#he would just wait for wilson to peel one for himself and then steal that

[houseswife]

yeah your boyfriend peeled you an orange but would he fake his death to make you his afterlife? would black flowers blossom, fearless on his breath?

[potrix-the-queerschlaeger]

boys boys boys

Inspired by this awesome post. I couldn’t resist. Also, I recommend listening to Mötley Crüe’s “Girls Girls Girls” while reading the story. Also available over on AO3.

[Now with a Sam/Bucky sequel!]

*

1

Sam wakes to a loud crash, followed by a string of breathlessly hissed curses. It takes him a moment to remember where he is, and why—on mission, somewhere in the alps, near the border between Switzerland and Italy—but once he does, he rolls over with a tired groan, blindly fumbling for the bedside lamp.

In the dim light it casts, he can make out Bucky crouched by the other bed across the room, picking shards of glass out of a damp spot on the carpet. His shoulders are tense, and he’s carefully avoiding Sam’s gaze, his mouth a thin, unhappy line. It’s too dark for Sam to see, right now, but he’d bet a hefty sum of money on the bags under Bucky’s eyes to be even more pronounced than yesterday.

A quick glance at his phone tells him it’s shortly after four in the morning, meaning they’ll have to be up and ready in less than two hours. Also meaning there’s no point in going back to sleep again.

Yawning, Sam throws back the covers, and slides out of bed. Bucky’s still not looking at him as he heads for the tiny kitchenette in the corner to flick on the kettle. He keeps his back to Bucky while he grabs mugs and tea bags, busying himself with preparing their tea in order to give Bucky at least a semblance of privacy.

(Watch out for the break!)

Sam’s no stranger to night terrors himself, although it’s hard to imagine what kind of horrors plague Bucky’s dreams, on top of the ones everyone in their line of work is unfortunately, intimately familiar with. And Bucky would almost definitely rather bite off and swallow his own tongue than admit it, but Sam’s fairly sure their current location isn’t exactly helping Bucky’s general state of mind, either.

It doesn’t take long for the water to start boiling, but once Sam turns back around, two steaming mugs in hand, the only evidence of what happened are the pieces of the broken water glass in the trash can by the desk. Bucky’s sitting on the bed, back leaned against the wall, knees pulled up, and face buried in his hands.

He lifts his head when Sam plops down next to him, though, taking the proffered mug with a raspy, “Thanks.”

They don’t talk, but after a couple of minutes, once Bucky’s looking a little less wild around the eyes, Sam bumps their shoulders together. Bucky leans into the contact, and they continue to drink their tea in silence.

2

By the time Sam catches up with him, Bucky’s got the last remaining HYDRA agent pinned against the wall by his throat, frantically scrabbling at Bucky’s metal arm as his face turns redder and redder. Sam lands a few feet away, and approaches the remaining distance on foot, hands held up placatingly.

Their objective is to bring this particular guy in alive for questioning. Sam knows this. Bucky knows this. Sam knows that Bucky knows this.

What Sam doesn’t know is if Bucky cares.

The instant they’d stepped foot in this particular base, Bucky’s whole demeanour had changed. He’d blinked at the lab equipment, first in confusion, then in recognition, and Sam had realised they were in for one hell of a bumpy ride.

“Bucky,” he says, quiet, when he comes to a stop at Bucky’s side.

Bucky’s breathing hard, chest heaving, and he bares his teeth in a silent growl before dropping the guy to the floor. “I know.”

Whoever this guy is, he definitely does not know when to quit. He coughs violently, but even though he can barely catch his breath, he spits out, “Желание, Ржавый, Семнадцать—”

Sam winces, but Bucky only rolls his eyes, grunts out, “Will you shut up?” and smashes the guy’s head into the wall, knocking him out cold.

Then he turns to Sam, grins, and announces, “You carry 'im upstairs,” before walking away.

Sam glares at his retreating back. “Man, you've got super strength!”

“You got wings, flyboy!”

“We’re in a bunker!”

“Can’t hear you, gotta speak up!”

“Oh, fu—”

3

Bucky’s sitting at the end of the dock, legs dangling over the edge, bare feet dipped into the water.

Sam loosens his tie as he walks over to him, the bottles of beer Pepper had handed him upon arrival hanging between the fingers of his free hand, clinking together softly. He kicks off his dress shoes once he reaches Bucky, and nudges him with the bottles until he takes them so Sam can pull off his socks.

The water of the lake is pleasantly cool, even in the otherwise sweltering summer heat, making Sam groan out loud when he pushes his feet in. Bucky chuckles quietly as he hands one of the beers back over.

“How bad was it?” Bucky asks, after a couple of minutes. He’s worrying his bottom lip, absently peeling the edge of the label on his bottle.

“A lot of speeches from a lot of people thinking themselves incredibly important.”

That makes Bucky snort out a laugh. “So, Steve woulda hated it, is what you’re sayin'?”

“Oh,” Sam says, equally amused, “definitely, yeah.”

He takes a pull of his beer, eyes wandering over to the willow tree on the shore, and the stone bench sitting in its shadow. They’re too far away for Sam to be able to read the memorial plaques, though if he squints, he can just about see them between the gently swaying branches.

Stark.

Tasha.

Steve.

Bucky comes readily when Sam slings an arm around his shoulders, smiling sadly at Sam’s, “Happy birthday, old man.”

“Happy birthday, Stevie.”

+1

Stakeouts are boring.

And this one especially, since absolutely nothing has happened on any of the three days they’ve been watching the place. Their intel had been frustratingly vague, only alluding to someone with certain information maybe coming to stay at this particular Airbnb sometime this week.

With nothing else to do, Sam checks their perfectly working surveillance devices again, and scowls at the side of Bucky’s head.

Bucky never looks up from his rifle, but mutters an annoyed, “Cut it out,” in Sam’s general direction.

Sam pulls a face at him, but before he can snark something back, Bucky’s phone chimes from his pocket. Bucky startles, and fumbles it out with a clearly embarrassed, “Shit, sorry 'bout that.”

“Look at the professional,” Sam teases, and has to bite back a laugh when Bucky flicks a pebble at him. “Overwhelmed by modern technology, grandpa?”

“Funny,” Bucky says, deadpan, with a roll of his eyes. “Remind me, who was it who forgot to—”

“One time!” Sam cuts in, and throws a pebble back, nailing Bucky in the chest. “And I wasn’t the one who—”

Bucky glowers at him. “That doesn't count!”

“Yes, it most certainly does count,” Sam counters, ready to argue his point, when suddenly— “Wait, wait, hold on!”

“What?” Bucky is frowning, looking from Sam to their target house, then back again. “Somethin’ happening?”

Sam shakes his head, and tries to think of a delicate way to ask the question burning on the tip of his tongue, only to blurt out, “Are you on Grindr right now, man?”

The way Bucky’s entire face goes hot is very telling.

“Look, I was gonna tell ya—”

“No, hey,” Sam is quick to interrupt, reaching over to give Bucky’s arm a reassuring squeeze, “you don’t owe me an explanation, okay? I was just, uh. Let’s go with surprised.”

Bucky ducks his head, but he’s smiling faintly. “‘S not somethin’ I’m used to talkin’ about, is all.”

“Well, if you ever need to talk about it,” Sam spreads his arms in invitation, grinning when Bucky rolls his eyes again, “I’m right here.”

It’s enough to dispel the last of the awkwardness between them. Bucky quirks a brow at Sam, chin propped up on one hand, and flutters his lashes as he asks, “Wanna talk about boys, Wilson?”

“We’ve got the time,” Sam points out, then holds out his hand. “Give me your phone.”

The look that earns him is extremely dubious. “Why?”

“Look,” Sam wiggles his fingers impatiently, “do you want my help, or not?”

