#i know some fics have him as an archer. or as a medic/field medic

[isp-annafer]

Hey guys Hephaestus has glasses in the livestream animatic. I know its just for funsies (and also probably based on Jorge's dad, who was the singer), but you guys know what this means????

A possible canon explanation for Polites having glasses CAN be a 'gift of the gods' now, except not from Athena as some people have jokingly suggested. It can be from Hephaestus instead, lol.

(ALSO, recall how Hephaestus's brief argument was 'trust isn't given, it has to be forged', which can be an echo of Polites's philosophy, which was something like 'show trust, and be trusted in return'.

There's SOMETHING there that can be played with between two characters that didn't show up much in the musical. One more than the other.)

[anika-ann]

My Timid Hello, My Clumsy Goodbye (S.R.)

Type: one-shot, canon semi-compliant?

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Barton!reader    Word count: 8900 (...sorry)

Summary: You’re spending the evening and the night before your wedding with the two most important men of your life.

When the sun rises again, you’ll say your ‘I do’ in a close circle of friends and family. It’s not a goodbye to your old life and it’s not a hello to some enormous change; but you will no longer be a Barton. You will be a Rogers. Why not reminisce a bit? 

Warnings: mention of an abandoned baby, blood and injuries, alcohol, implied possibly rougher sex (nothing graphic) ...mature?, language, so much sappiness... let me know if I missed any

A/N: For what-is-your-backupplan-today 10th anniversary of CA:TFA challenge. Prompts in bold. Thank you for coming up with this wonderful theme and hosting this challenge! Long live CA:TFA!

A/N: Throughout the fic, you’ll find snippets of lyrics from SYML’s "Everything All At Once”. Honestly, the song has a completely different meaning to me, but tearing it out of context works for this story just fine :) When you’re done reading, I recommend the music video. It friggin’ broke me in the worst and best ways. Enjoy!

This is my hello This is my clumsy goodbye I'm putting my glass down I wanna remember tonight

Tony rented an island for you. Clint nearly passed out learning about it and grumbled for days about having a hard time to top that, which, no arguing, was understandable.

It was an incredibly extravagant thing to do, throwing around money that could have been used for a much more honourable cause, but you couldn’t complain. One should not look a gifted horse into mouth – and so you didn’t.

Because Tony Stark renting an island was his premature wedding gift. The fact that your brother bitched about not being able to top that, well, that was his problem. You were certain that deep down, he knew you didn’t need any fancy gifts like that.

Then again, Tony’s gift might have been epically overpriced, but not exactly unthoughtful; along with a private island came a private jet and you being literally flied under radar so no single paparazzi knew where you and America’s golden boy Steve Rogers would seal the deal with your ‘I do.’ So, you were everything but ungrateful to your friend that he succeeded at pulling off such covert operation; and frankly, this place was nothing short of wonderful.

The golden sand was pleasantly warm under your toes as you as you and Clint walked towards the two single beach chairs facing the ocean. Wearing bikini under the baggy t-shirt and a pair of shorts, sunglasses on top of your head, because why would you deprive yourself the gorgeous view of the sun beginning to set down, you followed your brother – not in blood but in every other sense – to the seats, allured by the view, the serenity and the cold sixpack in his hand.

You had already had a traditional bachelorette party with your girls – with the team, with your family. Natasha, Wanda, Pepper, Sharon and Maria. The night had been the perfect blend of what was considered typically feminine, dress up, fanciness and wine and gossip, and a fun night out with shots, dancing, karaoke and pool. That particular night sadly was interrupted shortly by an annoying photographer, but he soon understood it was not very clever to annoy three and a half Avengers or the CEO of Stark Industries for that matter.

Clint however… Clint deserved a special evening with you. With the rest of the team in various state of chilling out, scattered around the luxurious small houses and gorgeous beaches, you two were left the privacy such moment required.

Even if the special moment consisted of simple talking and drinking beer while watching the sun set, a symbolic end of one phase of your life – a phase that was undeniably tied to the famous and yet barely known archer, one of the seven defenders who rushed into the Battle of New York to save the Earth.

One of the seven had been your brother, having previously been controlled by the monster who brought an army from outer space; there was no questioning whether you would join the fight or not, no matter how you preferred the latter part of your field medic job title to the former.

Another of these brave people, as it turned out, was your future husband. A man you had met for the first time that day, but whom you didn’t hesitate to push back down when he got hit by a freaking alien weapon and stood up, wanting to shake it off as if it was nothing. Your medical training told you not to let him; and your stubbornness had been just a touch stronger than his that day.

Apparently, Steve found you always standing your ground to be one of your most endearing qualities.

What a fancy way to express it instead of simply calling you a stubborn pain in his ass.

“You’re lost in your head, Twinkie,” Clint hummed, playfully nudging your ribs with an elbow, bringing you back to the present.

Your nose automatically scrunched at the childhood nickname.

“You gotta stop calling me that, Bobo,” you retorted, a grin spreading on your face as it was his turn to grimace.

You knew it was nothing but an act and that he in fact loved that nickname, because it held so much sentiment, so many memories… as did his endearment for you.

Bobo had been your first word or so Clint always claimed. Obviously, you wouldn’t remember.

You wouldn’t remember your parents, having been only two days old when your mother left you with a damn circus which was in your hometown at the time. You couldn’t recall how you wouldn’t stop crying until you heard a seven-year-old Clint humming a lullaby for you, with silly replacements of lyrics that always made you laugh later on when you could understand them.

How he started calling you Twinkie, because he was a sugar addict and apparently, you were sweet and small and he liked you; so much that he soon appointed himself to be your brother, your bro, your Bobo.

Once you were older and learned that your involuntary nickname for him also meant ‘crazy’ in Spanish, you were sold to that Bobo endearment forever.

Including the night before your wedding.

“You keep zoning out on me, Kid. Getting cold feet?” Clint hummed, casually handing you a can of beer, opening it up for you.

You automatically reached out and took a sip, eyes fixed on the warm colour on the horizon. What a ridiculous question… but kind and caring, with a hidden promise of getting you out of here if you just asked. Your amazing, protective, crazy brother.

You couldn’t but smile widely, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

“You offering to kidnap the bride, Clint? I’d like to see you try. You were always better at trapeze than at being an escape artist.”

Clint scoffed. “Please. These are amateurs. I bet I could pull it off.”  

That drew a laugh from you.

“Are you calling the Avengers amateurs? Better yet, are you calling your wife an amateur?” you teased him, watching his face lose colour when he realized that he did exactly that. You leaned over and patted his thigh. “Don’t worry, Bobo. I won’t tell Nat.”

Clint visibly relaxed, but a shadow of worry twisting his expression.

“Seriously though. Where’s your head at, Kid?”

You just shrugged, smile resting on your lips as you wondered if you ever felt so relaxed. It went along well with the reminiscing of the past and despite the fact that tomorrow was a big day and you should probably be nervous, you weren’t. Not in the slightest, more like the opposite. You were giddy even; it dawned to you that nothing in your life had ever felt so right.

No moment in your life offered you such serenity to your heart, your shoulders free of any weight, body light as air.

“Just taking a trip down the memory lane. Thinking about how lucky I was to be dropped at your circus of all circuses of the world,” you grinned at Clint, your tone remaining completely serious.

Because you were being serious – words couldn’t express how grateful for everything that led to this moment you were. How grateful you were to your brother for watching over you, making sure you would always see the light of a new day, guiding you when you found yourself in a dark.

Clint didn’t react beside his fingers twitching and you knew he was giving you the chance to say what you needed to say.

“About how you taught me pretty much everything I know. About how while I might not be the best person in the world, my brother, who is the best brother ever, made me into a decent person and I owe him everything I am. And how I should probably feel guilty for tying myself to another guy who just swept in and whisked away your little sister.”

Clint stared at you, gulping as his eyes gradually filled with tears. You found yourself in a very cheesy moment, bordering on absurd and it was almost too much to handle – but Clint took a deep breath, cleared his throat and swallowed his tears.

“Well, that bastard did steal my greatest life achievement with way too little effort,” he remarked, voice cracking slightly, the image of him causing your eyes to burn as well even if his words made you both tear up and burst out laughing.

“Dammit, Clint, stop making me laugh and cry at the same time…”

“You started it!” he pointed his index finger at you accusingly, taking a large sip of his beer to drown his sentiment. “But for the record, you should not feel guilty. It’s not like you’re leaving me.”

“I know, but-“

“And if you were, you’d be leaving me in good hands.”

“That’s true, Natasha does have a grip on you and might keep you outta trouble-“

“She’s the one who gets me into trouble half of the time!” Clint cried out in protest and you would have argued if it wasn’t the truth.

But before he had met her, Clint was able to make up his own trouble just fine – he was more than half of a reason why while doing a bit of trapeze yourself, you also grew interested in medical care. Because who else than the little sister should treat her big brother’s wounds when he got too crazy?

“In all seriousness, I’m proud of you, Twinkie,” he said sincerely, one corner of his lips raised in a lopsided smile. “You’re entirely entitled to have your own life and if there’s one guy in this whole damn world I’m willing to trust to have you… well, I guess it’s that big blond dumbass.”

