  You sighed and went to grab your backpack. “Lunch time is when we get the most customers. Working during that time is considered a freaking privilege.” 

It was silent again and no one knew what else to say. You pulled on your coat and grabbed your gym bag, looking over the people standing in the below-freezing living room. 

“Um... do you guys want me to pick up dinner?”

With a couple shrugs and slight mumbles, you nodded your head and sighed. Ducking your head to the floor, you quickly left the apartment with a heavy weight on your shoulders- the weight obviously resembling unspoken feelings about everything. It wasn’t love, it wasn’t jealousy- it was just so uncomfortable.

“Get up,” Wanda said, slamming the fluffiest pillow she could find onto Natasha’s back. “You have work, babe!”

Natasha groaned and rolled over, tucking her hornet’s-nest of bed hair underneath the mountain of pillows on the king-sized bed. 

“Babe, if you’re late again I don’t think I could convince your boss to let you keep your job.”

“Okay,” Natasha drawled out, rolling over and over until her leg hung off the side of the bed. “I’ll be right there.”

“Alright.” Wanda scurried across the bedroom, putting on her earrings and stepping into the high heels she had recently bought. “I’ll see you at dinner?”

Natasha finally rolled off the bed, still wrapped in the duvet and warm as a child on Christmas. “Yeah, definitely.”

Multi-tasking. That’s what Natasha does best. With a dead-end job and poor income from her side, Natasha felt as though her love for Wanda was all she had to offer. She loved her, with all her heart, and if that meant suffering while making hundreds of copies of a single sheet of paper and texting Scott about the money she just acquired, then so be it. 

Natasha struggled to leave that part of her life behind but the sudden rush it would give her was just too addicting and every time she brought home a little extra dough, Wanda would smile. And not one those, ‘I haven’t seen you all day, let’s go to bed’ smiles, but the one that clearly illustrates compassion and acknowledgment. She was trying, and Wanda realized that. 

No, Wanda did not know about Natasha’s side business- no one did nor will anyone ever know.  She no longer aided in her father’s downfall, but she did it for herself. Deal with purpose, Natasha would say, sneaking through every dark alley in New York City with her key positioned in between her index and middle finger. 

“Are the copies almost finished?” T’Challa asked, walking into the copy room to check on his new proposal. Natasha hummed her response, handing him the fifty copies she had already piled up. 

“Will you be taking an early lunch break as well, today?”

Natasha shrugged and answered with a quiet ‘sure’, giving T’Challa the last of the copies. 

Lunch breaks for Natasha consisted of two things: actual lunch and a drug deal almost always going right. It was the rarest occurrence for a drug deal to go horribly wrong, the only instance being when Natasha had to stab some guy in the neck to get him to leave her alone. But Scott didn’t mind, he really didn’t- the less of those crooked men buying his drugs, the better. A weird drug dealer Scott was, but that’s what made him the best and it’s what kept Natasha around for so long. 

“Care to join me?” 

Natasha leaned back just a little, surprised by her boss’s question. “Why, may I ask?”

It was T’Challa’s turn to shrug. “I just want some company.” 

So she agreed, quickly returning to her desk to shut down her computer and pick up her purse.  

“I wanted to tell someone. Even a complete stranger...”

Natasha rolled her eyes and sipped her drink casually. “I bring you your coffee everyday.”

T’Challa seemed to shrink, his hands coming to rest on his thighs as he stared at his untouched lunch.

“I’m sorry about that,” he admits, looking around the restaurant, at nothing in particular. 

“It’s not even my job,” Natasha continues, picking at her fries now and debating whether she should challenge her boss even more. “When I made you get my coffee, it was your job. Interns get coffee.”

T’Challa tried his best to hide his smirk, finally lifting his full burger to his mouth. 

“I’m not meant to get your coffee, boss,” Natasha declared, crossing her arms and staring at the man whose mouth was currently full of food. “Interns, I tell ‘ya.”

“I admit I make you get my coffee because you annoyed me with that bowl-cut you once sported.”

Natasha’s face twitched slightly but in an amusing way, allowing T’Challa to label this lunch as friendly and overdue. “My girlfriend was never good with scissors. It was the only style I could manage.” 

T’Challa nodded, “You will no longer get my coffee.”

“Wow, my prayers have been answered.”

“Because I’m quitting.”

Natasha spit out her french fry and watched it land near her boss’s soda. The two were silent for a moment before Natasha reached over and grabbed the potato, wrapping it in a napkin. 

“Quitting?”

“I don’t want to be apart of the mess my father has made. I don’t want my name anywhere near it.”

“So, your plan is to run?”

“Excuse me?”

Natasha no longer sipped her drink but gulped it, nervousness spilling from the sides of her lips. “I mean, you could stay and fix it. But if you want to quit, then quit.”

T’Challa couldn’t remember the last time he spoke to someone who wasn’t trying to sign his name onto a piece of paper. It was sort of comfortable and new, a feeling T’Challa used to be well acquainted with. With a change in position and a whole new outlook on life, it was almost distasteful in the eyes of capitalism. He should be destroying buildings and constructing new and shinier ones, writing checks and stamping the outbox letters, attending gala after gala to bring home the prettiest woman there! All for the cameras, all for the spotlight, and for what exactly? 

“I am not running.”

“I take it back,” Natasha stated, slurping the ice cubes from her empty glass. “But it’s what an intern would do.” 

 “You were met with a what this morning?”

You had to stifle your giggles after telling Luke about your rude awakening. The shower did nothing to freshen you up, but the gun, oh that worked perfectly. You quickly extracted the dollar bills from your clothing to hand them over to Luke for safe keeping. Not many of the girls did it, but everyone trusted Luke. If you didn’t have a break to put the money you earned for that hour in your locker, he would gladly keep it safe in a respected pile. 

“All three of these guys I went to high school with. It was like choir all over again, except with guns instead of horribly practiced piano.”

Luke shook his head in disapproval, sliding a full glass of beer to the man down the isle. “Why does a man suffering with PTSD have a gun, anyway?”

You set down your tray of empty glasses and stared at Luke in confusion. “PTSD?”

“Sounds like a bad case if his first instinct was to kill.”

You sucked in a single ragged breath, focusing on Luke’s chin while you formulated your response to that. Bucky? PTSD? Sure, you knew he was excited to join the army after high school and ‘save the world’, he would say. He definitely wasn’t the same man considering ten years had passed since you last saw him- what, with the full grown beard, muscular build, and constant smoking habit. Oh, you could smell his breaks each time he left his bed in the middle of the night to smoke through the broken window in the living room. But PTSD? How hadn’t you figured that out by just this morning’s encounter?

“You think?”

Luke sighed and nodded, “The guy probably feels safe with that gun under his pillow. That’s enough info.”

You grimaced, “I don’t feel safe knowing it’s even there.”

“Understandable. But what are you going to do? Take it away from him?”

You chuckled slightly, picking the tray back up now that Luke changed the empty glasses to full ones. “It already has been. Steve’s neighbor took it without even asking.”

“You planning to stay there again tonight?”