“Never asked for it,” Bucky grumbles, but does unlock and hand over his phone. “Just don’t—”

“Open the DMs, yes, got it,” Sam says, grimacing, and frantically presses the back button while Bucky cackles next to him, eyes shining with mirth. “That’s very forward.”

“Oh, he ain’t even the worst one,” Bucky says, looking at the screen over Sam’s shoulder. “What’re you doin’, anyway?”

Scrolling down the list of recent conversations, Sam clicks on the picture of a guy who’s actually showing his face, instead of his thighs or abs. “Figuring out your type.”

He stops swiping when he gets to a picture of the guy in a suit, and tilts the phone so Bucky can see better. “You know, he reminds me of—”

“Nope,” Bucky snatches the phone back, slapping at Sam’s hands when he tries to steal it again, “don’t ruin ‘im for me—”

“You don’t know who—”

“I don’t wanna know!”

“I think you already know he looks like—”

“I will throw you off this roof, Wilson!”

“Bring it on, Barnes!”

[stardust-revengers]

heaven is a place on earth. bucky barnes x reader.

request: none. 

A/N: this is briefly based on the song “heaven is a place on earth”(obvi)  this listen to it while reading! I haven't written in ages so please bare with me, its shitty I wrote this at 6am after an all nighter on my notes app on my phone so its bad I have no request so please request and tell me how you thought of this here! im rewriting a whole new master list don't be afraid to request! feedback would mean the world to me! in my world endgame never happened they fought thanos and won and they all live happily in the compound I'm in denial the end. 

warning: mentions of blood (minor like not even anything) fluff, kinda angsty but ends fluffy trust me I gotchu. 

summary: they say heaven is a place on earth, its what you make of it that makes it heaven. 

wordcount: 1.4k.

words bolded are words from the song. 

ooh baby do you know what that’s worth? 

bucky barnes didn’t think he could ever find love.not after hydra after, the war after thanos he didn’t think he deserved nor believed in the concept of love in general.m, he saw it as a fairytale parents would tell their children about, something for them to hold on to in the darkness of the world to make some light appear in it. but bucky didn’t have any room for light in his abyss of darkness or so he thought. until he met you.  

you were an avenger. a trainee a newbie a rookie whatever you wanna call it. Tony caught sight of you when rumors of a vigilante came to light and requirted you into the team with some training and help from the earth's mightiest heroes you were able to kick ass of many in just a couple of months. yet the rookie name stuck for some reason yet it didn’t bother you much it only bothered you when james buchanan barnes would call you that. you looked up to him you admired him and saw how great of a man he was even if he didn’t see it himself.

you saw how he’d care for his loved ones, and put others needs before his, you saw how he was trying to make due with what he has left of his world, how he was a broken man but a fighter, and god did you love him for it. of course he didn’t know you saw him as if he was heaven itself.

ooh heaven is a place on earth. 

you two had been pining after each other for awhile, chasing each other without the other noticing the actions. he trained you and taught you everything truth be told if you asked barnes himself he’d say he fell in love with you the day you talked back to sam bird brain wilson himself. he quickly became your friend you were there for him when he needed you, through nightmares through, missions through screams, and cries and laughter and joy. He trusted you to see the real him. he saw you as an angel sent from the heavens

they say in heaven, love comes first.

of course he didn’t want to tell you at first that he loved you? how could he? you are his friend his savior his safe haven, his heaven, how could he mess you up, the one good thing in his life with his darkness and demons? he thought. how can he drag down the most important thing in his life to him down to his level? but how can he not fall in love with you? your laugh your smile your voice your skin your hair the way you smile or smirk at him when you catch him humming the playlist you made for him the way you are always there for him or your friends the rest of your team and family the way you are loyal to them the way you would do anything to protect him. especially him and how can you not see how madly in love he was with you?

we’ll make heaven a place on earth.

bucky didn’t think he would go to heaven. not after everything he did. not after the lives he took. even after hydra being an avenger means you can’t always save everybody. and sometimes that moment you can't always spare everybody. lives were to be taken at times no matter how badly the situation. yet you were always there to comfort him after every mission. to wipe the blood away to wipe the scars the trauma.

his ocean eyes met yours as you peeled off his tact suit gently, you knew by his head hanging low not making eye contact after one time the dirt in his hair that he carried into the room, the blood seeping through his suit and scars all over his frame that this mission was a particularly bad one. you lead him to his shower turning on the water, turning to leave as you closed the door behind yourself, sitting on the edge of his bed you waited till he came out clean and fresh mission sweeped away as if it never happened, waited for him to recollect himself on his own and free himself form the mission. dark locks of his chestnut hair were pulled back still a little damp from the shower his body covered in soft sweats you bought for him as a birthday gift a couple months back. he looked at you as you sat there across the room. the silence between you two was comforting and normal like a warm feeling you get when you see the one you love.

in a few strides he climbed into bed, his bed with you in his arms softly. he held onto you praying you wouldn’t let go, praying you’ll never leave, pulling the covers over you both he moved way slightly to look at you and read your face.

ooh heaven is a place on earth.

face filled with love and certainty, you looked deep into his orbs seeing nothing but love and covered from the pain of his past in his eyes as he looked at you. you brought your hand up to his cheek and took his lips in yours he tasted of strawberries and coffee although that could be just you since you both had strawberries and coffee for a snack before his mission. he pulled you closer your bodies were flushed against each other. the flow of the kiss felt right, your lips moved in sync as they danced around each other it was soft and sentimental craving for love.

bucky pulled away slightly yours breaths heavy from ending the passionate kiss you tow just shared. Your breaths synced up catching your breath after that moment. your voice barely above a whisper “baby, do you know what you are worth?” it’s an inside saying between you two. the song. you showed him the song and after the first time he heard it he never stopped listening to it. you never knew why until he told you “it reminds me of you”.

oh baby do you know what that’s worth? ooh heaven is a place on earth.

“i don’t deserve you babydoll” his voice a raspy whisper, filled with pain it’s dreadful like he knows you deserve better than him. you are quick to shut him down silencing him with your lips once more connecting you swore you felt a spark between the two of you. “bucky barnes don’t you dare say that” your voice tsern and assuring, letting him know you aren't lying. another kiss this time to his nose “you are my heaven, james buchanan barnes and i only want you” you ran your thumb over his cheek and dragged it to venture over his lip as he kissed your finger gently, you leaned in and kissed his pink semi swollen lips once more.

we’ll make heaven a place on earth.

he brings you in to embrace you, to feel you again. because your skin on his is a safe place for him. your eyes meet again as you feel the coolness of his metal arm drape over your hips his fingers tighten around your hips, grabbing them just a tad. you know it's his way of feeling if you are actually there “are you real?” squeeze. your eyes meet and you can truly see the blue within his steal ones, like a faint prayer he wraps his arms around you bringing you close burying his face in the crook of your neck he leaves a small trail of kisses and pecks along your neck, you can feel his lips move against your skin stray pieces of his hair tickled your neck, as his smirk formed against your skin brooklyn accent deep and thick, as the words he spoke flowed out of his mouth just barely above a whisper, only audible to your ears only, into the silence and comfort of the room. 