“He can be a bit dumb of ass occasionally, can’t he?” you mused lovingly. “I guess it’s right what they say… we do pick our partners similar to our parents, maybe not only in looks. I didn’t really have a dad, I had you, so…”

Clint sighed, smile widening, before it slipped from his face as he caught up on the not-so-hidden insult.

“Hey!”

You couldn’t but laugh at his shocked expression, accidently spilling a splosh of beer on the sand.

“Just… maybe make sure that even married, you still find time to hang out with your big dumb of ass brother every once in a while?” Clint suggested, sounding surprisingly vulnerable.

Your whole demander softened, a little pang of guilt stinging in your heart as he took your words too seriously – and at his worry.

“Clint… I will always find time for my amazing brother.”

“Well, you’re marrying a pretty amazing guy too, so, you know, I understand the dilemma…”

You snorted when he seemed to genuinely fawn over your future husband, shaking your head before downing the rest of your drink.

“As amazing as Steve might be – and gosh, he is, don’t get me started – you still own a pretty big chunk of my heart.”

“Good. You are a Barton at heart,” Clint hummed, pretending that a few tears didn’t roll down his cheeks, leaning towards you as his expression once again grew serious.

Your chest tightened. Oh no. He was gonna say something to make you cry too – as if you already weren’t at verge of crying, emotions bubbling under the surface.

“Clint-“ you warned him silently, but he spoke up anyway and you gulped, bracing yourself.

“Just… whatever happens tomorrow, you must promise me one thing. That you will stay who you are. Not a perfect housewife, but a good woman.”

That was not what you were prepared for, as touching as the sentiment was.

You burst out laughing, head thrown back, hands clutching at your stomach as it actually hurt with the sudden clench. Tears did spring from your eyes, a perfect blend of touched and infinitely amused at your brother’s words.

“Har, har, that’s what I get from trying to speak from heart…” Clint muttered grumpily and you willed yourself to calm your hitching breaths as you looked at him, the pout of his mouth causing you to cackle again.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just… I am moved, I really am. Thank you. But me? A perfect housewife? And you realize I’m marrying Steve Rogers, right? The epitome of a good man? He would probably threaten to sock me in a jaw if I tried to change into something I’m not just for his sake and actually sock me in my jaw if I turned into a bad woman.”

Clint’s eyebrows jumped, a smirk appearing on his face. “That’s a lot of punching.”  

“My thoughts exactly,” you agreed, reaching for another can, pausing when a thought occurred to you. “Just so we’re clear, I might turn into a bit of a housewife when we have kids, alright? And I want to be a good wife, a good partner to Steve, which is what I’m trying to do even now.”

“I mean, yeah, sure, wouldn’t expect anything less. But… just promise me you’ll stay you and that you’ll keep giving him a run for his money, keep him on his toes a bit,” Clint shrugged with a grin, drawing another chuckle from you.

You saw his point – and you fully intended to keep Steve on his toes. You had a good reason to believe that your future husband enjoyed when you did.

“Oh Clinton… I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He nodded contentedly, picking up another beer and raising it for a toast, his can clinking with yours.

“Cheers to that!”

A comfortable silence settled between the two of you then, a quiet joy wrapped in one moment; the sun ending its quest, the warm breeze in your hair, the waves whispering of a journey you were about to take off to. And all that with a wordless comforting presence of your family, ready to offer you a shelter if a storm rocked your boat and the wind caused you to lose course.

As your mind wandered, you had to laugh at yourself – it was almost as if you were raised by pirates and not circus performers. Perhaps it was the little bit of free cheeky spirit these life journeys had in common what brought the metaphor to your mind. It was a bit like working with the Avengers too, always on a road, adrenaline in your veins even as you mostly stayed on the jet, ready to assist them… yet here you were pondering that maybe, you were yearning for settling down a bit more.

“Cap wouldn’t punch you anyway, right?” Clint remarked, breaking the silence and you blinked yourself back into reality, taking a moment to figure out what he was talking about.

Oh. Right. Steve punching you if you changed yourself significantly for his benefit.

You smiled softly, heart swelling in affection when the answer to that question appeared obvious.

“No, he wouldn’t.”

“Good. He’d try once and I’d put an arrow straight between his eyes,” Clint promised darkly, almost causing you to choke at the sudden violent note. He quickly fixed it with a ramble, lightening the atmosphere yet again. “Minus training of course. He’s allowed to try in order to improve your hand-to-hand. Not that he would ever land a hand on you anyway. Always so soft on you…” he grinned, seemingly alright with that attitude if not slightly calling the big strong supersoldier out.

Oh you could be cheeky too alright if that was what your brother wanted.

“That you know of.”

A confused huh was the only reaction you got – that and a puzzled look.

“He’s always soft on me,” you repeated Clint’s words, turning to him, lips slowly spreading in a wicked smirk. “That you know of.”

Clint’s brows furrowed for a short moment and then his features twisted in a disgusted grimace, face growing a tint crimson.

“Gross!” he complained, more blood rushing to his cheeks. “You know what, I changed my mind. We’re leaving. You’re not marrying him. I’m kidnapping the bride and never returning her, locking her somewhere far far away-“

You snorted at his indignation, your grin undoubtedly battling the one of the Cheshire cat.

“No will do, Bobo. I’m marrying Steve and you can’t stop me.”

This time, Clint didn’t even protest, eyes misted over, nose still scrunched at the mental image, lamenting as the night slowly settled over the paradise-like island.

“Oh god, please help, I can’t unsee it, can’t unhear it--- ew-”

Your laughter was carried away by the breeze as Clint seemed to be unable to look at you.

You swung your beer around, thinking that yes – nothing quite ever felt so right as being here in this moment. Relaxing with your brother, teasing him relentlessly and counting down hours to when you’d say ‘I do’ to the only man who in your eyes ever battled the mantle of the best man in the universe.

In one unending moment You fall within my reach I'm close enough to whisper Hold on to me Hold on to me

You weren’t sure what time it was when you snuck into the beach house, one of few, which had been wisely chosen to be occupied by you and Steve only. You attempted to be quiet and liked to think you succeeded, in your even barely tipsy state, but your effort turned out to be in vain as you found Steve perched against headboard of your bed; reading a book, thin white t-shirt and sleep shorts on display as the soft sheet had been kicked away, scrunched up by his feet.

He was gorgeous – he was gorgeous and yours, a momentary picture perfect of peace, appearing to feel just as light as you did and somehow the dullness of the moment, just him relaxing in bed with a good read as you came home… it was more alluring than one would think.

Steve looked up from the book when you wavered in the doorway, soft lopsided smile spreading on his face.

God, that smile. It might be over two years since you saw it for the first time, but it could still make you weak in your knees.

And somehow, it was now even more charming now than the day you met, more tender than just before you kissed for the first time, sweeter than when he proposed.

“Hey sweetheart,” he greeted you, appreciative gaze roaming your figure and the little too much skin on display – something you regretted when the warm sunrays had bid you goodbye, raising goosebumps. And Steve, the attentive man he was, noticed, his smile earning a teasing edge. “You look a bit cold in there.”

You resisted the urge to stick your tongue out.

“And you look pretty cosy in there. Thought you’d be either asleep or with Bucky.”

Steve shrugged, not letting go of his unfinished chapter just yet, knowing you had a routine to go through before joining him.

“Maybe I missed you. Maybe Bucky is an old man and needs his sleep.”

You chuckled, not rising to the bait – you knew what would follow if you dared to say Steve was just as old. Not that you would complain about Steve trying to convince you about the opposite. You could never.

“Well, I bet he still made you a promise of breaking a bone of mine or two if I ever hurt you. He’ll find energy for that, centenarian or not,” you hummed nonchalantly as you bounced off the doorframe, heading to the bathroom and leaving Steve puzzled by your remark.

“How did you know?” he called out after you, endearingly confused.

“That’s what big brothers do, love!”

Short silence was your answer as you reached for your toothbrush and begun your nighty ritual.

Steve must have figure out what did it mean for him, considering you had a protective brother of your own, because a moment later, his half-amused “noted!” reached your ears.

You chuckled and shook your head, smile spread on your face which you didn’t think could be erased as long as you were in this paradise – free of worry, full of joy. And why wouldn’t you be? You were about to marry one of the smartest, kindest, sassiest and most beautiful men that ever walked the Earth. What was not to love?

You couldn’t but let your mind wander again; if you had only known the day you met, right from that moment, that you’d end up here…. well. It felt a little surreal, knowing that by this time tomorrow, you’d be Steve’s wife; then again, Steve’s life story was surreal enough on its own.

Who would have thought that the stubborn handsome man in the ridiculous suit and you, equally stubborn about you at least checking on the wound upon half-dragging him to a quiet corner in a middle of a battlefield, would grow so close?

It hadn’t been simple. Steve wasn’t the most open guy and while friendly enough, he wasn’t exactly offering his heart on his sleeve, not to strangers. But it hadn’t been too hard, once you were meeting on regular basis. Piece by piece he revealed his true colours and soon after he did… you started falling; hard and fast.