You groaned, “I’m picking my shit up after my shift.”

Luke opened his mouth to speak but your boss rounded the corner to interrupt. 

“Do I pay you to talk to the whores?”

Luke breathed through his nose and scrunched the napkin in his hand. You ignored your boss’s gruesome remark and instead looked over at your friend, silently begging him not to risk it. Luke resisted, like always, and whispered a small ‘sorry’. You gave Luke a little grin, walking over to the booth with the drinks and your famous hip sway.

“Could you just keep her company for a few minutes while I arrange the paperwork? She came all the way from the upper east-side because she heard my classes were just that good.”

Steve sighed but agreed anyway, because refusing the simplest request from Peggy was near damn impossible. “Sure thing.”

“Oh, thank you! Thank you!” Peggy cheered, grabbing her phone to head to her small office space. “I won’t be long! She’ll be here any minute!”

“I’ll make sure she enjoys herself.”

“Don’t scare her off, Rogers!” 

“I won’t-!”

“Peggy?”

A small yet shrill voice sounded from the side of the studio. Peggy waved at her new customer.

“Wanda! So glad you could make it. Steve, here, will keep you company while I handle something real quick. I’ll be right back!”

“O-“ Peggy left before she could finish her sentence. “-K.” 

“Um, hi! I’m Steve and I probably can’t teach you tango but I’m good company.”

Wanda set her stuff down and walked toward the middle of the room. “It’s alright.” 

The air was thin for some unknown reason, but Wanda could have sworn she had the right idea. His last name sounded familiar, oh so familiar, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. There was a heavy weight in her stomach and she begged silently for Peggy to come back. “Want to dance anyway?” 

Steve chucked, “I don’t really dance.”

“Why are you here, then?”

Steve released a long “Uhhhhh...” before he crouched down to check if his shoes were neatly tied. 

“You sound familiar,” Wanda verbally admits, walking over to her bag to get her dancing shoes. “Not your voice, obviously, but your name.”

“I’m not really recognizable,” Steve joked, patiently waiting for Wanda to put on her shoes or for Peggy to save this awkward encounter. 

“Did we go to college together?” 

“I went to NYU for like... a year.”

Wanda knew. She knew who Steve was. It took a few seconds, a few quick glances, but she knew who was standing in front of her. There was no way she could miss it considering Steve’s name spilled from Natasha’s lips every single day. Steve used to say this- Steve used to do that!- Steve was my first love!- it would never end. And it never bothered Wanda before because there wasn’t a time in her life where she thought she would ever meet the guy. 

“Nevermind.”

She was going to nudge it out, reveal their similarities in partners, out of spite and a little out of pride. 

“My girlfriend was going to go there but she decided to go to community college instead.” 

“No shame in that,” Steve said, walking over to the stereo to start Peggy’s music and completely oblivious.

Wanda pushed further. “Yeah, Natasha was always destined for great things anyway!”

Steve stumbled a bit, clicking the buttons and blinking repeatedly. It was like he was slapped in the face with her constant, agitating tone. “That’s nice!”

Well, what else could he say? It was only a coincidence, Steve thought. There was no way the world was that small. However, Steve wasn’t stupid and knew there was a catch with this woman. If he ever knew Natasha, then he would understand the reason Wanda had traveled to the depths of fucking Brooklyn to take a dance class with a complete stranger. It was the same feeling Steve experienced when he was dating her- a feeling Wanda, without a doubt, was suffering under.

So he decided to play Wanda’s game for a while longer, nodding along to whatever ‘new’ information Wanda fed him about Natasha- how she dyed her hair red after the blonde completely killed her hair, how she studied in communications, and how she works for a brilliant martial arts studio in the winter. 

Steve wasn’t about to lose this battle no matter how much he wanted to laugh at her silly attempts at picking at his insecurities. He wanted to catch Wanda completely off-guard, and that’s exactly what he did. 

“Natasha sounds so different from when I used to sleep with her.”

It was low. A low blow. An incredibly derogatory, pitiful, but necessary low blow. 

“Excuse me?”

The music sounded lowly, a quiet tango enveloping the two rivals. “I didn’t mean it in-”

“What did you mean, Steve?” Wanda seethed, angry that her attempts at making Steve crumble snapped back at her. The comment wasn’t even directed toward her and Wanda almost begged for it to be, but the comment centered around the love of her life. Steve insulted Natasha and all she wanted was for Steve to insult her.

“You were just going on and on! You obviously knew who I was!” Steve yelled quietly, not wanting to alert Peggy of the commotion.

“No,” Wanda said, reaching for Steve’s hands and interlocking their fingers in a tight stance, their chests resting against each other’s. “You meant something else.”

A rock to hide under sounded so good right about now. “I just wanted to make you mad.”

Wanda didn’t appreciate his response, even if she did egg him on. She was hurt, emitting the emotion throughout the studio to the one person she believed deserved to be on the receiving end. 

“Hey, you’re dating my ex. Small world, but you don’t have to make me jealous about it. It’s been ten years.”

Wanda stuttered when Peggy pulled the door to her office open, both her and Steve standing close in a not-so compromising position. It felt like one, though.

“Hey! You’re dancing! Okay, I’ll only be a few more minutes!”

Then the door shut again, the music seemed to become louder, and the anger radiating from the small girl in front of Steve clogged his brain. 

“This is weird.”

Steve twirled Wanda once, impressed by how quickly she snapped back into his arms, almost as if she was challenging him again with freakin’ tango. “It’s weird.”

Wanda groaned, backing up slightly but still allowing Steve to lead. “Very weird.”

“Fucking weird.”

“I’m so mad that I don’t know what to do,” she admitted, taking the liberty of leading from now on since Steve was so horrible at the simple task. “She skipped dinner and I had reservations! I was freezing while waiting for her outside that damn restaurant and to top it all off I’m with you!”

Steve swayed to the music, studying Wanda’s swirls of madness creeping from the sides of her eyes. It was familiar and from that moment on, Steve used the music and dancing to channel her anger from her. “Oh, I know this act.”

Wanda released her grip from one of Steve’s hands, unraveling and spreading her arms out. “What act?”

“It’s called, the Tango: Natasha.”

Wanda completely untangled herself from Steve, pushing him away to stare in bewilderment. “That sounds so fucking stupid.”

“Yeah,” Steve chuckled, crossing his arms and smirking. “It’s a dark, dizzy merry-go-round where she keeps you dangling and you never know what to expect! She skipped dinner, you said?”

Wanda shuffled uncomfortably, “You’re wrong.”

“She skipped dinner and her excuse was that she simply forgot, right?”

Wanda huffed a loud breath of air, “It’s different with me.”

“But you toss and you turn because her cold eyes can burn, and you’re waking up to the same routine all over again. Right?”

Wanda shook the thoughts from her head. Everything Steve was saying was unbelievably true, so sickeningly true, and her stomach was starting to churn. “Did you swoon when she walked through the door?”

Steve grinned, looking at his feet. “Everytime, so be cautious.”

Wanda rolled her eyes but persisted, “What did you think she was doing every time she skipped out?”