“ya know they say, heaven is a place on earth”. 

tags under cut:

                                    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tagging ppl for attention: @thxnderclouds @hannie-c @avenging-natasha @be-cautious-around-bri @oreoshea4456 @sharonfuckingcarter @rh-girlonfire @hey-its-grey @asexualfandomsalt @buckybcrnes @damm-darcy @okayloki @i-eat-bread-and-cry-on-the-floor @the-quackson-claxon @stxrdustloki @hailshurricane @stringy-glitter @ladybugsfanfics @typicalangel @marvelc00kie35 @olivia-caliban @its-me-so-what @cyrusandhiscollaredahirts @ruinofkings @compulsionsnovel @theshadowfairie​ @buckyandstarlordandpietro​ @okaydacre​ @sophie-barnes26​ @dreamer3196​ @katyrollins​ @nathanduil​ @kiingocreative​ @tiktok-spideyy​ 

[wilsonsnest]

winter, Sweetheart - VI

this is the part where i go age of ultron? whose ultron? and civil war? idk her. we’re pretty much totally deviating from here on out folks. feat. shit getting real and nat to the rescue.

warnings: sickness, hurt/comfort, bad medical practices

He finally settles them in a Bucharest. Romania, he admits, probably isn’t the safest place for the both of them to hide out. But Sweetheart is getting worse, and he loses strength too quickly to make moving possible. The Soldier - Bucky, now, he’s trying it out still. He tries to fix the Falcon’s wing as best as he can, but he’s no expert when it comes to cyberbionic systems even if he was, the mess of Hydra’s experiments would have made his skills useless anyway. Neither of them really knows how the wings work exactly, and the best he can do is solder any wires that seem to go together and snip any ones that seem to be in the way.

Neither of them are keen to test the results of Bucky’s patch job and so Sweetheart’s wings stay tucked away and covered. He supposes it doesn’t matter anyway, their former “employers” are either dead and on the run. The Soldier and the Falcon are on their own now.

For a short time, things seem okay. Bucky accessed Hydra accounts that even most Hydra techs wouldn’t have a clue about. He’s able to buy them a shitty one room apartment with peeling wallpaper and a creaky wooden floor where the landlord asked zero questions except for cash payment.

He steals painkillers for them both, easier than buying illegally or legally. Both of their flesh bruises and wounds heal fairly quickly though, thanks to the bootleg serum Hydra had pumped them full of. Bucky is in good enough shape, but its the Falcon’s broken wings that are causing the problem. The strain of the pain has reached levels where Sweetheart mostly stays curled up in bed, sweating into the mattress and gritting his teeth in pain. It was running like an infection, but the wound was entirely technological.

The last time Bucky had taken a look, the Falcon had actually whimpered in pain. He didn’t try to touch his wings again after that. At this point, he would only make things worse. Bucky focuses on the things he can do for Sweetheart. He washes him, feeds him and starts hunting for someone who can fix this. He knows there has to be some cowardly Hydra doctor that ran off before everything came crashing down.

But the longer he searches, the worse Sweetheart gets. There are nights when neither of them sleeps. Sweetheart is in too much pain, on as many painkillers as his body can stand and Bucky stays by his side, almost hoping for someone to find them so he can take his anger out on someone.

He gets desperate and he drops a clue. One that only a particular person will recognize.

Bucky waits by the kitchen counter, the windows blacked out and a singular light on near him. Theres a gun stored in one of the kitchen drawers, close enough that he knows he has a 75% chance of getting to it before she can attack him. He stiffens, as the door opens and Natasha walks in, dressed in a tailored pantsuit hands weaponless. Bucky narrows his eyes, and can see the points where she’s hiding her supplies, probably more firepower than he has currently stored in this room.

But theres an uneasy truce here, and they respect one another enough to not greet each other with guns drawn. He’s shot her once before, but he’s also the one who taught her own to survive worse.

She closes the door behind her, but doesn’t lock it. “I was wondering who contacted me. The Winter Soldier,” She gives the civilian clothes he’s wearing a once-over. “or James Barnes.”

“Bucky.” He says tightly, only really sure of that for now. He moves in an arc around the room, careful to face her at all times. He doesn’t want to get too close, but he also wants to be near Sweetheart in case he has to haul him away to escape. The Police could already be on their way.

“I know someone who’d be happy to hear that.” She says softly, and its more genuine than he ever remembers hearing her speak. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, no wire. “I can’t guarantee someone hasn’t tracked me here.”

Bucky nods, he knows that. He moves to kneel by the mattress Sweetheart is laying, finally asleep after a long night. His skin is ashen and clammy, sweet dappling his feverish forehead. Even asleep, he shakes. Bucky swallows and gestures toward him, not touching. “He needs help. I can’t… fix this.”

It’s hard to admit this weakness, but he fears the worst if he doesn’t get help. Natasha’s brow furrows, and she takes cautious step forward. She can tell how hard this is for him, how bad it must be if he’s willing to risk asking for help. Her eyes are unreadable, but theres no disgust or anger and Bucky is grateful for that. Natasha never met the Falcon, though their training overlapped at points. Hydra kept the Falcon isolated and even more secret than the Winter Soldier.

“I can call Stark.” Natasha offers quietly. She looks at Bucky now an shakes her head before he can protest. “It’s the only way he isn’t ending up in a jail cell or worse.”

“The Falcon,” The name tastes bitter on his tongue, but he’s never called him Sweetheart in front of anyone before. It would be like a betrayal to do it now. “Has never killed anyone.”

He knows this because he made sure of it. Natasha gives him a plaintive look and raises an eyebrow but Bucky only holds her gaze steady. Eventually she concedes and nods. “It gives us something to work with at least.” The tight spot in Bucky’s chest loosens just a little.

“His name is Sam Wilson.” She adds, dipping her head toward Sweetheart. Bucky just stares at her blankly and she huffs a little. “His friend, Riley, the one whose car you destroyed? He was Sam’s partner in the Air Force. He thought he was dead. He’s looking for him,”

Like Steve’s looking for you. It goes unsaid, but hangs in the air between them.

Still, to know the Falcon’s identity feels surreal to Bucky. It means nothing. As far as Hydra was concerned, Sam Wilson was erased. He has only ever been The Falcon and to Bucky he’s always been Sweetheart. He doesn’t know if he likes how Sam feels yet.

“Do you have a go-bag?” Natasha asks even though she already knows the answer. “As soon as I call this in to Stark, everyone is going to know. Including Steve.”

Bucky grimaces, but he knew that was coming. Even hearing his name makes his head hurt. He isn’t ready to face that yet, or else he would be going with them. He hates the idea of leaving Sweetheart, but can’t handle being around Steve or the rest of them. He glances at Sweetheart, shaking beneath the thin sheet and presses his lips together tightly. He’s never left him not knowing he’d be back. He has no idea when they’ll meet again and it terrifies him. His Sweetheart has been his responsibility for so long, how can he trust anyone else to look after him?

But then Sweetheart moans low in his sleep and rocks a little, trying to soothe his own pain. Bucky moves closer, presses his metal hand against his hot skin. Sweetheart settles and Bucky looks up at Natasha. “Don’t tell him.”

“I can’t lie to Steve anymore.” Natasha almost sounds apologetic, but he can tell shes telling the truth. “And he’s smarter than he looks, he’ll see right through me.”

Bucky ducks his head, but nods, he can appreciate her honesty at least. For a moment he rocks in place and out of the corner of his eye he sees Natasha look away. Grateful, he leans forward and presses his lips to Sweetheart’s temple. A promise that he would see him again. He moves quickly after that, he wouldn’t be surprised if the Avengers are already en route.

He lifts the floorboards to grab his backpack and heads towards the window. He stops and glances toward the Falcon and Natasha. He can’t hide his concern from Natasha though and she carefully moves closer to the mattress.

“I’ll stay with him.” She assures him. Theres a determination in her gaze that makes Bucky want to believe her. “Rileys told us a lot about Sam. He’s a good man. I won’t let anything happen to him.”

Bucky wouldn’t know anything about that, but he does know that the Falcon deserves the chance to be free from whatever Hydra did to him. The truth is, he only really trusts himself as far as Sweetheart goes, but his hands are tied in this instance. He’s kept his Sweetheart’s hands as clean of blood as possibly could and thats all he can really claim. With a final heavy sigh, he slips out and the window and disappears.

[amandaoftherosemire]

Sing For Me - Chapter Three

Fandom: Marvel Avengers

Pairing: Bucky Barnes X OFC (Sasha)

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Tony Stark, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Wanda Maximoff, OFC Sasha

Author: @amandaoftherosemire​

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 2,220

Format: Series (Complete)

Warning: language, sexual subject matter, angst, fluff, slooooow-burn. (Future chapters will be NSFW due to smut)

Summary: Sasha makes a plan to win Bucky over.