Not necessarily swooning, not on the outside at least; you were a professional, after all. The safety and the well-being of the team was your priority.

It was just too bad – or the best thing, you supposed – that Steve had the same goal as you with one significant difference; as far as he was concerned, the responsibility to look after his team sometimes excluded him.

Oh, was he wrong about that.

And boy, did you let him know you thought so. You still kept proving him wrong to this day and was planning on nurturing his own acknowledgement of his self-worth till your last breath…

“Get your ass in here, Steve!” you called out after him, slowly losing patience as you had tried asking politely the previous two times with no result but being dismissed.

The change of tone and language made his head snap to you from where he was talking to Sam, an offended scowl on his face.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Captain. Don’t be a stubborn jerk and get your ass in here so I can clean your cuts.”

A few months ago, you wouldn’t have been able to talk to him like that; to the great legend, Captain America. At least you certainly wouldn’t have called him his first name and maybe, just maybe, you’d be a little less crass. But now? He might be Captain America still, a hero who deserved all the good things for the sacrifices he made for the world’s safety, but first and foremost, he was just Steve to you.

A colleague, a teammate, a friend. You might not be a part of the team per se, not the way Clint, Natasha or Steve were, but you still belonged. And you were all friends.

Friends irritated each other sometimes and frankly, Steve was often battling with Tony for the mantle of the most infuriating one.

Friends also needed to call each other out on their bullshit by any means necessary when the time was right and now the time was as good as any.

Usually, Steve slipped through your fingers, because he was a supersoldier and the others weren’t, so their injuries took precedence; today, it was only Natasha, Sam and Steve, and the captain was the only one whom you hadn’t checked yet. And you knew there were things to check, the trickle of blood from his eyebrow probably the least of your concerns.

“I wouldn’t argue with her, Steve. She can be pretty stubborn. Clint wouldn’t stop complaining about it,” Natasha supported you from the pilot seat and you fought yourself so you wouldn’t grin at her in victory – it would only irritated Steve further. “She’s almost as bull-headed as you are.”

At that, your smile would have slipped. But honestly, she wasn’t wrong.

“Don’t I know it,” Steve grunted, sparing Sam another glance and when the Falcon himself beckoned to you as well, wordlessly asking Steve to get himself checked up.

The captain sighed irately, but made his way back to the separate and well-lit space of your examination room.

He didn’t try to hide his annoyance – in fact, he squared his shoulders and his steps sounded a bit loud for anyone to believe it was a coincidence. Also, the scowl of exasperation never left his otherwise handsome face.

“This is completely unnecessary. A stupid waste of time,” he hissed as he walked past you and you took a deep calming breath, exchanging an eyeroll with Sam before you disappeared from sight.

“Captain. I respect you and your position, but you say one more time that my job here is unnecessary and stupid, you’ll be looking for a new medic,” you retorted as he stripped the upper part of his uniform angrily, revealing his white-tank-top-clad torso.

Well, at least the fabric used to be white – now a blood stain the size of both of your palms was seeping into the material at Steve’s right side, gushing from what definitely appeared to be a knife wound.

You were gonna murder him one of those days... unless he got killed himself first.

“Seriously?!”

“It’s just a graze-” he started to argue but you cut him off when you tore the fabric away. He winced as some of the dried blood had acted as a glue, having stuck the cloth into the wound, and now was violently ripped off.

“Tr to insinuate again that I’m incompetent at recognizing what’s just a graze, Steve. I dare you. This is a cut wide and deep enough for stitches! Haven’t you had the serum, you could have been bleeding out to death on this table!”

“But I do have it-“

“Or for fuck’s SAKE, stop being a baby and let me treat the bloody gash in your right mesogastric area! The serum accelerates your healing, but it doesn’t make you invincible OR immortal as far as I know--- Jesus fucking Christ-!”

He bristled, taking a deep breath to fight back, but he never got the chance, because you started working and the words died in his throat. Surprisingly, inspecting the damage, poking around a knife wound that might have already begin to seal itself thanks to Erskine’s formula but had not been just a graze hurt and coincidentally, it pulled the rug from under his feet.

To his credit, Steve barely even hissed at the pain.

“Just so you know, I’ll be using the disinfection that stings worse,” you noted, voice dripping venom, because you were genuinely done with Steve’s bullshit.

You lied through your teeth though. You wouldn’t. No matter how infuriating Steve was and how difficult he made your life – causing you to fall for his stupid martyr ass and pine after him among other things – you would never purposely hurt him.

And he must have sensed that, because your remark didn’t earn you a murderous glare or a retort – much to your surprise.

In fact, Steve fell entirely quiet, watching you work without protest, not even objecting when you applied enough local anaesthetic to knock out an elephant and sewed the tissue together so it healed easier. He let you inspect the rest of his torso and bandage his ribs, vigorously shaking his head when you asked him if he was injured anywhere below the waist.

He observed you as you kept an eye on his face for any minute sign of pain he’d be hiding, but all you could see were his irises, startlingly bright blue, pools of honesty and something you had trouble decoding. He seemed… humbled almost. It silenced the anger inside you, the flames of rage – and fear for his well-being, if you were being honest with yourself – turning into a barely smouldering pile of ash.

When you moved on to his head, gently pushing away the strands which obscured the gash on his eyebrow, his eyelids slid shut. You knew how unpleasant facial injuries were, especially around one’s eyes and so you took care to be extra careful as you cleaned the wound and the area surrounding it, most definitely not using the stingy disinfectant.

Not that Steve could get an infection as far as you knew. It was more force of a habit than anything else… and it made you feel better. He had this idiotic mask of an invincible hero he put up sometimes and it drove you insane, because you knew he was only human, a beautiful kind soul, but god, could he be an ass.

“Almost done,” you whispered soothingly when you noticed his jaw tightening as you had to apply a bit more pressure to get a tiny piece of gravel from the cut. You certainly didn’t want that to stay under the newly healing skin.

The moment you retreated with the bloody gauze, Steve’s eyes were back on you, wide and regretful.

“I’m sorry,” he offered quietly, a genuine apology that sounded almost absurd after you two were hissing at each other like damn hellcats. “I didn’t mean to--- I’m sorry for being rude and ungrateful. Thank you for taking care of my injuries.”

One glance into those deep irises and benign hesitant smile and you were done for. How could you stay mad at him? Well, you were still mad at him for the absolute disregard of his own health, but… well. You also understood he felt like he needed to stay strong for the team and put them first and how he actually was in pain.

Pretty much everyone was a pain in the ass when in pain.

You sighed as you searched for few band-aid strips to cover the cut.  

“It’s alright, Steve. I’m used to old men being grumpy and not meaning things they say when they are,” you offered lightly and he hung his head with a chuckle, clearly not taking the old man remark personally – and understanding you were referring to your brother.

His smile was wider when he looked up again. “You shouldn’t have to be used to it.”

You shrugged, carefully slipping two fingers under his chin to angle his face so you could stick the strips over the wound.

“Well, I deserve it sometimes. I don’t mean to… to be overbearing and make you feel like you’re incompetent or something,” you added hesitantly, worrying your teeth over your lower lip as the tone you’d been handling him with caught up with you. Perhaps you could have been nicer.

You smoothened the stripes of band-aid, gulping as you felt Steve’s gaze boring into your face while you continued.

“I know you’re not incompetent. You’re very capable, you’re the best. It’s just… I still--- worry- for all of you. For the full-time Earth’s mightiest heroes. Silly, huh?” you muttered self-depreciatingly and when your eyes met, you were startled by the intensity he watched you with as you laid your fears bare in front of him, leaving you vulnerable. You swiftly looked away and dropped your hands. “Here, almost as good as new.”

A lump grew in your throat as you stripped your gloves, tossing them into the bin. Did you reveal too much? Didn’t it sound silly indeed as you said it out loud? Yes, you were all friendly with each other, but you were supposed to be a professional, focused on your task, not getting distracted by-

-by Steve gently grasping your wrist, causing your heart to skip a startled beat. Definitely not getting weak in the knees when you shot him a surprised glance and he just… brought your hand to his face, lips briefly skimming over your knuckles.

Jesus Christ, Lord have mercy with me.

“Don’t you ever apologize for caring. Don’t stop caring. Silly is the last thing I’d call it.”

Your cheeks felt like set on fire, stomach fluttering as well as your heart. You could feel the ghost of Steve’s lips on your skin, sending your heartrate sky-high, causing your head to spin a bit, your body hot all over.

Did he really—did he just-? And did it mean that… did it mean anything at all?

He let go of your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles, but held your gaze adamantly as he gave you a sad smile and rose to his feet, clearly ready to leave.

You, on the hand, stood there frozen, mind racing.

Why had he done that? Was he really just trying to express gratitude and say sorry for his previous behaviour? Because that was not the way it was supposed to be done, because such tenderness left you entirely bewildered. Was he trying to tell you he was somehow interested in something more than friendship? Was he just high from the anaesthetic, mind you, local one that was not supposed to mess with his brain? Was there any sign of a head injury you missed?

“Thank you, again,” he whispered softly, moving to sidestep you and your hand instinctively shot out, latching onto his forearm… gently.