Steve sighed heavily and responded with a shrug. He held his hand out for her to take, eager to start the dance again instead of talking about an ex he hadn’t even spoken to since graduation. “I never assumed the worst of her. I loved her. She was just so secretive that it was slowly killing me.”

Wanda followed Steve around the studio, absentmindedly dancing for a while before she pushed him away again. Steve stumbled back but before he could ask why she did it, Wanda practically screeched, “She cheated!”

“Woah, woah! What makes you think she cheated on me?”

“No, not with you! Even though I see why she would, but she cheated on me!”

Steve stuffed the back-handed compliment deep within his chest. It wasn’t the right time to dissect that proposal. Still, he didn’t feel like comforting his ex-girlfriend’s, new girlfriend- someone he barely met- because it was just so weird. 

“I doubt Natasha would-”

“I’m defeated, I should give up right now,” Wanda sputtered almost incoherently, running over to her bag to pack her things. 

“Hey, don’t just assume-”

“Okay! Let’s dance!”

Steve stood completely still, eyes dramatically landing on Peggy and Wanda, Peggy and Wanda, until he threw his hands up. “Well, that’s my cue! I’ll start fixing the floor tomorrow, Peggy.”

Peggy happily giggled, unaware of the fight and revelations that just sneaked into the hard cracks on her studio floor. 

“Where did you say he was?” Natasha asked, climbing through the all-to-familiar window. 

“Out back.” 

“Thanks.”

The apartment smelled like smoke. Not from a cigarette or a fire, but days old smoke that made even the heaviest drug addict sick to their stomach. Scott didn’t dare stay there for more than two hours. He only sat, received the money his clients made that week, and left. Each client came and went, one after the other with a fifteen minute division between each of them. No one knew each other, no one fought, and no one would even know they were working for Scott unless they stayed at his place for more than requested. 

“Got it all?”

Natasha threw the wad towards him and lifted a single finger.  “Don’t underestimate me.”

“I never do,” Scott smiled, taking out his checkbook to write the monthly allowance. “Still coming to the workshop this week?”

Natasha nodded, gladly accepting her earnings. “Teaching people how to fight? A fun hobby.”

“Well, when I’m not dealing heroin it’s a wonderful pastime!”

Natasha smirked and waved a small goodbye to her second boss. However, her day seemed to tragically rust because there was always that one person who found out- someone who didn’t follow the rules- and could possibly ruin the whole operation. 

“I didn’t know Lang employed women.”

Stepping from the window onto the ground, Natasha clicked her key and shoved it between her fingers. She wanted to kill him, scream at him for pissing on Scott’s brilliant business tactics. 

“You’re fifteen minutes early.” 

The man shrugged and turned his head to chuckle, allowing Natasha to scan his body up and down. His pale skin made the smallest scratches visible, even the noticeable needle marks along his arms. If Natasha took anything away from this type of business, any rule that could follow her for the rest of her life, it would be that no one experiments with the merchandise if you’re actively selling it. 

But Scott wouldn’t argue with it, because the more people he got hooked was just income. 

“I see no problem here. Our little secret,” the man snickered, stepping around Natasha and climbing through that damn window. 

A/N: WOW FUCKING KILL ME! I PROMISE THE NEXT UPDATE WILL BE WONDERFUL LMFAO I HATE MYSELF!

TAG LIST: @4theluvofall @ihavemymomentsstill @sumafamouxx @chook007 @shrekssunflowers @seems-sosimple @evyiione @fireflyloki28 @smollyssa 

[teddylawrence]

Fingers twitching with anxiety, Teddy had succumbed to a full mental shutdown as he stared into space, thumb continuously flicking the Bic in his hand on and off, thousands of times. The motion reminded him of the meme that went around back in 2013 where someone would flicker lights on and off and repeatedly scream; WELCOME TO HELL! WELCOME TO HELL! WELCOME TO HELL! At the time, he thought the whole thing was absolutely hilarious, and now it was just depressingly accurate.

Feeling the shove of the sorority girl sat beside him, Teddy blinked twice before turning to her, the muffled sounds surrounding them suddenly ringing clear. He hadn’t even realized the droning in the background was the sound of someone’s phone ringing, still not completely piecing it together until the blonde raised an eyebrow at him, gesturing to his phone in his pocket, “You gonna get that? It’s the second time it’s started ringing.”

His hands were already hovering over his pockets once he came to, pulling his phone out of his pocket and narrowing his eyes slightly when all that came up was Unknown Number, “Probably just a telemarketer -”

“No way. Not if it’s the second time they’re calling. This could be, like, important. Like, in those movies you see, this call could change your life -.”

“Okay, okay.” Teddy huffed, sliding his finger along the bottom of his phone to open it, accepting the call, “What?” He answered gruffly.

“Theodore? Hi, baby, is that you? It’s mommy.”

Teddy didn’t realize that he was on his feet until he saw the black dots speckling in front of his face, moving so quickly and so suddenly while this high and running on this little sleep with no real food in his stomach caused him to fall back onto the bed momentarily. Glancing at the blonde - he was sure her name was Claire - beside him, he held up a finger to her, as if to say one moment, before standing up again, this time far more carefully, and walking at a rapid pace to the washroom connected to Claire’s room, “Mom,” Teddy whispered into his phone once he’d made sure to lock the door, turn on the fan, and just for extra measure, turn on the sink as well, hoping to drown out any of the conversation the girl outside could potentially hear, “Mom?”

“Oh my god, you sound so grown up,” His mom whispered on the other side of the phone, voice taking on a dream like state, “I can’t believe it. Has it been that long?”

“Five years.” Teddy answered, voice rid of any emotion.

“Oh my god. You’re right. What colour hair did I last have when you saw me? Guess what it is now? I’m a redhead! Can you believe it? I never thought I’d go red, but -”

“When did you have the chance to do your hair?”

“Oh, hm... I’d say about eight months ago! I went blonde about two years ago but I got so bored! Blondes don’t have that much more fun, Theodore, I can tell you.”

“Two years?” Teddy whispered. His mom had been out of rehab for at least two years now, and he was only just finding out now. The worst part was that he could tell she was high too. His mom had never truly grown up, drug addiction taking over at fifteen and having a child taken away from her by eighteen took a tole on Annie, a childlike enthusiasm and attitude being a tell tale sign whenever she reverted to an inebriated state. “You’ve been out for two years?”

“Just about! Isn’t that amazing? I’m doing so much better.” Lies.

There was a long, pregnant pause after that as Teddy tried to wrap his head around the entire situation. “Mom,” He mumbled, checking over his shoulder towards the door as if he expected someone to burst in at any moment. Cupping his hand over his mouth, he let out the faintest whisper, “Mommy.” The last time he’d called her that he’d been ten. The foster parents he’d been living with at the time had decided to take a weekend away, leaving Teddy to fend for himself. Scrounging up all the money he could, he’d wanted to take a taxi to visit his mother, but the only number he’d ever memorized had been 9-1-1. The police had taken him to the hospital where his mother had been taken to two nights prior for a self inflicted injury. She was so high on morphine that she could hardly speak, doing nothing but holding Teddy and rocking him until he’d fallen asleep. He’d woken up hours later to her gone and to police waiting to take him to his next foster home. The memory made Teddy began to blubber like he really was ten again, just realizing that his mommy had left without saying goodbye. “Where’ve you been? Why didn’t you try to contact me before?” He whimpered, voice taking on a begging tone, even though he wasn’t sure what he was begging for. “I missed you. It’s really bad, mom. I’m your son - I needed you.”