A/N: Not consistent with Marvel canon. I just started writing fanfic, please be patient. I’m open to constructive criticism and any help more experienced writers would like to offer. The story has picked me up and is carrying me along with it. Please let me know what you think.

Sing For Me Masterlist

Chapter Two here

Chapter Three

Bucky stood at his door, one hand on the glass where he had unknowingly placed it when she walked away. He had to resist her. She was too good, too pure, too sweet for the likes of him, he saw that now. He realized that he avoided her, been cruel to her, because he wanted to protect her. She could never be allowed to feel what he felt. She was light, and he would not taint her with the darkness inside him.

Dammit. It was much easier when he thought he hated her.

 Three things happened nearly simultaneously. First, Sasha had a blinding realization. Second, the crack of thunder and drenching rain. Lastly, she felt the brush of Bucky’s energy at her back.

She couldn’t help herself. She tipped her head back, eyes closed, and let the rain wash over her. She laughed. She laughed, imagining the fair folk had waited for the dramatically appropriate moment to release the rain. She laughed overjoyed with her new revelation and the brush of energy that confirmed it. She laughed at herself for feeling so giddy about it.

She stood up and felt the energy behind her surge in concern. She smiled widely and sank into a curtsey, just in case fairies were real after all.

The next morning found Sasha in her normal spot. As Clint walked into the kitchen he saw Sasha leaning against the counter in yoga pants and a hoodie. The hood was pulled up over her head half covering her eyes. She stood, scowling, as she alternately blew on her coffee to cool it and sipped greedily, trying to get the life-giving caffeine into her system as quickly as possible.

"Good morning, Sasha," Clint said as he poured coffee into a giant mug.

"Go fuck yourself," she replied, sneering.

Clint grinned at Wanda as he grabbed some of the eggs and toast she had prepared. Wanda just chuckled and shook her head. As Clint settled in at the table, Steve walked in.

"Good morning, Sash," he said, cheerily.

"Go fuck yourself," she replied, this time with some venom. Sasha hated morning people. Especially Steve Up With the Sun Rogers. Steve just laughed and wrapped an arm around her shoulders to give her a squeeze. Sasha didn't have the energy yet to resist, but she growled until he let her go with a chuckle.

Natasha had walked in during the one-armed hug and chuckled with Steve. "Still on the first cup, huh? Good morning, Sasha," she said, smirking.

"Ugh! Go fuck yourself!"

"I thought I heard your dulcet tones, Sash," Sam remarked as he walked in, "Good morning!"

"Goddammitgofuckyourself!"

To a chorus of laughter as everyone settled around the table with food and coffee, Sasha drained the last of the coffee in her cup and poured another, stumbling a little because she refused to open her eyes more than a slit. She nearly had enough caffeine now to remember that she didn't really want to set the building and all its inhabitants on fire.

To her utter astonishment, the next voice she heard was Bucky's.

"Morning," he said softly, not looking at her as he poured coffee for himself.

Sasha tilted her head back enough to see out from under her hood and peeled one eye open to glare blearily at him.

"Morning," she replied, confused. She closed her eye again and dropped her head to take another drink of coffee. "Now go fuck yourself."

Bucky's lips twitched. He had thought of nothing else but Sasha last night and had decided that just because he wanted to keep Sasha at arm's length didn't mean he had to be a complete prick. He took his coffee, a plate of Wanda's breakfast, and a giant bowl of Cap'n Crunch to the table.

A couple of minutes later, Sasha finished her second cup of coffee and her eyes were open. She was still a little annoyed at the existence of mornings and that she had to be awake for them, but the caffeine was working its magic. She poured a third cup, but actually added cream and sugar to this one. She took it and a small plate of breakfast and sat down across from Bucky.

Pushing her hood back, she looked around the table at the motley crew of misfits she'd come to think of as family. She felt a warm rush of affection for all of them.

"Good morning, everybody!" she sang out.

"Go fuck yourself!" they all, but Bucky, shouted in unison.

Sasha grinned impishly and started eating.

Bucky tried to watch her without being obvious, but she glanced up and caught his eye. She smiled shyly and took a sip of her coffee.

"At the risk of losing a hand, can I steal a crunchberry?" she asked.

"Losing a hand?"

"Well, I've seen how you are about food. I don't want to get in the way of such a passionate love affair," she replied with a wink.

Bucky felt his face heat. Stuttering a little, he said, "S-sure."

Sasha's heart fluttered a little when she saw the blush stain his cheeks. With his permission, she reached over and daintily snagged a crunchberry out of his cereal bowl. She popped it in her mouth with a hum.

"I swear, when it comes to cereal, my stomach stopped maturing at twelve. Crunchberries are my favorite."

"Have another," he said, earnestly, not noticing that everyone else was quietly looking at each other in amazement. No one could decide if they were more surprised to witness Sasha and Bucky conversing or Bucky sharing his food.

"Well, if you insist," Sasha said with a flirty smile as she plucked another crunchberry from the bowl. "How about you? What's your favorite?"

"Uh- I don't know. Crunchberries are good," Bucky replied, flustered. He really had not been expecting Sasha to be so friendly.

"You know, there's an off-menu drink at Starbucks that tastes just like crunchberries. You just ask them to add a shot of toffee nut flavor to their strawberries and cream Frappuccino. It's to die for. I'll grab you one next time I'm there."

"Um- okay. Thanks," Bucky replied, starting to panic a little.

Sasha just smiled and turned her attention back to her breakfast.

"I figured it out! I figured it out! I figured it out!" Sasha called out in a sing-song voice as she stepped into the lab balancing two cups of coffee and a cheese danish.

Tony looked up at her, the consequences of a long, sleepless night evident on his face. Sasha on the other hand, looked fresh as a spring daisy. She had put her hair up in her habitual sock bun and her knee-length white dress had bright red poppies bursting into bloom all over it. A rush of resentment toward her color and cheer washed over him.

"Since you're practically dancing, I doubt it's anything important," Tony muttered.

"You know, Tony, sleep is good for the body and mind. You might want to try it." Sasha set the danish and the black coffee next to Tony. "Eat, have some coffee, you'll feel better."

Sasha pirouetted around the room, the full skirt of her dress spinning out around her.

"Why are you in such a good fucking mood?" Tony groused.

"Because I figured it out! Barnes doesn't hate me at all! He wants to hate me, which is another thing entirely." Sasha plopped into her desk chair, smoothed her skirt over her knees, and smiled smugly at Tony.

"Isn't the outcome the same?"

"You only think that because you're emotionally stunted. I've already started making him like me. It's only a matter of time before you're officially replaced and Barnes is my new best friend."

Tony laughed despite himself. "One, I'll believe it when I see it. Two, there is no replacement for me."

"Well, you are the only one who gets my Archer references."

"See? I knew I was good for something."

A couple of hours later and Sasha was in the zone. She was grooving on the data and completely oblivious to her surroundings. Bucky had come in for help with his arm. The plates weren't moving quite right, and he needed Tony to look at it.

Sasha was totally immersed and hadn't noticed him. He took the opportunity to watch her work. He kept his head down and watched her through his hair so that Tony wouldn't notice where his attention lay.

Of course, Tony noticed. And wondered. And worried.

Sasha, unaware, meticulously peeled away layers of irrelevant information, searching for clues. Combing through the data wasn't difficult, recognizing the data that actually mattered was. The deeper she went, the more vocal she became. She hummed, she sang, she muttered.

Silence reigned, however, except for the sound of clicking keys and the clink of metal on metal, when all of a sudden Sasha asked, "Why did Peter Venkman have thorazine on him when he went on his date with Dana? I mean, we know Venkman was a sexual predator by the way he lied and manipulated that college student, but thorazine? Was he a full-on rapist?"