You gulped, heart stuttering when he glanced at you, puzzled.

One part of you wanted to sink into the floor in embarrassment at your unwitting reaction. Another part of you observed him so closely that you would swear that there was another emotion in his eyes and it was neither apology nor gratitude. You wistfully hoped for longing, the same longing you felt when you were near him, sometimes distant and barely there, other times so acute it hurt.

With your stomach somersaulting in doubt, you willed yourself to raise your free hand slowly, purposely giving him a chance – Lord, please, don’t let him take it – to stop you before your palm settled on his cheek.

You were certain you experienced a small cardiac arrest when Steve not only didn’t avoid the touch, but actually leaned into it, gaze fixed on your face, eyes brighter and softer than you ever remembered seeing. Your gaze flickered to his mouth deliberately, throat turning dry. Too daring? He kissed you knuckles, surely you could reciprocate some affection?

Swallowing against your dry throat, you leaned in before you could change your mind and dropped the briefest peck to his lips, causing his eyelids to flutter shut.

Oh no. Oh no no no no, you totally crossed a line-

You went to retreat your hands from him, but the second you moved, his eyes were snapping open, hand covering yours on his face to keep it there, the other cradling your face and then there was a warm and soft sensation on your own lips as he seized them with his.

Your mind went completely blank save two single thoughts: Steve is kissing me. I really like that.

A small sound escaped you, a blend of surprise and contentment, breaking you from your trance and turning you into an actual participant of the pleasant and entirely unexpected activity.

You drew in a small breath, head spinning from the scent of Steve’s shampoo, disinfectant, sweat and something you couldn’t quite put your finger on and not caring.

He tasted faintly of blood, but otherwise was nothing but sweet as his lips caressed yours, gently tugging at your lower lip and then the upper, the lightest graze of teeth and tease of tongue, finger pressing into your jaw to pull you closer, thumb stroking your cheek.

You whimpered involuntarily when his lips parted from yours, soothing as they returned for a short peck, to drop a brief kiss to the corner of your mouth, to brush your cheek.

Your name was a breathy whisper between the two of you, barely audible as all you could hear was your heartbeat pulsing frantically in your ears, growing aware of your fingers clutching at Steve’s still unzipped armour and nearly sinking in his hair, his hot breath tickling your skin.

You didn’t dare to open your eyes – what if you dreamed it up? What if you looked at him and saw regret – it didn’t feel like he would be regretting it, but… still. Insecurity tugged at your mind as it slowly cleared from the literally breath-taking kiss.

Steve repeated your name with urgency that was unheard of, the single word sounding almost as a plea.

“Please say something.”

Oh.

You blinked your eyes open, surprised to be met with his searching gaze, a minute furrow of his brows. It seemed you weren’t the only one whose mind was being the worst of one’s enemies.

Perhaps your brain was being stupid. Perhaps you both wanted this. Perhaps you felt exactly the same.

As you forced yourself to move, fingers actually slipping into his hair to caress his nape, Steve inhaled shakily, shoulders slumping. The tinniest of smiles tugged at his mouth, tempting red and minutely swollen from the kiss; you had to resist the urge to just taste it again.

Instead, you licked your lips only, savouring the previous sensations, smiling unwittingly.

“That’s… uhm, that’s a really creative new way of driving me crazy.”

Steve’s eyebrows rose along with one corner of his mouth, relief written all over his face.

“Oh? There are other ways in which I’m driving you crazy? Because I couldn’t tell...”

You narrowed your eyes, but you didn’t think he bought you unconvincing act of being irritated with him at such remark.

“Don’t push it, Captain,” you warned him, but your treacherous mouth kept curling up in a smile, your body still buzzing with aftershocks of the kiss.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Uh-huh… s-sure,” you stuttered briefly as his thumb caressed your cheek, bright smiling eyes watching only inches from your face – and yet it felt like he was too far.

“You’re driving me crazy too, you know,” he noted in a breathy voice, causing you to gulp as his gaze flickered to your mouth, clearly implying how you do so… among other ways… like your stubbornness practically matching his.

“Oh really? I do? I couldn’t tell…”

He chuckled, his hand slipping to your nape, soft tickle of his fingers making you squirm.

“I’m gonna kiss you again now if that’s okay,” he whispered, not waiting for your permission and erasing the distance between your lips again.

Still, you whispered your approval to his mouth.

“So okay…”

Long moments later when Sam called out to warn you that you’d be landing soon, you said yes to the grumpy old man’s request to let him treat you dinner.

Oh if you only knew by then how far you’d come…

Lost in thought, goofy smile on your face, you exited the bathroom, ready to snuggle your future husband… and to fully take the opportunity to make love, last night before you officially became his and he became yours.

You had a brief second to register that the bed was empty, your heart skipping a started and disappointed beat. The second you stepped out though, you were literally swept off your feet.

A yelp erupted from your throat as you found yourself with no ground under your feet and high in the air, one of Steve’s arms under your knees, the other under your back. Your hands frantically gripped at the nearest firm point, Steve’s shoulder and arm as you finally realized what the hell happened and was met with a cheeky grin and sparkling blue of his eyes.

That traitor was waiting just by the door to ambush you! Why?

You slapped his very much bare shoulder playfully, hissing a curse, not unaware of the heat radiating of him and seeping into your skin.

“You jerk! You almost gave me a heart attack!” you complained, but he didn’t even have the decency to look apologetic.

“Sorry, sweetheart.”

“No, you’re not.”

Steve grinned wider, shrugging and pulling you closer to his torso, nuzzling your temple and dropping a placatory kiss there.

“Still looking a little cold.”

“No, I look like this because you scared me,” you emphasized, vainly trying to resist the seduction; a mixture of playfulness, sweetness and blatant display of strength as he still held you with ease. It was hard not to be temped. “And you look like you’re awfully warm, parading here without a shirt.”

“Well, I’d call us even since you’re parading around in these absolutely sinful shorts. Makes me hot. I can warm you up,” he mumbled to your skin, lips moving to your ear, causing you to shudder.

How was it so easy for him to make you all hot and bothered? You guessed that at least, as he said, it made you even... it wasn’t difficult to get him riled up either.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Driving you crazy?” Steve offered, sounding awfully delighted at the idea and you only melted into him further at the reminiscence of your first kiss and what followed.

“Always,” you confirmed, deadly serious, but you couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corners of your lips or the mewl that escaped you when his teeth grazed the shell of your ear, warm breath tickling the sensitive skin of your neck.

“But you love it.”

“Uh-huh…”

“I can live with that with that then,” he said, stalking to the bed determinately. “Now let me drive you so crazy you can barely speak and the only sound you’re making is whimpering my name.”

He all but tossed you on the bed, a yelp of his name in fact erupting from your throat, followed by a fit of giggles that only died when his mouth seized yours, his lips only leaving when heading south to indeed drive you crazy.

And yes; you loved it.

And you loved him too.

In one unending moment I fall within your reach My song a sweet surrender Hold on to me Hold on to me

Before the girls could steal you from him, Steve decided – with your enthusiastic agreement – that you should once again try how it felt to make some morning lovin’ outside marriage. With the ceremony planned for the late afternoon, you had plenty of time; and needless to say, it was bliss. Then again, you believed that marital sex with Steve would be just as delightfully pleasant, thank you very much.

Then, it was a whirlwind – make up, hair, dress, a tear or two spilled when you saw the result in the mirror.

More tears spilled when you glanced out of the window and saw the tastefully and modestly decorated arch, the path created by few scattered rose petals, the male part of your almost family sans Clint in the suits, effectively hiding Steve from you; and you from his just in case, because no one wanted any bad luck.

Your staring was interrupted when your brother went to pick you up to lead you down the aisle.

Upon entering the room and setting his gaze on you, he promptly looked away with a sniffle. It both warmed your heart and made you laugh as did his remark.

“Nope, not giving you to him. In fact, I’m never giving you to anyone. No one will ever be worthy, so I’m keeping you.”

“Hush, Clinton, you’ll still have me,” Natasha winked at him as he took a deep calming breath before carefully eyeing you again.

Clearly, it hadn’t done the job, because few tears still found their way down his cheeks.

“You’re a knock-out, sis,” he sputtered hastily, but no less honestly – clearly moved to tears.

And yet… you snorted at his choice of words and he rolled his eyes, quick to compliment your beauty instead.

You wouldn’t have it any other way though, even appreciating his first remark more for it came from the bottom of his heart rather than from what convention required.

Embracing you carefully in fear he would mess up the work of art his wife and other girls created, he held you in his arms for a moment, as you retuned the hug, clutching at his suit with a little too force. From the corner of your eye, you noticed the bridesmaids clearing the room.

“It’s not like I’m leaving you, Bobo,” you hummed with a smile, throwing his own words from last night at him.

And you weren’t leaving him; your heart swelled with love for your brother, your father figure, your long-life friend.

With sniffle, he let go of you and looked you up and down, proud smile spreading on his lips.

“It’s okay. If you are, I have the best spy in the world for a wife, we’ll drag your ass back home.”