Teddy wasn’t even sure if his mom had listened to a single thing he’d said. There was an exchanging of words between Annie and a deep voice Teddy didn’t recognize - surely a new boyfriend of hers that he knew wouldn’t last longer than a few months, “Hi, baby, sorry about that. I’m sorry that you’re having a hard time - but can you do mommy a favour? Please?”

Covering his eyes with the hand that wasn’t holding his phone, Teddy held his breath for several moments, waiting for his bottom lip to stop trembling and the inevitable hiccups of his sobs to settle. He was surprised his mom waited so patiently before he finally choked out, “What’s up?”

“I just - money’s really tight right now. I hate asking you, but... but do you think you could -”

“Hold on.” Holding his phone away from his ear, Teddy opened his bank app, a total of $162.33 in Christmas money staring back at him. He was planning on saving that, but what was the point? Pressing his lips together, Teddy opened the phone app again, wiping at a stray tear that’d fallen down his cheek before telling her, “I can send you $150?”

He heard the way his mom sighed on the other end of the phone in obvious relief, voice actually cracking when she replied, “Oh, Theodore. You’re a lifesaver. Thank you, baby. I’ll text you my e-mail, okay? And you can send it there?”

“Okay -.” He’d started to say, but the tone of a conversation ending was all that greeted him after. Teddy thought for a moment that maybe he’d cry again, but he felt oddly numb instead. When he pulled his phone away from his ear, he already had a text from a new number, nothing but his mother’s e-mail and a smiley face after. Once Teddy sent the amount he’d offered, he sent a simple ‘i love you’ text to his mother, biting on his thumb nail to await her response.

thanks again, baby!!!! xx

Thanks again. Her only son, and she couldn’t even send back a simple text saying that she loved him. He wondered what drug his mom would buy with that money.

Teddy’s heart was pattering so quickly in his chest he was sure it’d compete with the heartbeat of a hummingbird. Without even thinking, he leaned over and dropped his phone into the still running sink, unsatisfied until he watched the screen flicker then turn blank. Moving to turn it off after, Teddy unlocked the bathroom door with shaky hands, ignoring Claire’s several questions, including her repeated question of where he was going once he walked past her without saying a single word then exiting her bedroom.

Walking on autopilot back to his bedroom, Teddy felt invisible hands squeezing at his throat, trying to force tears out of him. He ignored the greetings of his frat brothers, not even giving them so much as a wave or even a feeble smile, practically slamming his bedroom door in one of their faces. Hiccups returning, Teddy all but fell into his bed after kicking off his shoes, the comfort of his duvet being pulled over his head making him feel safe and giving him the okay to finally let the tears slide down his blank expression. He didn’t know when he fell asleep, just only knew that he was grateful for it.

[legojacques]

Jack at the Apple Store because he dropped it (nursey bumped into him) and bitty is the overly happy (yet exhausted) Apple Store employee that helps him (it's not ... bc I'm stuck at the Apple Store,,,, what?)

Jack had been putting off getting his phone fixed. His excuse was that he was too busy, and for the most part, it was true. Between practices, games, and away trips, he couldn’t really afford the time to get his phone fixed. Besides, the phone was working just fine, cracks or no cracks.

He was at the mall one afternoon, however, picking up a last -minute birthday gift for his mother when he had time to kill and decided to stop into the Apple store.

One of the employees with bright eyes and even brighter smile greeted him. Jack’s eyes lingered momentarily on his face before reading “Eric” on the name tag. Eric was friendly, but not to the point of fawning over Jack, which meant that Eric either didn’t recognize Jack or he just didn’t care who Jack was.

“My phone is broken,” Jack explained.

Eric’s fingers were cool when they delicately brushed across Jack’s palm when he took the phone. He held it up and studied it briefly. “It’s just the screen,” Eric said. Then, with a sincere grin, he said, “I can fix that.”

Transfixed, Jack could only nod.

Jack had expected them to ask him to leave the phone and pick it up another day. In fact, he had counted on it because he would give him an excuse to be back, but Eric had insisted that he wasn’t too busy at the moment and that he could fix Jack’s phone right there.

“All done,” Eric announced some time later. Jack hadn’t been paying attention how long he’d been standing there. He’d been too focused on the way Eric’s nimble fingers had dismantled the phone before putting it all back together again.

“That’s great. Uh, thanks,” he said as he accepted the phone back.

“No problem,” Eric replied with another smile that made something inside of Jack flutter.

—

A week later, Jack was at the Apple store again.

“Hi! You’re back,” Eric said in surprise. “What can I help you with?”

Jack sheepishly held up his phone. “I accidently dropped my phone again.”

It wasn’t a complete lie, but it was more like Jack had dropped his phone repeatedly, and when that hadn’t yield the results he wanted, he’d gone outside to drop it repeatedly on concrete.

“Oh, wow,” Eric said with a laugh, probably because he thought Jack was the clumsiest person ever. “Let’s have a look at that.”

Jack tried not to stare too intently, but it was hard when Eric’s expression furrowed into a determined frown as he looked over the phone. “It looks worse than it actually is,” he finally said, his usual sunny demeanor sliding back on his face.

“You can fix it?” Jack asked hopefully.

“I can fix it,” Eric grinned.

It took him longer to repair it this time, but probably because Jack had taken extra care to demolish it. Frankly, it was a surprise that all it needed was a new screen.

“I would also probably recommend a case,” Eric said afterwards.

“Do you have any suggestions?”

“Well, there are these,” he said as he led Jack to a wall of them. He pulled one off the of the display shelf. “This one,” he said confidently.

“Yeah?”

“It’ll keep your phone safe,” Eric promised. “You won’t have to make the extra trip in again.”

Well, that wasn’t what Jack wanted at all.

—

“So, remind me again why we’re here?” Poots asked in genuine confusion when they pulled up to the mall.

“Because,” Jack said, scrambling for an answer. “I need help picking out a new computer.”

“Well, okay,” Poots said, still not convinced. “Just don’t ask me anything about Apple products. I have a PC.”

Well, that was too bad for Poots, but he was the only person Jack could really bully into coming with him. Tater did not know the definition of subtle, Thirdy would have laughed at him, and Snowy would have posted everything to the group chat within minutes of walking in the store.

“I’ll buy you lunch,” Jack conceded and that seemed to mollify Poots for the time being.

“Hi,” Eric greeted when they walked in. There was a brief moment when he seemed thrown off by Poots’ presence, but he was smiling when he looked back at Jack again. “How can I help you today?”

“Um, my buddy was actually looking for a Macbook and I thought of you. Well, like not of you first, but I thought, uh, you could help him.” Jack could feel himself growing warm, but Eric’s grin only widened.