Tony looked up from where he was working on Bucky's arm.

"What?" he asked, completely confused.

"What?" Sasha replied as she pulled her mind out of the work and looked up. "Oh, hi, Barnes!" she said, her face lighting up, "How you doin'?"

Tony noticed that Barnes' face flushed when Sasha spoke to him and didn't bother to hide a smug smile. Crazy Girl was right, as usual.

"I'm alright, just a little problem with my arm," he replied, hiding behind his hair again.

"Alas, we don't have Shuri, but the Sleepless Wonder here is the next best thing," she answered with a wide grin for Tony.

"Ignore her," Tony muttered. "She's a fucking ray of sunshine this morning. Overly caffeinated and offensively chipper."

"Ha! This kettle thinks "overly caffeinated" is rich coming from a pot full of goddamn coffee," she retorted.

"How many cups of coffee have you had this morning?" Tony asked, accusingly.

"This is seven. How many gallons have you had?" she fired back.

"So, this is what you guys do all day?" Bucky asked, amused.

"Pretty much. It's always nice to have company, though. Tony likes an audience."

"Please,” Tony scoffed, “we both know you're the drama queen here."

Sasha smiled cheekily at Tony, winked at Bucky, and turned back to her screen.

After Bucky had left, Tony came over and sat on the edge of Sasha's desk.

"Okay, Crazy Girl. You're right about Barnes. What are you going to do?"

Sasha drug her eyes from the screen and blinked up at Tony. Leaning back in her chair she answered, "I'm going to be myself, of course. The problem is I think he's afraid of me."

Tony hesitated. He wasn’t sure he wanted his Crazy Girl anywhere near Barnes. Sasha had become like a favorite niece to him. Her cheerful presence in his lab everyday settled his nerves and helped calm his mind. He knew she did it on purpose but neither of them ever mentioned it. Bucky was even more fucked up than he was. The last thing Tony wanted was for Barnes to take any of the shine off of her.

To be honest, Tony had been hoping that something would take off between Sasha and Steve. He knew that Steve would value her and take care to never dim that shine.

On the other hand, he’d never seen her shine the way she had when she looked at Barnes. Shine, hell, she downright sparkled. Tony sighed.

"Some people don't like to look at their own emotions. Knowing you can see us more clearly than we would like to see ourselves is hard to come to terms with," Tony said as he awkwardly patted her on the shoulder.

"You did."

"You remind me of a cartoon kitten," he said as he stood up and walked back to his workbench.

"That's not why."

Tony looked back at her. She had a sad smile on her face and for the first time since he'd met her, she looked small and lonely. His eyes dropped to the gloves that carefully hid her forearms.

"Being weird, like us, can be isolating. It's hard to know who to trust. It's hard to build trust when you feel like the other person knows all about you, but you can't see them the same way." Tony spoke off-handedly, but he couldn't help but notice the way Sasha pulled her arms down and hid them under her desk.

"I got to know you without any pressure. Just the two of us, in here, chatting while we work. We connected because I didn't feel like you were scanning everything I say for "emotional resonance"." Sasha smiled for real at that. "Maybe you can find a way to let Barnes get to know you from some distance."

Sasha was nodding thoughtfully as Tony spoke but with his last words, her jaw dropped.

"TONY! YOU'RE A FUCKING GENIUS!" she shouted, happily.

"I know."

Late that night, after her nightly ritual was complete, comfortably ensconced in the pile of pillows and blankets that made up her bed, Sasha grabbed her phone from the nightstand. She had been listening to the sounds of Barnes' television and his footsteps as he moved around his rooms.

She scrolled down her contacts until she got to 'Barnes Is Fine' and started to type.

Can't sleep?

She stared at it for a while before she got up the nerve to hit send. Her heart stopped when she finally saw the three dots that told her he was typing back. With a bloop, his response appeared on her screen and she grinned like an idiot. Considering how long it took him to type, she couldn't help but smile at his response.

 No. You?

Chapter Four here

[gravelgirty]

There is No Quiet Night in the Rainy Season: A Hogan’s Heroes fanfic

Part 1 of Tape and Needle and Scissors and String And...

Part 2: Irish Rejected Potatoes...

Part 3: Above My Pay Grade...

Part 4:

Deep in the Germans’ mess hall—a place LeBeau was grudgingly willing to consign as one of the less-well-thought-out circles of hell—there was a lot of noise. You could almost hear it over the artillery-grade raindrops smashing into the galvanized tin roof.

Banging. Rattling. Thumping. Muffled cursing.

“Every time we let those prisoners into the kitchen, this happens. Every time!”

The grumbler was the cook—He was from a very poor part of Germany. So poor, in fact, that he owned the dubious ability of being able to identify every form of edible vegetation in the forest. He’d grown up next to one of the more pretentious parks under the Kaiser, and the Kaiser had a habit of throwing entire families in prison if a single member trespassed on his territory.

(And as Hans knew, urinating across the fenceline into the hunting preserve counted as an encroachment. He still missed the Donners…even if they had been an indispensable part of WWI’s civil engineering projects…)

Hans was treasured and feared in equal measure. There was always a ratio of soldiers that didn’t know which part of the potato plant to peel. But Hans’ skills with meat were between ‘doesn’t bear thinking about’ and ‘unmitigated disaster’.

He grumbled in his drafty old kitchen. He puffed and muttered and banged things back and forth. That little Frenchman and his foreign ways! How dare he touch his tools of trade? Was there no respect in the profession between equals? For Hans considered LeBeau his counterpart to the prisoners—forced to make do with the miserable ingredients, and serve them up to a sourly ungrateful populace.

“Unbelievable!” He swore as he found another exhibit for offense—the Frenchman had sharpened all of his knives! They hung gleaming on their bar—and sorted according to size! How hard could it be to put things back exactly as they had been?

There was nothing for it. Hans wearily sat down and started on the largest cleaver—it was an excellent beast for skinning vegetable marrows or taking the rinds of very tough turnips. But too sharp by half. With his lips set, he started a long, boring campaign of running the bladed edge across the cutting board.

 - - -

The remainder of the day—if “day” meant weather that the Black Forest would call unfit for mushrooms—was spent with the Stalag in a consensual state of misery.

Hogan split his men and put them in short teams—half to transfer the latrine to a spot that was far too close to Barracks noses for comfort—and the other half underground hastily shoring up, blocking up, and doing whatever they could to fill up what had once been a comfortable and useful section of tunnel. When it looked like it was time for a break, he made them switch.

It was back-breaking, grueling work but no-one complained. They all sensed urgency if not impending disaster.

Anyway, some idiot pointed out, it was at least quieter outside than it was inside. The newer prisoners were starting to show signs of psychological breakdown--weeks of heavy cold raindrops on the roof could do that to anybody, but especially to men who had been three feet from the front lines less than two months ago.

The only exceptions to the workplan besides Hogan:

Baker, who had shaken off Klink’s hooch in record time and was now sleeping it off to a three-octave, one-man chorus with his uvula and soft palate. Wilson had the throat-drops waiting for when he woke up.

LeBeau, a man under fire, working frantically to produce enough hot caffeine to get the men through this dire period.

And Newkirk. The Brit hunkered dangerously close to LeBeau’s stirring-elbow, whip-stitching up a contraption at record speed. His earlier depression was gone as if it never existed; he was on a man with a mission, and he was cheerful. This would worry Schultz to see it, even if he wanted Newkirk to snap out of his mood as much as anyone else.

A happy, cheerful Newkirk was a Newkirk presented with a solvable challenge that would discomfit Germans. Even Cpl Fritz, the only man in the Stalag dumber than Klink, knew this.

Ill-feelings were running amuck and morale was AWOL for guards and prisoners alike.