You just slapped his chest playfully and took a deep breath – it was time. Clint grasped your hand firmly then, elbows interlocking, and went to step out just a moment after the bridesmaids left to join the groomsmen.

Well-aware everyone was going to stare and that Steve awaited you at the end of the aisle to marry you, your legs were shaking minutely as the magnitude of the event finally dawned to you.

“Getting second thoughts now?” Clint teased you, eliciting a chuckle from you and shake of your head.

What a question.

“No. Just… please don’t let me fall,” you muttered to him, entirely serious and grateful for your choice of footwear – simple flats hidden by the long flowing skirt of your dress. Better chance of not spraining your ankle on your wedding day.

“Never.”

Clint squeezed your hand under his warm palm and you took a deep breath, stepping into the doorway. Soft melody welcomed you, your very own wedding march Bruce was playing on a mouth organ – something you had previously had no idea he was capable of.  

Looking up from your skirt, you feasted your eyes on the company and the beautiful scenery for only a regretfully short moment, grateful for Sam’s Redwing programmed to record and take photos.

Your gaze instinctively searched the small crowd instead, until it fell under the arch where three men stood.

One of them was Sam himself, having obtained a licence so he could be your wedding registrar; he looked positively dashing. So did Bucky, who patted his best friend dressed in his old-fashioned green captain uniform on the shoulder, his smirk visible even from tens feet away as he stepped back.

Naturally, your gaze lingered on Steve, your feet acting of their own accord and following your brother’s lead.

Gosh, your future husband was the most handsome and absolutely hottest specimen to ever walk the Earth. Hair combed neatly to one side and in his old army uniform, he truly looked like the gentleman from another era he was and yet, he undeniably belonged exactly where he was. His eyes were bright and blue just like the sky, lips slightly parting before curling up into a brilliant smile which somehow still carried the tenderness he treated you with when he felt particularly affectionate.

He must have uttered something under his breath, because Bucky pressed his lips together as if he was holding back laugh. The absolutely best best man, ladies and gentleman.

Your found yourself smiling just as widely, a stray tear tickling the corner of your eye and you had to fight the sudden urge to ditch Clint in order to gather your skirts and run the rest of the way just to jump into Steve’s arms.

But in reality, there was no rush – here, on the damn island Tony rented, there was so much time that one short walk meant nothing in comparison.

“Alright, maybe I’ll give you to him,” Clint whispered, making you bite the inside of your cheek so you would cackle.

Leave it to your brother he would find Steve Rogers so fine he’d be willing to give you out just to have him become a part of your family.

One corner of Steve’s lips twitched in amusement – supersoldier hearing didn’t miss the remark then. Good. Then Bucky heard it too and you had a witness just in case Clint would change his mind. Again.

Finally, with your heart almost in your throat, you reached the end of the aisle, Clint gently putting your hand into Steve’s… without letting go.

“You be nice to her, Cap. And I mean really nice, you hear? Or else-“

“Hush,” you hissed good-naturedly in your brother’s direction, winking at him before you returned your gaze to Steve. “Hey there, handsome.”

Steve chuckled under his breath when Clint stepped back. He returned the greeting with soft ‘hey there, beautiful’ and then proceeded to lift your joined hands, brushing your knuckles with his lips – just like the day you shared your first kiss.

Well now you truly found yourself on the verge of crying. And Lord, you wanted to kiss him so much-

Sam cleared his throat loudly, casting you both a meaningful look as if he could read your mind and wanted to remind you that there were a few things to go through before that could happen.

Ugh. Formalities. Just let me kiss him…

Steve licked his lips – the audacity! – and turned, lightly tugging at your hand so you both faced your friend who held a little leather book open, beckoning towards the guests: Bucky and Natasha, the best man and the best woman, Clint, Bruce, Tony, Vision, Wanda, Sharon, Pepper. Just your closest friends and family.

Sam cleared his throat again.

“Alright. We all know why we gathered here today. To get these two amazing people married, so they could officially become a special team within our team.”

You grinned, peripherally noticing Steve eyeing you as well. Team indeed.

“This is the part where I would ask all of you, bride and groom included, to speak up now if you’re aware of anything standing in the way of this wedlock or to remain silent forever. But frankly, if you have something to say, right now is the perfect time to keep it to yourself. Just let these lovebirds get married…”

Muffled laughter and giggles erupted from your group. Honestly, you wouldn’t say it better. You noticed Clint shifting and Natasha forcefully holding his hand down; you bit down on your lip so you wouldn’t laugh and sent her a grateful smile instead. The best maid of honour ever.

“Good, that’s what I wanted to hear, folks. We have the rings, correct? Great. Just so you know, these two saps asked me to read one vow which they are making to each other, because they didn’t trust themselves to say theirs individually without bursting into tears. So now it’s left to me to cry instead. Thanks for that.”

Your cheeks were honestly starting to hurt from smiling so wide, but tears prickled in your eyes acutely just at the thought of the vow you agreed on. You spent countless hours thinking about what you wanted to say and realized that your vow would be too long and that you would in fact start crying and that you could never name all the things you loved Steve for. It had been a relief to find out that Steve shared the sentiment and the deal was made.

Natasha and Bucky dutifully laid the rings on the pillow Wanda’s powers held levitating by your and Steve’s side – not without Bucky finding a split second to compliment your appearance and earning a brief smirk from Steve.

“I know,” Steve uttered and you wondered if there was a dare going around as to who would make you burst out laughing first.

This was your wedding dammit. You could be at least a bit a lady and remain collected.

Hardly.

“With this ring,” Sam started, breathing in and out and you knew you already lost, first tear rolling down your cheek as you gazed into Steve’s inviting eyes, “I give myself to you without giving up myself. With this ring, I surrender to you for I have faith you understand the value of wielding such power and for I deem you worthy of it. With this ring, I promise to love you, to respect you and to support you to be your best self as I trust you to do the same for me, for us.”

You blinked away the waterfalls, reaching almost blindly for Steve’s ring and with fingers trembling – with giddiness, not nerves – you somehow succeeded at slipping it on his left ring finger.

“I do,” you whispered, your voice cracking even in such simple sentence and the watery smile Steve graced you with made your ribcage feel too small for your swelling heart.

Fingers equally clumsy, he slipped a ring on you as well, shoulders squaring as if in pride.

“I do,” he said firmly, the damp path down his left cheek only adding severity to his vow.

“You may-- uhm, okay, you may kiss the bride, your wife--- I mean, Mrs. Rogers. You may kiss the groom, your husband…” Sam mumbled under his breath until he didn’t, because Steve pulled you in for a kiss the same moment Sam said the first ‘may’ and incidentally, the same moment you practically threw yourself at Steve.

Laughter and whistles erupted from the group of your friends as Steve bend you back dramatically, the determined press of his lips to yours not at all disrupted by the change of angle, claiming your mouth in ways that made you shudder and stirred flames in your belly.

Years and years later, you’d recall that kiss and realized an amazing thing; how it felt just like your first kiss, your last one, and every single one in between.

With you still practically horizontal, Steve’s crinkling eyes met yours, delighted smile on his kiss-swollen lips.

“I love you, Mrs. Rogers,” he hummed, adding a cheeky grin. “You’re stuck with me now.”

“The horror,” you muttered back teasingly, pulling at his nape, demanding another kiss, your own declaration whispered to his mouth. “I love you too, Mr. Rogers.”

And you did. Gosh, you did.

S.R. masterlist

(divider by firefly-graphics)

Well. This turned out SO DIFFERENTLY than I anticipated and SO MUCH LONGER. If you feel like leaving feedback, I’ll be grateful. If not, well. *shurgs*

Excuse me while I go and continue dreaming of ONE fictional man. Ugh. Anyway.

Thank you for reading!

And once again, thanks to WIYBUPT for hosting and for just being awesome in general :)

[perfectpaperbluebirds]

@sicktember #1

Prompt # 1: Fever

Title: Damn Nick Fury

Fandom: Avengers/MCU

To kick Sicktember off, I'm starting with some classic Avengers sickfic. This is actually part of a longer work that I posted many moons ago on AO3. Still one of my favorite whump fics that I've written.

Clint Barton breathed slowly and deeply as he drew back his bow, sighting in his next target. He was so far unnoticed by the cultists they were fighting, perched high in a tree as he was. Below, Natasha was baiting and dodging them with ease, dispatching one every now and then to keep them occupied. Clint's task was to pick them off as she did so.

Another arrow met its mark.The archer sniffled wetly as he reloaded while cold water continued to trickle down the back of his collar. He had made Fury aware a day or so ago that he had a mild cold, as was his duty as an assassin. If he wasn’t at one hundred percent, his commander needed to know. However, Fury had insisted he and Nat take this mission, since no one else was available. The soaking rain they encountered when they arrived was unexpected. However, it turned out the rain had actually made it easier to obtain the objective of this particular mission. Meanwhile though, it was making Clint thoroughly miserable. Compared to other missions it was going quickly, but the five hour stakeout leading up to the current fight had not been pleasant in the continuous downpour, even up in a tree.