Poots, who had gone over to check out the displays, happened to wander back into earshot. “What? No, I’m not–”

“Your sister’s birthday is coming up!” Jack practically shouted at him in panic.

Luckily, Poots was easily distracted. “Yeah? So?”

“So, don’t you want to get her something nice. She’s graduating at the end of this year, isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” Poots admitted slowly. “I didn’t know you were listening when I was talking about my sister.” He slapped Jack on the shoulder. “Aw, you do care.”

Jack wasn’t paying attention to anything Eric was saying about different laptop models and the advantages of each one. He was too distracted by Eric’s animated expressions and the way he enthusiastically talked with his whole body. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one either.

Poots ended up purchasing a Macbook with all the accessories (case, wireless mouse, decal, extended warranty). Later, on the drive home, Jack noticed that Poots still had that goofy smile on his face that had been there ever since they walked out of the Apple store.

“Eric was so hot,” Poots sighed dreamily.

It took Jack everything to not push Poots out of the car.

—

“Lunch,” Tater insisted one day after practice. “Come with me,” he said to Jack.

“Oh, sweet! Where are we going big guy?” Snowy asked from his stall.

“No,” Tater said. “Not you. Just Jack.”

Snowy exaggerated his kicked-puppy expression that made the guys in the room laugh, but Tater was firm. Jack let Tater drive because he’d insisted it was surprise, but it wasn’t long before Jack started to recognize his surroundings.

“What? How did you–” Jack spluttered when Tater pulled into the parking lot of the mall.

“Poots tell Snowy who tell Guy who tell Marty who tell Dupuis who tell Crosby who tell Geno who tell me.”

“Crosby knows!?” Jack exclaimed. He dropped his head in his hands in mortification and cursed vehemently. Stupid, gossipy hockey players.

“I know you not say nice things right now,” Tater said serenely, “Even if you say in French.”

Jack replied with more under-breath swears.

“Come on, Jack. Is not so bad,” Tater reassured with a cluck. “Besides, need new phone.”

In the Apple store, Eric was nowhere to be seen. “Oh, thank god,” Jack muttered. “He’s not here. Can we go?”

“Excuse me,” Tater said, snagging one of the other employees. “We look for Eric? He here?”

“Bitty’s on his lunch break right now, actually,” the girl replied. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No,” Jack jumped in. “No, thank you. That’s all we need.” He started dragging Tater out of the store.

Jack thought he’d been saved. He all but ran out, trying to get out of there as fast as possible. He glanced back briefly to see if Tater was still following him or if he’d gotten distracted. Not watching where he was going, Jack collided with someone.

“I’m so–” he started, but stopped when he realized it was Eric.

“Jack,” Eric exclaimed. “Hi! What are you doing here?”

“I’m, um.” Jack made some vague hand gesture. “You know.”

“Oh, right,” he replied eyes. “You weren’t, uh, looking for me at the Apple store, by chance, were you?”

“I–” Jack’s brain stalled. On one hand, yes, he was looking for Eric, but on the other hand, he also wasn’t ready to reveal that information.

“Hi! You Eric? I am Alexei, but everyone call Tater!”

“Oh, hi!” Eric gave an awkward wave.

“Yes, good, you are here. We look for you because is very sad, Eric. Jack lost something.”

Eric’s eyes immediately softened as he looked back at Jack. “I can help you. What did you lose?”

“Jack lost his number,” Tater said smoothly. “Now, he want yours.”

“Tater!” Jack yelled in disbelief as he calculated how much trouble he’d really be in if he murdered his teammate on the spot.

Tater seemed unperturbed by this and smirked at Jack before punching him lightly on the arm and left. Jack turned back to Eric who seemed hesitant for a moment, but then took a step forward. “So, you need a number, huh?”

“I am so sorry for that,” Jack started. “Tater doesn’t know–”

“You could have just asked.”

“Wh-what?”

“For my number. You could have asked. I’m here to help, after all,” Eric said with a spark of mirth in his brown eyes. “Can I have your hand?”

Wordlessly, Jack offered it to him. Eric took a pen out of his back pocket and started writing on Jack’s skin. “Don’t lose this,” he said teasingly when he was done. “And, I get off of work at 5.”

As he walked away, Jack stared down at the numbers, memorizing them. A smile bloomed over his face, and not even the knowledge that Tater was going to be insufferable for weeks was enough to dim that.

—

Thanks for reading! More of my writing here!

[hey-kids-want-some-avengers]

Can I request some fluff with Bucky and Steve? Maybe some cooking hijinks with the boys and it's a total mess, entire kitchens covered (and there covered) and the stuff came out not looking like what was on the box (but still turns out tasty).

Sweet things

A/N: absolutely! I love writing for these dorks. _____________________________________

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers

Warnings: Bucky’s recovery, lots of fluff, minor burn injury, mentions of therapy

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.

Bucky’s recovery has been a process. A very long, frustrating process, for both Steve and Bucky. He’s not complaining, really he’s not, because after everything they’ve been through, Steve can’t ever complain about Bucky and the care he needs and deserves. He’s doing considerably better now too, Steve can get him to leave his room and they watch movies on the couch and cook together, or order pizza when their too lazy to get up. Steve has to help him still, with various things that are just too trying on him, and that’s okay, he lets Bucky know it is at least five times a day.

He goes to his therapist now too, a nice, chubby, short woman with long hair and pretty eyes that Sam had recommended. Bucky refused for a good month and a half, and sometimes he still can’t get himself to leave the house, but she’s nice and understanding and they always reschedule. Steve’s not sure what’s helping the most, himself or the therapist, and it’s probably a cocktail of everything but he hopes it’s something he’s doing too.

Bottom line, he’s proud of Bucky. Ridiculously, unbelievably proud. And sure, he still has bad days, days where Steve has to lay beside Bucky and comfort him and stroke his hair until he’s calm enough just to venture out of bed. Those are the days they stay home and Steve doesn’t push. They just watch movies and cuddle. Bucky’s getting better about asking for help too, which is fantastic–according to Bucky’s therapist-and it makes things a million times easier for Steve.

Anyways, it’s around ten in the morning or so, just late enough that Steve’s having a hard time getting out of bed. Bucky’s curled into Steve’s side with his right hand under his shirt and his face nuzzled into Steve’s chest. Bucky shifts against him, whining tiredly in his sleep before he stretches a little, burying himself closer. Steve smiles and runs a hand through Bucky’s hair, it’s soft and it smells like his own shampoo, because it probably is–not that Bucky doesn’t have his own. He steals Steve’s cologne sometimes too.

He yawns, grumbling to himself as he latches onto Steve more securely. Steve just chuckles, carding his fingers through his hair calmingly. “Is it morning?” Bucky mumbles, voice croaky and thick with sleep. It’s adorable, and he sounds like he really wants to hear Steve say it’s not, just so he can sleep for another eight years.

“Yeah, its morning, Buck,” Steve chuckles, kissing the top of his head gently. Bucky squirms and jams his face into a pillow, he groans dramatically for a long time before peeking out at Steve and he looks like a grumpy kitten after you move it off your lap.