The guards were sopping wet  because ‘sideways’ was a perfectly normal direction for winter rains. They thought longingly of LeBeau’s patented, secret, imitation coffee and wondered if their lot would improve if they just took off their uniforms the second they returned to their own dank barracks and stood naked by the stove. They envied the wretched POWs, who hadn’t any reason to be outside other than roll call and latrine-digging, and they knew from long, long experience that the mud cladding the POWs was a wonderful insulation.

“Lucky swine.” Wolfe shouted over the rain.

“What??” Langenscheidt yelled.

“I said, Lucky swine!”

“I know you’re Langenscheidt!”

“That is not what I said!”

“What??”

“The swine! The swine!” Wolfe had no choice but to carry on--he was committed. “They’re no wetter than we are, and they don’t have rain falling on metal hats!”

“Eh?” Langensheidt looked over the edge to the prisoners below. “Hah! You know, they look like swine! At least they don’t have a tin roof on their head!” He laughed and rapped his sodden knuckles on his own helmet.

Wolfe gave up. he just wanted to live. He wasn’t sure what he had to live for, but anything was worth avoiding Hell, which might be what he was seeing in the mud right now.

---

The POWs were achy, sniffly, and sweating under their layer of this mud because this natural insulation wasn’t letting an atom of respiration out of their pores. They collectively wondered if a few well-placed holes drilled into their shoes would let the sop out from between their toes. They envied the bloody Germans, who could at least breathe inside their wool uniforms.

---

In the Kommandant’s office, Klink was writing a very stern note to his cigar-supplier. Contrary to all claims and the expensive installment, the humidor was worthless. He now needed a dehumidifier. This was the third in a series of such letters, which boiled down to the company thinking Klink was insane because everybody knew, Germany didn’t get that wet—where did he think he was, Podgorica? But Klink’s clerical talents had risen to the challenge--he couldn’t do anything about Hogan stealing his Cubans, but the complete lack of any decent tobacco could get him sent to the Russian Front if the wrong official came by.

Or Hochstetter. He didn’t need cigars--real or withheld--to send him to the Russian Front.

- - - 

Hogan was in his office and trying to think of the fastest journey to Stage II of his plans. If he could get the latrine moved, it would be an effective if smelly temporary blind for their attempts to build a new tunnel. The guards had their own latrine—and loathed theirs.

And with good reason, he thought glumly. Rats loved the POW latrines—it was a straight shot between the back of the soldiers’ mess, and on the other side, a thick bramble thicket. The brush was only waist-high and not worth the effort of trying to escape through the cover—there was no human-worthy cover with that vegetable barbed wire.

That was alright for the non-human--or should we say, inhuman, infernal things that did use the brambles for camouflage and hideaways.

Like the creepy, pallid, humpbacked crickets that lurked in the dark and crawled at you with terrifying purpose when you weren’t looking.  Or the toads, which looked like clods of earth with eyeballs. Nobody knew what those things were, but the guards and guard-dogs were terrified of them.  Carter said they looked like the ‘lil’ hoppers’ back in Bullfrog, and if you ate one you’d be talking to gigantic furry lemon-yellow polka dots that whistled show tunes. Hogan had made it very clear that he was not allowed to test for comparison, and no, Newkirk, we aren’t putting it in the guards’ soup-pot. Yes, I am a spoil-sport. Part of the privilege of command.

The rats reigned over all these beasts, and ate them with relish. Perhaps a daily diet of poisonous toads explained their behavior--they didn’t act like the rattus of Hogan’s tough childhood. They didn’t act like any rats he’d ever heard of.

The latrines were horrible but they were the perfect place to hide and chew on one’s ill-gotten contraband or secret stash of chocolate, gum, and the home-made raisin moonshine that nobody would ever admit to making but somehow, the stuff just kept…happening. And since the brambles still had tons of weathered fruit still hanging on to the vine from summer, the damned vermin had the best living arrangements of every living thing in the Stalag—possible exception being Oscar and Heidi’s dogs, who had the closest thing to red carpet treatment.

It was very ironic that the superior supply lines of Stalag XIII was nurturing these foul creatures. Klink had his excellent black market-skimming campaign going on that shorted everybody but himself (and Hogan would give one of Klink’s stolen cigars to learn his secret), but Hogan also had his Top-Notch smuggling and supply lines over and under the Stalag thanks to willing POWs and good old Oscar and Heidi. Between all these avenues sang opportunity for the bold rodent that saw anything unguarded and un-poisoned. There was also the third underground grocery store on part of the guards--willing to sell out either Klink or Hogan’s pass of chocolate or cheese if they got their own cut.

The guards’ latrines weren’t all that charming, but they were well-built and clean and built over one of the original concrete foundations. The POWs had a packed-earth foundation topped with old pallets. It was leaky and drafty and cold even in the dead of summer. In the drought season they had to hose it down in case it would burst into flames. It was the best place to go for contraband deals because the roof was airtight. The rats found easier pickings with the POWs than the guards. At least, Newkirk said snidely, the rats the POWs caught had more meat on their bones.

Hogan sipped his coffee and continued to think. Outside LeBeau was struggling to wring another miracle out of rations, potable water, and if you believed his rants, cinnamon-sprinkled sawdust. For some reason he was angry that he couldn’t get all of Carter’s hot peppers.

Hogan was also getting down because the men were supplying him with increasingly dismaying reports on the soil. Who would have thought any amount of rainfall would get through that brick-hard dirt? They needed dry earth to dig if they all didn’t want to die, and dry earth was so far as concept as realistic as glass slippers and talking wolves.

And…Germany was the country for both…

He glared at the tiny bookshelf nailed to the wall. GRIMM’S FAIRY TALES sat next to his mothy reading collection—a surprise birthday present from Schultz. The sergeant had made a comment about idle time was better spent reading than ‘naughty doings’. Hogan still didn’t know what to give him back for thoughtful revenge.

BANG-BANG.

Hogan jumped slightly and beat Carter to the door before the young man could filthy up his doorknob. The pyrotech was a walking lump of mud but at least one could see his eyes and mouth.

“What is it, Carter?”

“Aw, how’d you know it was me?” Carter pouted. Behind him Newkirk and LeBeau were snickering in that fond, cruel way good mates had, even as they hovered protectively over the stove and stitching.

“You left your hat on, Carter.” Hogan pointed out the obvious. “That makes the shape of your head a little distinctive.”

“Oh. Aw, shoot. Well, at least it kept me from hearin’ the rain. Honestly, its a lot quieter outside--”

“What is it?”

“Oh. The boys wanted you to know we’ve got as far as we can for the day. The walls of the pit are startin’ to, uh…jellify.”

“’Jellify?’” Hogan repeated. Behind Carter, Newkirk and LeBeau imitated this, and both looked as confused as Hogan felt.

“Yeah, they jiggle when you slap ‘em.” Carter nodded, which sent a good chunk of the Stalag’s terra firma hit the ground with a splat-splat. “Like pipeclay.”

“Pipeclay?”

Newkirk sucked in his breath with the force of his mother’s Electrolux vacuum. “Gov! Get ‘em out if that’s the case! Pipeclay’s not stable! The walls’ll be falling in and they’ll be in the bottom--!”

“You heard him, move!” Hogan barked.

Shaken, Newkirk watched them vanish into thin air. Only Hogan’s missing jacket and a trail of mud proved they ever existed. He risked looking at LeBeau. He was willing to bet they were both the same shade of pale. Over their heads, the relentless rain hammered and hammered and hammered...

“Mon d--.” LeBeau murmured. “Now what will we do? The Colonel needs this dug out.”

“Oh, uh…he’ll think of summat.” Newkirk rucked in as much optimism as he could manage, consider the circumstances. “The lads’ll need a lot of something hot to drink. Do you think you have enough?”

LeBeau grimaced. “Perhaps. I could do miracles with another pot, but I don’t think that old mushroom in the mess hall will let me borrow one for a while.”

“Did you sharpen his knives again? Shame on you.”