Wiping his nose on his shoulder, Cint again loosed an arrow. Only five more cultists to go. Then they could loot the bunker, get the map they needed, and go home. A drip of water hit him right in the eye, and he growled to himself, inwardly cursing Fury. He had started to shiver an hour ago, though he made sure his hands were steady as ever. He couldn’t wait to take a long, hot shower and sleep for at least twelve hours. He only needed to hold out a little longer.

The tickle in his throat had gradually become a low, irritating ache. He coughed softly. The sound did little to make his throat feel better, but it did make the nearest cultist look up at him. Before the man could do anything other than widen his eyes, Clint’s arrow ended him expertly.

Hawkeye sighed wearily. Four more to go.

~~~~~~~~~~

Thirty-six hours later, Clint and Natasha were relaxing on the couch in Avengers Tower. Natasha had her legs tucked up under her and was reading a book while Clint had his head pillowed in her lap with his arm flung over his eyes. Suddenly, his breath hitched warningly. Natasha lifted her arm in a practiced way to give him room to turn and bury his face into a tissue:

"HehyYIIZSHHhoo! hihtESHHHiew!"

She looked down at him with an irritated sound. "That is the third time you've sneezed in as many minutes. I'm making zero progress in this book. You're going to be finding yourself a new pillow in a minute here. Plus I'll kill you if you get me sick."

He sniffled wetly and blew his nose before replacing his head in her lap with a weak cough. "Aww, you would ndever kill mbe, 'Tash. I'mb the only one who puts up with your crap. But I'mb sorry. I can'dt help the sneezing. It's mbaking mbe mbiserable too if that helps."

She sighed in an annoyed way, but couldn't help looking down at him fondly. "You're lucky I know you well enough to understand what you're saying. And you're also lucky that it just so happens to be true that we tolerate each other better than most, so you're safe from assassination for now."

"Blame Fury. This cold wasn't so bad until I had to sid oud id the rain for hours." He sniffled thickly again, barely turning his head away as he followed it up with a cough.

Natasha made a face, swatting his shoulder lightly. "You're gross. Cover your mouth when you cough. And I don't *have* you let you lay here, you know. You have a perfectly comfortable bed only a short elevator ride away."

" 'm cold though. And if I go ubstairs there's ndo one to mbake mbe tea." He swiped at his reddened nose with the tissue, trying to look extra pitiful.

"You're extra whiny when you're sick. Not a good look on you, Hawk." She carded her fingers once through his hair. "And you're just cold because you're a little feverish."

Instead of replying, Clint halfway sat up again and brought a tissue to his nose, breath scissoring and nostrils flaring.

Natasha groaned as Clint once more exploded into a sneezing fit:

"Gihh-ESSHHshuuu! hehKSHHHshuu!" He coughed, then sneezed again: "ERRSHHhuh! Hih'EZSHHyue! --guhhh." Clint miserably rubbed the space between his eyebrows, slowly lowering himself once again to Natasha's lap.

"Apparently my partner has managed to catch the world's sneeziest cold. How did I get so lucky?"

Once again Clint was kept from replying as Natasha's communicator began to ring. She glanced at the screen, then at Clint.

"It's Fury," she warned.

Clint quickly sat up. She answered the device, turning it so they could both see. Fury's single eye met theirs, looking as serious and commanding as ever.

"Good, you're both here. Barton… your nose looks red. How are you feeling?"

"Aboud the sabe I guess. Sneezy."

"And feverish," Natasha said with a warning look at her partner.

"How feverish?"

"Ndot very. One hundred or so," Clint mumbled.

"That's… not ideal. But I don't have any other option… if at all possible, we need you both out in the field again ASAP. We've discovered a small Hydra base, but it's a crucial one. Some of their brainiest goons are posted there, working on something big. From some communication we intercepted, it sounds like their project is almost finished. I need eyes out there immediately. Recon only for now. Think you can handle that?"

The assassins glanced at each other. "We're good to go," said Clint firmly, though the sore-sounding rasp in his voice betrayed him slightly.

"I hope so. Don't disappoint me. I expect you in the air in an hour or less." With that their director ended the call.

Barton and Romanov glanced at each other once more, this time with a weary sigh from Clint before they stood and went to get ready.

~~~~~~~~~~

"Barton! What's your situation?"Natasha's voice crackled over the com.

"Being... chased by three. Heading... to the roof… of the base," Clint gasped around labored breathing.The metal steps made a sharp clanking noise as the archer sprinted up them, nocking an arrow as he went.

"Can you handle them on your own?"

"We'll… see...," he panted, sweat rolling into his eyes. "Backup… would be nice...."

"I'll be there as soon as I can. I've got 4 of my own. Hang in there, Hawk!" The line went dead for the time being.

"I'm gonna … kill Fury…," he mumbled breathlessly as he reached the roof. He darted to the far side of the area and spun around, taking a knee and aiming his bow at the stairway he had just vacated. The sounds of the three Hydra agents sprinting up behind him were unmistakable, but he was as ready as he was going to be.

"This was supposed to be... an easy recon mission, but noooooo…. It's another... full-on assault," he continued to mumble, trying to catch his breath as the shouting on the stairs got louder.

As an extra stroke of bad luck, it was pouring rain here too. Clint flipped the water out of his eyes with a toss of his head, his hair and clothes hanging on him limply. He hadn't stopped shivering since they'd gotten off the jet. His teeth were now chattering and his fingers were blue with cold. His throat was absolutely burning now, raw and inflamed, the pain exacerbated from running. He couldn't suppress a hoarse barking cough just as the first baddie poked his head through the opening. Clint dispatched him immediately, but the two still coming up were not dissuaded.

The second goon got lucky. Clint's hand slipped on the bow a fraction, and the Hydra agent got hit in the shoulder instead of the heart. The archer knew he was in trouble now. With trembling hands, he managed to kill number three with a final arrow, but the one he had wounded, by far the biggest of them all, continued to advance menacingly.

Hand-to-hand combat was evidently imminent. On any other day Clint could have made short work of this, but this miserable, feverish cold had him operating at around fifty percent capacity and falling. Clint pulled out his knives with shaky hands and another rasping cough. When his opponent was a foot away, Clint tried to leap up to get in the first hit. Instead he slipped and staggered, and the Hydra agent's fist, with all of his weight behind it, caught him in the ribs. Clint heard a dull cracking sound as he was flooded with pain, but he couldn't pause. He spun and ducked, trying to avoid the worst of the blows while trying to get in some of his own. At least ⅓ of his opponent's swings met their target though, and in minutes Clint was battered and bruised, barely clinging to consciousness.

He knew he only had enough stamina for one more try. In a split second, while the Hydra agent was off-balance winding up for another swing, Clint leapt once more, and at last his knife met its mark.

As the baddie crumpled to the ground, so did Hawkeye, wheezing weakly, every breath agonizing. He activated his com as his vision threatened to gray out:

"Roof... clear. Good...Nat?"

"All clear down here too. Mission complete. Nice job, Hawk. Let's turn this bunker inside out and go home."

"Mmph."

"You good, Barton?" she asked, concern suddenly in her voice.

"Gonna need... medevac… Won't… make it down… stairs…."