“I don’t wanna,” Bucky protests half heartedly, but Bucky never wants to get up so he’s not even remotely surprised. Luckily, he finds it kind of adorable.

“I know,” Steve smiles, looking down at what little of Bucky’s face is exposed. They’re buried under a million blankets because that’s how Bucky likes it, and he kind of resembles a burrito.

Bucky sighs, long and drawn out and look up at Steve with big, pitiful blue eyes and Steve cocks his eyebrow in silent question. “M'hungry,” he says quietly and his stomach growls a little on queue.

Steve resists the urge to attack Bucky with kisses, because Bucky’s half asleep, he’s hungry, and he looks ridiculously cute. He knows not to invade his privacy without warning though, so he manages. “Lets go get something to eat then, hm?”

Bucky nods a little but the second Steve tries to get up, Bucky’s sprawling himself across Steve’s body and groaning loudly. “Noo, I’m not ready.”

“You’re never ready to get up, come on, Buck. We can bake something?” Steve offers and Bucky’s face lights up a little. He’s noticed how much Bucky likes cooking, and maybe it’s just relaxing, or maybe it’s something about growing up in a time where food was scarce, but either way, Steve loves it too and he loves seeing Bucky happy. He’s pretty sure he’d cut off his legs if it would make Bucky smile.

“Like?” Bucky asks suspiciously but he can tell he’s already hooked either way.

“Sweet or savory?”

Bucky bites his lip between his teeth and thinks for a second. “Sweet?”

“Okay, what about coffee cake, we had some at that bakery last week?” Steve says thoughtfully. He’s sure he can find a recipe and he remembers Bucky scarfing it down before, so he figures it’s a good guess.

Bucky hums contently at the thought. “Yes please,” he chuckles sleepily, getting himself in a sitting position on the bed, so he’s no longer crushing Steve.

“Alright, perfect,” Steve smiles and gets up. It only takes them a few minutes to throw on some clothes and head down to the kitchen. He’s just wearing jeans and a t-shirt but Bucky had insisted on wearing something of Steve’s, something comfortable that he could hide in. Steve had ended up giving him a baggy, soft sweater Nat had bought him a year or so ago. Bucky seemed to like it more than Steve did, the sleeves were long enough he could hide his hands in it and he seemed generally more comfortable like this, so Steve cant really complain. Not that Bucky should be even remotely self conscious because he’s beautiful.

The lights are still off in their apartment when they walk downstairs, but the light shinning through their windows make it bright enough it isn’t too eerie. Bucky can’t always handle the dark, so Steve always leaves a lamp on in their room. Bucky follows Steve closely into the kitchen, sticking close to his side and watching as he flips through a few cookbooks to find a recipe.

It doesn’t take too long to find one and after that Steve lays out the book out and points to the ingredients so Bucky can see. “wanna get that stuff out of the fridge and I’ll go look in the cupboards for the rest?” Steve asks with a smile. Bucky stares at the ingredients a while longer, eyes scanning over them repeatedly before he nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says finally, and something about the uncertainty in his voice is kind of endearing. Bucky doesn’t have that same cockiness he had before.

Steve kisses his cheek quickly as he passes him, just to make Bucky’s face turn a soft pink and hide in his sweater sleeves. Steve rummages through the cabinets, pulling out the salt, baking powder, and sugar as he finds them. The overly protective part of him–the part that’s only gotten worse since Bucky moved in with him, and Steve’s been helping him through his recovery–wants to turn around just to check in him approximately every ten seconds but he knows he can’t, and that he really shouldn’t because Bucky will know when he does, and that only shows that Steve doesn’t trust him.

Maybe he’s been reading too much, but he wants Bucky to feel safe and wanted and every other good emotion in between.

He hears Bucky close the refrigerator a few moments later followed by a “-shit,” and then the distinct sound of something -an egg, cracking against the floor.

Steve turns around quickly, making sure Bucky’s okay first, because that’s most important. There’s egg dripping off of his foot and on the floor too and Bucky glances up at Steve with the most ‘shut the fuck up’ face he’s ever seen. Steve snorts out a laugh anyways and Bucky glares back at him. “Awesome,” he says sarcastically, setting everything else down on the counter.

He strips his sock off and tosses it into the other room carelessly and sighs, looking at Steve.

“Hey, I’m not the one breaking all the eggs,” Steve jokes and Bucky rolls his eyes, cleaning the rest up in the most half-assed effort Steve can imagine. And God, he loves him.

He grabs another egg from the fridge and makes an over dramatic effort to show he won’t drop it again, cradling the egg close to his chest. “There, sheesh.”

Steve just grins and looks back at the recipe, gathering up a bowl and whatever else they need. “Buck, wanna help me with this?” Steve asks, and yeah, he can do it by himself, it’s not like it’s hard or anything, but having Bucky closer and helping is better. Bucky shuffles over, resting his chin on his shoulder so he can look at the book too, and he nods.

“Mm, yeah,” he says softly. It’s funny, because he’s still Bucky, he’s still sarcastic and joking and wonderful, but he’s still insecure and unsure, tip-toeing around straight forward answers. It’s something Steve actually doesn’t mind, he thinks it’s cute, and he likes that overall, Bucky’s growing more confident, but he lets his guard down around Steve. He’s himself when he’s with Steve, even if ‘himself’ has changed.

“Two cups of sugar,” Steve says as he hands Bucky a measuring cup. He takes it quickly and opens up the bag of sugar. He measures it out and adds it in, along side a pinch of salt and some flour Steve pours in. For the first few minutes everything goes fine, quiet and content; it’s just baking, and if Bucky can survive everything he’s been through, and Steve can kick ass on a daily basis, they can bake. Theoretically.

Steve goes to preheat the oven, because Bucky says he can use the hand mixer and beat everything together real quick, and it’s all blissfully domestic and nice.

“Which way is low speed?” Bucky asks absently from behind Steve and before he can answer, the notch is on high and there’s batter being flung across the entire kitchen. Steve spins around the second it hits the back of his head and the sight in front of him is both pitiful and hilarious. Bucky’s just standing there, the beaters spinning and batter hitting the wall and counter until it’s fairly well covered. His hair is coated, the entire front front of his body is speckled in globs of the batter and he’s thoroughly pouting, bottom lip sticking out comically.

“I suck at baking, Steve.”

Steve actually has to try not to laugh, bringing a hand up over his mouth. “Are you okay?” He manages, and he’s serious, but the grin spreading over his face isn’t helping his case any.

“I mean, yeah,” Bucky chuckles.

Steve lets out a laugh despite himself and Bucky smiles a little, tasting some of the batter from his face. “It tastes good,” he offers with a shrug. Steve wanders over to him and peers into the bowl at what’s left of the batter.

“Maybe it can be a tiny coffee-cake?” Steve grins a little, wiping some of the mess off of Bucky’s cheek.

Bucky looks at Steve, setting the mixer down on the counter, and finally turning it off. “Sorry,” Bucky says softly, and he’s blatantly apologetic too, soft eyes and all. Steve pushes his finger past his own lips and smiles around it, licking the dough off of it.