“The greater shame is to Krupp Steel!”

“Well, don’t worry. I’ll get you one. I’ll just pop--“ Newkirk realized what he was saying and closed his eyes. “Bloody ‘ell. We’re all gunna go stir-crazy, aren’t we? What’s that word Carter uses…cabin fever?”

“Yes.” LeBeau assured him with deadly calm. “And this fever, I do not have soup for.”

[motleymoose]

I Cross My Heart

Challenge: @little-red-83 's Love Your Flaws Writing Challenge

Fandom: Marvel/The Avengers

Characters: Hawkeye/Clint Barton x Reader, Deadpool/Wade Wilson, Black Widow/Natasha Romanov, Ironman/Tony Stark, mentions of Thor, Agent Coulson, and Captain America/Steve Rogers

Prompt: I Cross My Heart by George Strait, amputation

Words: 2,300+

Warnings: Language, Necking, a pinch of blood, and some booze, PURE FLUFF

Summary: Just another day for Y/N working with the Avengers... or is it?

A/N: Hello, hello, hello! This may or may not turn into a two-parter (I usually leave you hanging, but this keeps building in my head). I love this song (and the movie Pure Country, but that's neither here nor there), and it's totally the reason this is just a load of domestic fluff. All inspiration for the prosthetic/amputation come from Goldenhand by Garth Nix and John Dies At The End by David Wong. Yeah, I know, weird, but hey, it works. Feedback is always appreciated!

*gif not mine

(PS there isn’t actually a cat in this, but Omifuckinchuck, this is cute)

(PPS things in [ ] are signed, not spoken (because Hawkeye is sorta deaf))

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Is there any way you can shut that thing off?" Wade asks as we stroll down the street just after dawn. He's busily straightening out the broken fingers on his left hand, the last of the injuries from our latest fight against the "rogue sewer ninjas who are probably most definitely from Florida" (his words, not mine).

Shrugging, I hold out my new prosthetic hand, watching as it shimmers brightly in the dim sun. "I haven't found the off switch yet, and I haven't been able to get ahold of Tony yet. But I guess it's alright. I mean, I can  crush brick and melt steel with this thing. My old prosthetic couldn't even peel an orange."

"Huh." He shakes his newly healed hand in satisfaction before slapping me on the shoulder. "Last one to HQ is an asshole!"

Laughing, I shout after his retreating form as I break into a sprint, "I wouldn't want to take that title away from you!" ............. It doesn't take much for me to catch up to and pass Wade (he was never the best at pacing himself over long distances). And since I beat him back to headquarters, he has to pay for coffee. Luckily, there's a little diner in the building across the street that makes the best chai latte in the area.

The bell overhead tinkles as we enter, and I scan the crowded diner for any of the main crew. I see Clint and Nat over in a corner booth, so while Wade is getting drinks, I make a beeline for their table.

"Hey, guys," I grin as I slide in beside Nat and steal the pile of sliced pickles from Clint's plate (this diner serves pickles with everything. And Clint hates pickles). "What's up?"

"Breakfast," Clint growls as he shovels a forkful of egg into his mouth. "What's with the hand?"

"Trying out Tony's new prototype," I reply, laying my arm across the table for them to admire. "It's damn near indestructible, and I can actually feel things with it. But, for whatever reason, it's like a dang glow stick." I sigh as I ball it back into my vest pocket. "I'm more than thankful that Tony made it. Especially since my old one bit the dust."

"Bit too shiny for my taste," Clint mumbles as he turns the prosthetic over gently in his hands. The technology is so advanced that I can actually feel the warmth of him through it.

Wade strolls over, his hands full of mugs and a pastry in his mouth, and sets a chipped yellow cup in front of me before joining Clint on the other side of the table. Nat inclines her head slightly and Clint grunts a hello around a chunk of sausage.

"You're a cheerful lot," he quips as he rolls up the bottom of his mask, taking a careful sip from his cup. Hissing through his teeth as he puts down his coffee, Wade jerks his head at Clint. "What's his deal?"

"We were up all night chasing a mutant rat through the sewers," Nat replies after she takes a long pull from her coffee cup. "He's just grumpy that he couldn't get a clear shot down there."

Clint flicks a finger at Nat without looking up from his breakfast platter.

"You're pretty brave when Y/N is around, Barton," Nat teases. "Wouldn't want anything to happen to those pretty little hands of yours."

Before he can make a comeback, Wade elbows Clint in the ribs and drops his hands below the table.

Staring at Wade's lap for a bit longer than what seems comfortable, Clint guffaws. "Yeah, well. That ain't happening anytime soon."

Shrugging, Wade returns to sipping his coffee. "Your loss, dude. I'm telling you, it would work."

I arch an eyebrow at the pair as Nat responds. "What? Wait, no. I don't want to know." She signals to the bubbly waitress, who lays the receipt facedown on the table as she glides past. "If you two blow anything up, don't call me." She stands and jerks her head at me. "C'mon, Y/N. We've got training in ten."

Groaning, I slump into the booth. Nat gives me a piercing glare. "Alright. Fine, I'm coming," I mumble as I take one last swallow of my latte. Rising to follow her through the bustling diner, I casually graze the back of Clint's neck with my fingertips, enjoying the way he leans into my hand. "See ya'll back at HQ. If Nat doesn't kill me."

Both men bid farewell and turn back to their food. As I grab the door, I glance quickly over my shoulder. Wade and Clint are sitting close, heads together conspiratorially. I can tell they're signing to each other again, and I instinctively know nothing good can come of this. ............. Four hours, several bruises, and some minor blood loss later, I shower and change quickly before heading into the lounge area of the complex. HQ is essentially a self-sufficient metropolis contained inside a multi-story building. Each of us on the Avenger squad gets our own little sleeping alcove that's adjoins a huge communal area complete with kitchen, wet bar, and big screen TV. Sometimes we play board games together, and sometimes we choose solitude in the comfort of our own rooms. My little closet is nice and all, but sometimes a girl needs a change of scenery.

And Netflix.

Weighing the pros and cons of binging Lost for a third time, I round the corner and run smack into Clint. It looks as though he has just went through a ringer, so Wade or Nat must have been sparring with him. Neither one of them have an "easy" button.

"Ouch." A hand flies to his nose as blood comes spurting down his face.

"Oh, shit. Sorry, hon!" I cringe as I guide him to the nearest sofa then dash into the kitchen. I grab a dish towel and toss it to him before digging in the freezer for an ice pack. "I'm so, so sorry." I kiss his temple as I apply the ice pack.

["No biggie, Wade broke it first,"] he signs before taking over the ice pack. "What are you doing up here? I thought you were setting up for Coulson's retirement party?" His voice is slightly muffled by the towel.

Waving my good hand, I sit down beside him. "Got it handled while you and Nat were galavanting in the sewers. What I want to know is how you let Wade bust your nose?"

Grinning sheepishly, Clint sinks back into the couch. "I.... may have shot him a few dozen times." He holds up his hands when he sees my face. "It's not like he can't handle it! Plus, I didn't use the incendiary heads."

I glare at him a moment longer. "Uh huh. And why exactly did you turn my partner into a pincushion?"

"He wanted to see if he could dodge an arrow. Turns out he can't."

I can't help but snort at this, cracking a smile that he reciprocates. "That definitely sounds like Wade." Yawning widely, I stretch, leaning over him to snag the remote off the side table. I click through to our list, browsing until I narrow it down to four shows and a movie (I always take too long deciding sometimes). Clint rolls his eyes and makes a grab for the remote. "Nuh uh, buster. Driver picks the movie, remember?" I smile coyly at him. "Plus, you need to hit the showers."

Snarling, he tosses the bloodied towel and ice pack aside and tackles me. I scream in mock horror as I try to keep the remote out of his reach. I would have succeeded, too, if Clint fought fair.