If Natasha replied, he did not hear her. He let his head fall against the cool, wet metal and let the grayness overtake his vision.

~~~~~~~~~~

48 hours later found Clint lying on a bed in S.H.E.I.L.D. medical with broken ribs and and a confirmed case of pneumonia. He was drifting in and out of consciousness from the drugs they were giving him, but his ears perked up when he heard Natasha arguing with someone nearby.

"He's stable. Not on oxygen. Fever is controlled. He can tolerate oral meds. There's no reason he needs to stay. I promise you, he won't recover while he's here. You need to discharge him home."

The haughty-looking orderly she was speaking with huffed angrily, muttering about shortness of breath and heart rate and changing oxygen requirements.

Clint let himself drift off again to the sound of their voices, trusting his partner to deal with the situation. A cool hand on his cheek awakened him a little while later. He blearily opened his eyes to meet Natasha's, for of course it was she that had roused him.

"We're busting you out of here," she whispered with a little smile. "They're bringing a wheelchair now."

"Thangk god," Clint groaned. "And thangk *you*, 'Tash. You're a lifesaver."

"Eh, you've saved my life plenty of times too. I think we're pretty even."

It took some maneuvering to get a very breathless, battered, and achy Clint out of the bed and into the wheelchair, but they managed it with minimal damage. Once he was settled in the chair, Natasha wheeled him away to their rooms.

Inside Clint's suite, they again had to coordinate getting him from the chair to his bed. Natasha was grateful Clint's pain tolerance was high, because she knew the transfer was far rougher without the assistance of the medical staff. He didn't make a sound throughout the process however, though his face was drawn in pain. As soon as he was settled though, he let out the breath he'd been holding in a rush, which quickly became a nasty coughing fit. He had trouble catching his breath for several moments even after the fit ended. He gasped and wheezed and clutched his ribs, sweaty and reddened and miserable. Natasha could only watch helplessly, stroking his hair to try to help him relax.

"Damn Fury," he croaked weakly when he could finally speak. "This fugcking sucks. "

"Language, please. But I can't argue with you there."

"I'mb gonna kill himb for sending me od thad mission."

"I think he got his just desserts since now his best archer is out of commission for a few months. But at least it seems like the sneezy part of your cold is better."

"You h- had to s- hih- say sumbthing, dih- dn't you?" Clint croaked, gingerly bracing his ribs as his breath scissored and his red nose twitched:

"Gih'tsschh! Ghhnxt'chf! Oh Fugck. Ow! Ow ow ow...." Clint groaned, gritting his teeth, eyes squeezed shut in pain. "Not doing that again."

"Yeah, stifling is probably not wise. Poor sick guy," Natasha murmured, carding his hair with her fingers as they waited for Clint's pain to subside.

After a moment, Clint opened one eye, looking suspicious. " 'Poor sigck guy?' Who are you and what have you done with mby partner?"

Natasha smirked as she sat on the edge of his bed. "Would you prefer I call you a whiny asshole?"

"Yes. Maybe. I dunno," Clint mumbled with a weary sigh and a grimace of pain as he exhaled.

"Well too bad for you, because right now *my* partner is sick and miserable and I plan to baby him at least a little until he's feeling better."

"Guess I'mb nodt complainig," Clint mumbled, stifling a cough, which only made him clutch his ribs in pain. "Hurts whed I cough. Hurts whed I try not to cough. Fugck me."

"Language, seriously. But what can I do to help? You need water, food, drugs, anything?"

"Nodt hungry or thirsty. Too sood for drugs. I just want to sleeb, 'Tash."

"That sounds like a good plan. I'll leave you be then. But I'll be back to check on you soon." She stood up right away, fussing around and tidying up his nightstand area before moving toward the door.

" 'Tash?"

She turned expectantly.

" 'm still cold," he mumbled thickly, looking pale and weary now.

Her face softened affectionately. "Well you're still running a fever, hotshot. You're gonna feel cold."

He groaned pathetically. She moved to his side once more.

"Aww, you're shivering," she murmured, stroking his cheek.

"Told you, I'mb freezing…."

She sighed, looking at him fondly. "Is this you trying to say that you need some extra body heat in bed with you for a while?"

He looked at her pleadingly.

"Okay, okay, no more puppy eyes. I'm coming. But if you get me sick--"

"I know, I know, you'll kill mbe. I'll try ndot to share."

"That's all I ask." She kicked off her shoes and slid into bed beside him, doing her best to jostle around as little as possible. They carefully arranged themselves so that Clint was tucked against Natasha, most of his weight resting against her, while her weight was against the stack of pillows behind them. This position seemed to cause the archer the least pain, and in fact he relaxed against her right away, his breathing deepening.

" I'mb sorry I'mb so warmb. You'll probably swelter," mumbled Clint sleepily.

"It's not the first time I've slept with you when you're running a fever, and I'm sure it won't be the last. As long as you're warm enough."

"Am now," he breathed, nearly asleep.

"Then that's all that matters to me."

[lilfellasblog]

King Roman and the Fake Harem

Summary: King Roman has enemies directly outside his walls, pressure from inside his walls to get a harem, and no solution in sight. Until he sees the solution has been right under his nose the entire time. This is the story of how an aroace King gets a harem of advisors.

A/N: If you liked this, please reblog. It is the only way to help this fic reach a wider audience.

TW: Two brief instances of sexual harassment, one instance of groping, swearing (because Virgil), and people sneering at sex workers/ presumed sex workers.

Word count: 2385

AO3 here!

Fic Masterlist here!

King Roman sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Ugh, give me a few hours to think of something,” he groaned.

His lead advisor that he’d inherited from his father, who Roman refused to refer to as anything but Orange, protested “But sir, we need a decision soon. It’s already been a week since enemy troops positioned themselves just outside our walls, and we’ve done little besides ask them to leave. That, on top of your lack of harem-”

“I’ll have something for you in two hours, regarding the troops,” Roman said, waving Orange away.

Orange huffed and spun on his heel, leaving the throne room grumbling. Roman brushed a hand over his face. A week into being king and the enemy decides to attack? The nerve!

“You know, if you roll out the catapults to the front gate, that would take care of the troops outside the walls on that side, and then you could concentrate your archers on the rear of the kingdom walls.”

Roman looked over to the side of his throne. Sir Virgil had been his best knight, until he’d been shot by an arrow that had permanently damaged his shoulder. That was 4 weeks ago, he was still in a sling, and ever since he’d been released from the medical wing he’d been making his lack of work everyone else’s problem.

Roman raised an eyebrow. “And just how would you propose moving the catapults from the armory down 100 feet of stairs to the front entrance, hm?”

Sir Virgil shrugged. “Ramps.”

Roman stopped short. Oh, he’s smart. “...very well.” He appraised Virgil. He’ll never be able to be a knight again and he needs something to do, and he’s not too unfortunate-looking… “How would you like a job?”

/////

Virgil adjusted the silks that hid exactly nothing of his upper body so they’d sit comfortably over his still-bandaged arm and shoulder. He was about to join his first ever advisor meeting, and he was beyond nervous. He’d been rather enjoying his life as the first member of Roman’s harem (that so far hadn’t even resulted in a single flirtatious remark, which Virgil wasn’t complaining about but he was certainly confused by), and he didn’t want to do anything to fuck it up.

“Ready?”

Virgil jumped and hissed through his teeth as his shoulder was jostled by the sudden movement.

Roman was frowning. Before Virgil could apologize, Roman asked, “Are you alright? I can have a healer come over. If you’d prefer to sit out this meeting and rest, that would be a more than acceptable course of action.”

Virgil was stunned. “Huh?”

Roman nodded at him. “Your shoulder, it seems to be causing you pain.”

“Oh! It’s not too bad, I’ll be fine. Still getting used to not moving it too much.”

Roman laughed. “Yes, that I have been witness to. Are you ready?”

“Yeah. Do I need to walk, like, meekly or whatever?” Virgil asked, cheeks already heating up at the future humiliation.

A look of disgust came over Roman. “No, I wouldn’t expect that of anyone under my employ.”

Virgil let out a breath. “Alright, cool cool.”

The meeting started out as expected, a few snickers from his former co-workers who were still knights, but nothing Virgil couldn’t ignore. Virgil recognized Orange by his blaze orange ensemble that hurt his eyes (no wonder Roman refused to give Virgil his actual name). When it came time to discuss military tactics, Roman spoke first.

“I would like to introduce my military advisor, Sir Virgil. Sir Virgil, if you would, please announce your strategy for driving off the enemies.”

Before Virgil could get a word out, Virgil’s former boss blurted out, “You’re trusting your military strategy with a common whore?!”

Virgil levelled him with his best death glare. “Call me that again and I’ll cut off your balls and shove them down your throat.”

Only Virgil was close enough to hear the King swallow his laughter at the general’s paling face. Roman cleared his throat and spoke.

“To answer your question, yes. Sir Virgil, if you wouldn’t mind continuing?”

Virgil smirked. “Gladly.” For the next 20 minutes, Virgil confidently discussed his strategy with the catapults and archers, fielded questions, and specified the ideal placements. As the meeting drew to a close and Roman went to do the obligatory schmoozing with top leaders (Virgil noticed with glee how the military personel scrambled to get out, supposedly to “update the troops”), the Lead Advisor of Common Education approached Virgil. Virgil did the customary respectful bow, which the advisor returned.

“I trust King Roman is treating you well?” he inquired, blue eyes sparkling from beneath a sandy fringe.

“Yes, very much so. This fucked up rotator cuff is the best thing to happen to me,” Virgil internally winced at his choice of words. Gonna have to work on that.

The advisor just laughed. “I suppose it must be! Surely, being part of a harem is much more comfortable than being a knight.”

Virgil shrugged, and winced as he once again forgot about his injured shoulder. “Yeah, it is. I’m just glad I can help in some capacity by being a strategic advisor.”

“Yes, yes, that must be quite fun for you,” the advisor purred. Virgil bristled at his condescending tone. “Do let me know if you require more… attention than what King Roman provides.”

Virgil wrinkled his face. He focused on Roman, and heard his attention was on Orange who was insisting that one person could hardly be considered a harem. “I think I’m good.”