“Don’t be, Buck. There’s enough, and it does taste good. It was just an accident,” Steve smiles picking up the flower bag to move it back to the cupboard. He kisses Bucky’s lips quickly as he does.

“Okay, just don’t bring this up again. Ever.”

Steve snickers and flicks a small amount of flour at him, getting it across his left cheek. “I’m gonna bring it up every chance I get,” Steve promises cockily, flicking the remaining flour at Bucky from his fingers.

Bucky frowns at him in a way that makes sure Steve won’t ever, ever bring it up, not that he was actually planning to anyways. “You better not,” Bucky mumbles.

Steve takes a minute to put everything away while Bucky cleans up most the batter. Which he does mostly by eating it, not that Steve’s complaining. It’s better than it just going to waste, really.

“I think it’ll fit in this,” Steve says questionably as he holds up a small pan for him to see. It’s a good third of the size they originally planned on and Bucky makes a face, but he can’t deny it’s about the right size.

“Yeah, I guess it will.”

Steve smiles at him, so he knows it’s okay and that he really doesn’t mind, because sometimes Bucky’s expressions completely mask what he’s going through mentally. He can thank Hydra for that.

They pour the batter into the pan after greasing it, a task that resulted in Bucky smearing his greasy fingers over Steve’s face with a shit-eating grin. The traces of egg yolk still of the floor, the un-eaten batter still covering most the kitchen, and flour in various places aside, the kitchen is a disaster no matter how he looks at it. 

The counters are cluttered with dishes, baking supplies and wrappers from the butter and empty sugar. Really, it’s pretty obvious that the mess is a million times bigger than the end product, but Bucky still looks pretty excited, so Steve doesn’t say anything.

Bucky powders some cinnamon over top, because he really, really likes cinnamon, and hands it to Steve. “Ready?” He asks, just to make sure he’s done. Bucky nods with a short smile and Steve mirrors it automatically. He opens the oven and Bucky scoots closer to the warmth almost instantly. He puts it in and sets a timer, turning to Bucky as he closes the door, ruining Bucky’s source of heat.

“Hey!” Bucky’s grinning but he forces a pout anyways. “I’m cold now.” And he actually bats his eyes at Steve, something he’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen him do since before war.

Steve grins and raises an eyebrow at him. “Want me to warm you up while we watch something on the couch?” Steve asks, even though he already knows his answer, because Bucky never turns down cuddles and TV. Besides, it’s not like they have anything better to do while they wait for breakfast to be done. 

“Mm, yeah,” Bucky says, nuzzling his face against Steve’s shoulder. Steve smiles down at him and leads him out to the living room, ignoring the mess they’re leaving behind. Bucky’s more important anyways.

Steve flops down on the couch, shoving a mass of pillows to the side. He holds his arms out for Bucky to slide into, and he does, curling around Steve’s body, nestling up against him with his face buried in the crook of Steve’s neck. His breath is warm and he keeps his metal hand to himself, like he usually does. Steve loves Bucky, every part of him, even the new parts, but Bucky doesn’t and he doesn’t like Steve touching his arm, so he doesn’t.

He flips through the channels, settling on some nature show. There’s a good million channels on the TV, but there’s rarely anything on, so they usually end up settling on a movie. There’s a man narrating the landscape and the brightly colored birds currently on the screen. It’s mostly just background noise.

“You’re warm,” Bucky mumbles softly, slotting his leg between Steve’s. He fits against him like a puzzle piece, they would lay like this when Steve was sick and small too, but he would lay on top of Bucky, not the other way around.

“You’re always cold,” Steve offers back and rubs his hand up and down Bucky’s back. They stay like that, quietly talking about the ridiculous animals on the screen and they just snuggle up for a long while until the timer goes off on the oven.

Bucky tries to stay on Steve a little longer but he promises he’ll be more upset if there’s smoke and flames, and their breakfast is chard. So, he gets off of him begrudgingly and he pulls the pan out of the oven. “It actually looks pretty okay,” Bucky says with an amused grin. It’s a little sunken in, but it really doesn’t look terrible, considering everything it went through.

They cut it into two pieces and slap them on a plate, heading back out to the couch the second it’s done. Bucky wastes next to no time before he’s shoveling fork full after fork full into his mouth, humming happily around a bite full.

Steve grins wide enough his cheeks hurt. “Good, huh?” Bucky just smiles back at him with his mouth stuffed, nodding vigorously and it’s perfect.

[jthelmsdeep]

Too much ado about...immigration?

I’m an immigrant. Unabashedly so. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a proudly naturalized American. I chose America before she chose me. But lately I feel as if I’ve been caught in a bait-and-switch. You see, this isn’t the America I signed up for. When I first came to the USA almost 27 years ago, I was struck by the sense of national pride. I loved America and I loved her many and varied people! It felt as if this experimental melting pot made up of varying tribes, religions, and cultures was God’s way of saying that, through this blended potpourri of diversity He would model what a society can look like when each distinctly unique part is contributing effectively to the whole.

Recently I’ve felt as if I was rudely jarred awake…into a nightmare. I’ve felt like Cinderella surrounded by the unholy trinity of my ugly step-mother and two evil step-sisters. Recently it’s felt as if my ‘adopted family’ wasn’t whom they’d initially shown themselves to be after all. Reality has brazenly contradicted my idyllic family portrait, and the triumvirate of bigotry, lying, and hubris have taken center stage. During the last election cycle—which lasted way too long—I was duly informed, by friends of mine no less, that #BlackLivesMatter doesn’t matter, and that it was in fact a militant racist, hate group. So in response to the hashtag I was told that #AllLivesMatter so stop saying specific colors matter…that is until #BlueLivesMatter became a hashtag. Their response to that?

Deafening silence!

So, it turns out, certain color lives do matter as long as they’re not black. To justify this they pointed to statistics that indicate that more white men are killed by cops than black men. To which I chuckled and carefully pointed out that black people make up only 12.6% of the population of the USA while white people make up 77% of the population. Then they suggested that more black men are killed by other black men, than there are black men killed by white men. To which I respond, if you killed your father, and I turn around and killed your mother, does that make it okay because you killed your father? Does that somehow negate the conversation about my killing your mother simply because you killed your father?

My point? Until we acknowledge that racism and bigotry are real and present in today’s America, we won’t even begin to approach solutions to help fix the problem. And the continued mainstreaming of hate groups while falsely labeling others will only serve to widen the gulf and fuel the fires of animosity and anger.

And how about lying? it’s become institutionalized and justified by those suggesting that they’re tired of being “politically correct.” I’m astounded that any right-thinking person would suggest that the opposite of political correctness would be to embrace dishonesty in addition to treating people with disrespect and saying whatever you like under the guise of being honest, but there you have it! That’s our ‘brave’ new world.

Our new President and his team have repeatedly shown us that they’re willing to be economical with the truth. Sean Spicer, the President’s press secretary, informed America and the world in his first televised press conference that Trumps inauguration crowd was larger than Obama’s. While the crowd size really was of little or no consequence, that assertion turned out to be provably false, and when photographic evidence was produced, the President accused the press of spreading “fake news” and falsifying the photos.