While I'm busy holding the remote over my head with my flesh hand and pushing on his chest with my stump, I leave my most vulnerable spot open. Clint notices and immediately dives for my neck, sucking and nipping lightly at the tender skin. A moan escapes my lips as I squirm beneath him, an all-too-familiar warmth spreading through my lower belly. I need him. Now. I bring my flesh hand to the nape of his neck, my stump wrapping around his back as I try desperately to get him to pay attention to my mouth.

"I don't think so," he growls, grabbing my arms and pulling them over my head. I gasp excitedly, bucking my hips and arching my back as I beg him to kiss me. Ignoring my pleas, he goes back to teasing my neck.

I'm all but a puddle of jelly when Wade bursts in.

"By all means, don't stop on my account." He gives us the finger guns as he makes his way to the wet bar.

The bastard seems to always know when we're trying to have "adult fun time" (again, Wade's words, not mine).

Clint releases my arms and pushes off of me, blushing. Suppressing a grin, I sit up and straighten my shirt. It's cute when he gets embarrassed (and it doesn't take much to do it, either).

After he makes his drink, Wade moseys over and plops down between us. Casually sipping his cocktail, he plucks the remote from my grasp and scrolls for a bit before landing on a movie.

["Finding Dory? Really?"] Clint signs at him in disbelief.

"Hey, don't knock it 'til you've tried it." Wade turns the volume up, and for what seems like the millionth awkward moment today, we silently watch the journey of a little blue fish. .............. ["So, are you going to do it tonight?"] Wade signs to Clint as we enter the the bar. Clint slaps him in the chest and glares daggers at him as he takes my hand and leads the way to a group of tables near the impromptu stage (it's really just a piece of plywood supported by a couple dozen cinder blocks, nothing fancy).

["What was that about?"] I ask, darting my eyes pointedly at Wade.

["Nothing, just Wade being Wade,"] Clint reassures as we approach the small group already celebrating with pitchers of beer and whimsically named shots.

"Y/N/N! How's the hand treating you?" Tony shouts jovially over the jukebox as he slaps Clint on the shoulder and gestures with his drink to the table. "Come! Sit! Coulson's not here yet, so we're testing the booze to make sure it's okay."

Thor, Nat, and Steve raise their glasses in greeting, then turn back to the conversation they were having. Tony stands stock still for a moment, a goofy grin plastered on his face, before ushering us towards the other side of the table, kicking balloons out of the way as he goes. Grabbing two glasses from the stack, he fills them to the brim with beer and passes one to each of us. He then pulls out a chair and sits, motioning for us to join him. "Seriously, how's the prosthetic? Is there anything I need to modify on it before we enter production?"

Glancing sideways at Clint, I smile charmingly at Tony and hold it up, wiggling the fingers. "It's perfect, Tony, really. Except, maybe it should't... I don't know.... have a golden aura?" I offer it to him, palm up.

Taking it in his hand, Tony squints at it before looking at me. "You're absolutely right! Hard to fight the bad guys if your new hand gives you away. If I'm not dead from a hangover I certainly will have tomorrow, stop in and we'll get it fixed." He lets go, taking another pull from his beer.

I smile again, turning to Clint. ["See?"] I sign in triumph. ["He'll shut it off in the morning!"]

Clint rolls his eyes, and then chokes on his beer. I follow his gaze to the makeshift stage and spot Wade conferring with the DJ.

Tapping Clint on the shoulder, I mouth, "What?"

Shaking his head furiously, Clint rises, wending his way to the stage. Seeing him, Wade squats in front of him, and the two begin to have a heated discussion. I only catch a few of the signs Wade is throwing at Clint, and it leaves me even more confused.

After a few minutes, Clint turns on his heel and stalks back to our table. Seeing my questioning look, he signs that Wade is an ass.

["And that's new how?"] I shoot back with a wide grin. He shakes his head, rolling his eyes once more and turns back to the stage.

Someone has placed a stool in the middle of the stage, a lone microphone laying on its seat. Wade strolls over, picks of the mic, and poises himself on the stool. There's a wolf whistle from the crowd as he speaks into the mic.

"Goooood evening, drunks and brigands!" he shouts, and the crowd responds enthusiastically.

"We've got a special treat for you tonight... Me! So without further ado, I'd like to dedicate this little number to my two besties right over there!" He points in our direction, and the crowd whoops accordingly.

"Hit it, Stan."

When the music starts, my grin begins to fade. And then, Wade begins to sing.

Our love is unconditional We knew it from the start I can see it in your eyes You can feel it from my heart

That's our song.

That's the song we first kissed to. The song we first made love to. It was also from the first movie we watched together before we became a couple.

From here on after Let's stay the way we are right now And share all the love and laughter That a lifetime will allow.

I look to Clint for help, a question upon my lips, but I stop cold.

I cross my heart And promise to Give all I've got to give To make all your dreams come true In all the world You'll never find A love as true as mine

He's kneeling beside me, a small box in his hand.

"Clint, what...?"

Opening the box, he reveals a plain silver band. My eyes widen in disbelief as my eyes dart from him to the ring, my heart fluttering in my throat. He quirks an eyebrow. ["Want to make this thing official?"]

[morganbelarus]

‘Aquaman’ will find Aquaman experiencing Atlantis for the very first time

Come on in, the water's fine.

Image: Warner Bros.

Based on the latest Justice League trailer, it sure looks like Aquaman could be the scene-stealing breakout and the good news is that his newfound fans won't have to wait too much longer to see him fly solo. Swim solo, rather.

At Comic-Con today, Warner Bros. shared a little sneak peek at the first footage from Aquaman, starring Jason Momoa and directed by James Wan. And it looks... pretty cool, actually.

SEE ALSO: 'Wonder Woman' just blew past Batman, Superman and 'Suicide Squad' at the box office

The scene opens on a sleepy, little fishing trip. Two old men are in a tiny little boat, lazily throwing their lines into the water. Then one of them catches something something so big that it drags the entire boat with it. Eventually, the man lets go of his pole rather than get dragged into the water. He peers down into the ocean and gasps at what we see.

And so do we. The camera plunges underwater to reveal an entire fleet of manta ray-like ships, and shark-shaped watercrafts with people on them.

While the clip doesn't make clear whose ships they are, Momoa was more than happy to serve up that information later in the panel.

"You know what, I'm used to getting in trouble, so I'm gonna tell you," he told an audience member during the Q&A. "That's Ocean Master's army. Black Manta ain't got nothing like that, that's my brother. I'm fighting my brother." (For the uninitiated, Ocean Master, played by Patrick Wilson, is slated to be the big bad in this movie.)

Aquaman himself doesn't appear in the footage of Ocean Manta's fleet, but the footage cut to a quick look at him in what appeared to be a sunken ship. "I don't suppose you want to talk about this, do you?" he asks. "Neither do I."

As for what he looks like well, he looks basically like Jason Momoa with dripping wet hair. Which is to say he looks pretty rad.

In a video message from the Australia set, director James Wan explained that Aquaman would be an origin story of sorts. "I wanted the audience to experience Atlantis the first time Aquaman experiences it as well," he said. "This is epic storytelling, fun, adventures, romance, on the biggest canvas imaginable."

As for what Aquaman's like, perhaps Momoa's comments on his role in Justice League will offer some clues.

"Aquaman's not really accepted on land or on sea, so I guess he's hurt. He's sensitive. He covers it up. He's a big onion, and we're just slowly peeling it away. But inside, he's a big teddy bear," teased Momoa. "He comes through and he ends up joining the League, and it's the greatest thing that ever happened to him. He's loved and wanted."

Well, count us among those who love and want to see more of Momoa's Aquaman. Justice League arrives November 17, followed by Aquaman on December 21, 2018.

WATCH: Tim Burton's classic 'Batman' gets a homemade twist

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‘Aquaman’ will find Aquaman experiencing Atlantis for the very first time was originally posted by 16 MP Just news