The President’s publicity guru, Kelly Ann Conway, in defense of Sean Spicer’s, shall we say, inaccuracies, taught America a new phrase: “Alternative facts.” Excuse me? Alternative facts? What on earth are those? There can only be one fact about a two-sided issue not two diametrically opposed facts. If it isn’t a fact, then it’s a lie. So I guess alternative facts are simply lies dressed up in political spin? Maybe someone reading this might have clearer insight into this than I do.

The president himself has gone on record stating that the press are all “dishonest people” and simply report fake news…that is, the one’s who don’t show him in a favorable light, and so Fox News somehow escapes this sweeping moniker. Are we living in an African dictatorship? How on earth does a President undermine a vast segment of the very people whom he swore to lead by uniformly calling their reporting fake news unless it shows him in a favorable light? How on earth does that make for a free press?

I understand that the press often allows their bias to show in their reporting of facts (whether it’s CNN or FOX), but that doesn’t make the facts any less factual simply because the facts are reported with a particular bias. You wouldn’t suggest that a doctor is any less a doctor because his bias regarding what he thinks ails you is different from what you perceive, or from what another doctor said whom you might agree with. Or maybe you would? Yet, our President lies without compunction and makes no apologies for his lies even when called to the carpet. He simply shifts the blame and goes right on as if his dishonesty is of no consequence.

In his first press conference since taking office, President Trump, when challenged about his assertion that he’d had the largest electoral college victory since Reagan, wasn’t having any of it. Turns out that other than President George W. Bush, every subsequent President has had larger electoral college margins of victory than him, so when a reporter called this to his attention he simply brushed it off by saying that’s what he was told. How on earth does the President of the most powerful nation on earth surround himself with people who won’t tell him the truth? Better yet, why does the President not check and confirm his ‘facts’ before he spews them? Yet it’s the reporters who are arbiters of fake news?

If the President were told that his wife had been seen kissing another man suggestively in public, would he simply believe it and report it to the world as fact? If that story was later discovered to be false and he was challenged on why he was propagating a falsehood would he simply say that’s what he was told and dismiss it offhandedly? I think not. To set the precedent for his presidency by minimizing the value of the press and calling them “fake” is to minimize the value of those who’ve given their lives in the pursuit of bringing the news to Americans regardless of how much that puts them in harms way.

The President also opined that there’d been a smooth rollout of the immigration ban following his Executive Order. That, as it turns out, is patently false. Some people who were Green Card holders—legally vetted residents of the USA—were stranded when they landed back home in the USA because before they took off there were no details on how to implement the ban, and who it covered. Based on its unconstitutionality, a judge stayed the implementation of the EO. The White House appealed the stay but it was upheld by the Appellate Court. The President publicly blamed the rejection of the appeal on a “bad court.”

What is the role of the court in a democratic republic? I’m no scholar or legal luminary, but a simple common sense research will expose the fact that one of the functions of the Judicial branch of government is most definitely not to rubber stamp the will of the executive branch, but to ensure that legislation enacted by congress is followed according to due process. That is one of the reasons this system works. It has a healthy set of checks and balances between the Executive, Legislative, and Judicial arms of the government. To call the court into question as if he is himself a legal expert, is to undermine the very system of checks and balances that has made this country as successful as it is in the smooth transitions of power.

Finally, what sort of hubris must one possess to believe that you have a right to determine how the entire world should live? As a country we’ve started, incited, and supported wars, coups, and unrest in various parts of the world to support our own, sometimes selfish, interests. These wars create innocent victims, many of whom become refugees fleeing from the carnage of war and death, simply trying to make a life for themselves. Alas, rooted in fear at the migration of people from wars that we’re in part responsible for, we suggest that we can no longer tolerate the influx of these refugees because they pose a risk to our safety.

We compare them to Skittles and mask our fear as a lack of proper vetting procedures. I for one will confidently declare how absurd that notion is. As an immigrant to the USA I can assure you that I went through the most stringent vetting procedures to ensure that I was worthy of becoming a part of this great experiment called the United States of America, and so was every other immigrant that I know. There are no fail safe systems and so people with ill intent will occasionally slip through the cracks in any system.

This country was built on the backs of immigrants, who violently and dispassionately wrested it from the hands of the original inhabitants of the land. To suggest that we suddenly need to stem the tide of immigration and ban people from certain countries coming here to seek safe harbor is downright ungodly! Yep, I said it.

May I gently remind you that without immigrants there’s possibly no silicone valley. After all, Steve Jobs' father, Abdulfattah Jandali, came to the United States as a student. He was from Homs, Syria.1 Without immigrants, we wouldn’t be able to feed everyone in these United States, the third most populous nation on earth. Hired workers comprise 33 percent of the workforce, but do an estimated 60 percent of the work performed on US farms. Most hired farm workers were born abroad, usually in Mexico, and most are believed not to be authorized to work in the US.2

“Since farm work is more physically demanding and less well compensated

than non-farm jobs requiring similar skills, it is increasingly difficult to attract

domestic workers willing to take farm jobs. This is one reason why farm

employers have increasingly relied on foreign workers.”3

Without immigrants there would be no NFL as we know it. In other words, America’s favorite sport by far, would look vastly different with a less impressive talent pool. 70% of NFL players are black men, and every single black man in America is an immigrant either by choice or by the heritage of slavery. Today, a significant number of immigrant players make up the NFL including many past Hall of Famers.4

Without immigrants, there would be no Albrecht Einstein and no Special Theory of Relativity, better known as e=mc2 (energy = mass times the speed of light squared). That formula provided the awareness and expertise of nuclear fission. A technology which made the atomic bombs “Little Boy” and “Fat Boy” that were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki respectively.5 The absence of these bombs would almost certainly have changed the outcome of WW2.

Without immigrants, there would have been no Wernher von Braun, who moved from Germany following WW2 along with about 1,500 other scientists, technicians and engineers as part of “Operation Paperclip,” where he developed the rockets that launched the United States' first space satellite “Explorer 1,” and the Apollo program manned lunar landings.6

There’s no doubt in my mind that as a nation, we’re better off being the melting pot that made America great, than we are being this unrecognizable nation paralyzed with fear and hate, seeking to shut out the rest of the world and live in a vacuum. So, as a final thought let me remind you that nature abhors a vacuum, and soon fills it with something else. Don’t believe me? Ask the Roman Empire. Just my dos centavos!

1. http://www.macworld.co.uk/feature/apple/who-is-steve-jobs-syrian-immigrant-father-abdul-fattah-jandali-3624958/

2. http://wrdc.usu.edu/files/publications/publication/pub__1454925.pdf

3 http://wrdc.usu.edu/files/publications/publication/pub__1454925.pdf

4. http://xpatnation.com/outstanding-immigrants-who-succeeded-in-the-nfl/

5  http://www.amnh.org/exhibitions/einstein/peace-and-war/the-manhattan-project/

6. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wernher_von_Braun