“Oh, of course, of course, but do keep me in mind.” And before Virgil realized what was happening, the advisor had patted his ass.

Virgil used his good arm to grab the man’s offending hand, twist him around, bring him to his knees, and place a foot on the middle of his back.

“Ow! You stupid whore, get off-”

“What is the meaning of this?!” King Roman thundered.

Virgil released the advisor. “This guy was perving all over me, and I get I’m part of a harem but I don’t stand for that shit.”

“It was just a love tap!”

King Roman’s face was red with anger. “Sir Virgil, he encroached on your person?”

“Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”

“You are relieved of your duties.”

Virgil sagged while the advisor smiled smugly. Welp, the grapes and silk were fun while they lasted. “Yeah, okay.”

Roman jerked back a bit in confusion. “What? No, you,” he glared at the now-ex-advisor.

The advisor was aghast. “Excuse me? How dare you!”

“How dare you, touching a man without his consent and then having the gall to speak to me in such a tone!”

Virgil was in too much shock to process the rest of the conversation. He came back to his senses just outside the medical wing. Roman was instructing the doctor to recheck Virgil’s bandages as they didn’t seem to quite hold his shoulder still, and sighed in relief when he caught Virgil watching them.

“Virgil, there you are! Are you alright? Say the word, and I’ll arrange for you to speak with our mind doctor.”

Virgil blinked a few times.

Roman turned back to the doctor. “Could he have gone into shock? Does he need-”

Virgil shook his head to unfreeze his brain. “No, I’m fine. I’ve had people trying to kill me, part of the job, I’m okay.”

King Roman furrowed his brow. “Are you sure? Truly, if you need to talk to someone-”

Virgil held his good hand up. “I’m fine, promise. I’ll talk to someone later if I need to.”

Roman sighed in relief. “Thank goodness. Oh! The military is deploying your strategy as we speak! I thought I’d let you know before the good doctor looked you over.”

“Dope! Wait, what?”

King Roman was walking away. “I’ll see you once you’re tended to!” he called over his shoulder.

“What are you talking about, my shoulder… actually kinda hurts, okay fine.”

/////

One successful defeat of an opposing military later, and Roman had removed yet another advisor from his circle for creepy behavior.

“Hey Princey, I appreciate you defending my honor and shit, but that was the Lead Advisor of Trade,” Virgil began.

“And I’m better off without him!” Roman declared.

Virgil scratched his chin. “I mean yeah, but also you have a trade meeting with neighboring kingdoms coming up in a week, and two days after that you have an internal trade meeting with surrounding villages and the farmers within the city walls.”

Roman started stretching his arms and back in a way Virgil had identified meant he was stressed. “And there has been even more talk of my small harem, which does not bode well for external negotiations,” Roman murmured to himself.

Virgil shifted. “Yeah, that. Why don’t you just have your new advisors be part of your harem like me?”

Roman paused. “That’s… brilliant! Thank you Virgil!”

Virgil shrugged. “Yeah, no problem. It’s a pretty sweet gig. Although I don’t know why you haven’t-” he cut himself off with an awkward cough.

King Roman looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I’m afraid I’m not… particularly interested in those activities. I apologize if I’ve disappointed you.”

Virgil let out a breath. “I mean, I’m kinda relieved, not that you’re not hot! But I’d rather not break my two rules.”

Roman preened at the compliment. “What are your two rules?”

“Don’t shit where you eat and don’t fuck where you work.”

“Ah.”

“Look, there might be enough time to get someone else up to speed before the trade meetings. But you’ll have to choose someone quickly.”

Roman sat down in his throne and looked skyward in thought. “Are you familiar with Patton Hart? He’s already organized the internal farmers into their current union. What of him?”

Virgil remembered running into him right after a difficult mission and somehow ending up with a bag of tomatoes, a bag of bell peppers, and strict instructions to bathe and sleep. “Yeah, he’s a good guy.”

“How do you think he’d do as an advisor?”

Virgil didn’t have to think for long. “I think he’d be awesome. Want me to talk to him?”

“If you’d be so kind. And please assure him that his role would be strictly as an advisor.”

Virgil smirked. “You mean a shirtless advisor.”

Roman turned beet red, and Virgil cackled.

/////

Before Virgil knew it, the harem quarters weren’t so lonely. Patton had agreed to join, very happy with the wardrobe and quickly making a name for himself. Patton had, in turn, recommended Logan Logos to replace the other creepy advisor. Logan had run a very successful pre-K Montessori program before joining the palace harem, and he fit in with the rest of the advising circle well, already creating reforms to account for diverse learning styles. In fact, Virgil had noticed that the advisors who weren’t part of the harem started taking him and Patton more seriously once the proper and strong Logan had joined them.

The day of the inter-kingdom trade meeting had come, and Logan and Virgil would both be attending along with Patton. Everyone was nervous about how the sweet and gentle Patton would do at such a fierce and antagonist event.

Virgil’s shoulder was out of the cast and sling, although it was still tender. He clapped a hand on Patton’s shoulder. “Go get ‘em,” he said, trying to be encouraging.

Patton flushed. “Thanks Vee.”

The meeting began, along with the customary hour-long political niceties, and finally it came time for the trade advisors to speak on their leaders’ behalf.

Virgil ground his teeth at the open snickering of Patton’s garb, and he could tell Logan and Roman were feeling the same way. Patton, however, seemed to be unaffected by it all. As expected, the Kingdom of Fiery Fields spoke first.

“King Roman, we propose a 5% increase of taxes for the crops we export to your kingdom, lest we cease all wheat exports to you.”

“You may call me Advisor Hart, and for what reason? We already pay you 12% more for your crops than other kingdoms.”

The platinum blonde man stared at Patton with haughty hazel eyes. “Because, Advisor Hart,” he sneered. “our crops are unmatched in quality!”

Patton nodded his head. “Fair point. I suppose you won’t mind a moratorium on all exports of our steel to your kingdom then?”

It was as if all the air was sucked out of the room.

Platinum Blonde was outraged. “You wouldn’t!”

“Actually, we would. You are now meeting with the new King’s new advisory circle, and we won’t stand for pointless tax increases that a review of the books show only go to pay the noblewomen you’re cheating on your wife with,” Patton stated, smiling sweetly the entire time.

Half of the trade advisors around the table laughed, while the other half gawked. Platinum Blonde backed down, and the trade meeting lasted for only 2 days instead of the typical 3 since Patton effectively shut down any ego-based bullshitting that occurred.

/////

Virgil and Patton were taking turns trying to toss grapes into each others’ mouths, laughing, while Logan pretended to be irritated by their antics. The doors opened suddenly to show Orange, in his eye-burning all-orange ensemble.

“Hiya!” Patton chirped, hiding his own discomfort. They were all intensely disliked by Orange, who seemed to blame them for Roman not being interested in sex or romance.

Orange sniffed. “Advisor Logos, the noble King would like to extend his congratulations on the tax reform that redirected many of the fees of our noblepeople to educational supplies.”

Logan nodded at him. “Thank you. I’m quite proud of that myself and am very glad it came to fruition. Was their anything else you required, Advisor Wrath?”

“What?!” Virgil and Patton shouted at the same time. They whipped their heads over to Orange.

“No. Good day.” With that, Orange - or rather, Advisor Wrath - left their room.

Virgil and Patton turned back to Logan, who was seemingly reading again.

“Dude what the fuck-”

“How the heck did you know?!”

Logan just raised an eyebrow while continuing to read. “I have a way of finding things out,” he said, looking up for a second to smirk at them before going back to his book.

Virgil and Patton decided to not test Logan’s abilities.

[presidentrhodes]

How about some IronHusbands? Tony keeps telling the avengers how awesome his husband is but they don't believe he exists because it has been months and they still haven't met him yet and then finally, Rhodey comes home :)

See, I was going to write a cute 700-word fic for this, but your prompt was too good and this turned into a 5K monster. I’m sorry. :(

Title: The Other Mr Stark: Pilot, Scientist and Iron Man’s Mysterious Paramour

Rating: PG

Pairing: Tony Stark/James Rhodes

Summary: Clint leans over to Tony and whispers. “For the record, I know you’re lying. You’re describing the perfect man and he doesn’t exist. You might as well say you’re dating Superman because at least Christopher Reeve was a looker.“ 

This ignores the chronology and canon from Iron Man 2. It’s not yet beta-ed so, I apologise for all mistakes!

***

“Don’t be ridiculous, Stark,” Clint says from the lounge floor, where he sits cross-legged, trying to build a house of cards on the table. Natasha’s lying on the sofa next to him, her feet on Steve’s lap as he massages them. Bruce sits in an armchair opposite them, his attention fixed on the Starkpad in his hands. Thor stands by the floor-to-ceiling window behind Bruce, watching the cars driving along Park Avenue 80 floors down. “You’re making shit up." 

It’s team-bonding night: Steve came up with the idea a month after the Avengers stopped an alien invasion and moved into the spacious penthouse atop Stark Tower. New York began the long, arduous process of rebuilding; tall construction cranes wedged between damaged skyscrapers carried out repair work and men in reflective vests and bright yellow helmets became a common sight all over the city. 

Tony’s at the bar mixing drinks for the team, even though he hasn’t touched alcohol in over a decade. His cocktails, he claims, are still kickass. "Why would I lie to you, Barton? I am going to get nothing out of it." 

They have been going back and forth for an hour since Tony let it slip that contrary to what the New York Post says every week, he’s happily married. His husband’s a decorated Air Force Colonel and a rocket scientist by training and, Tony insists, he once fought a homophobe bare-chested outside MIT in the freezing Northeast winter, for insulting Tony.

"It was my birthday. Honeybear had no time for assholes,” Tony says, shaking the martini he’s making for Natasha. “The fight was brutal, and this guy was built like a horse. I thought Platypus wouldn’t last a minute but I was wrong. Dead wrong.” Tony gesticulates at appropriate moments in his recounting of the tale and embellishes it with just the right amount of spice to impress upon the demi-gods, assassins and supersoldiers in his audience that his husband is a goddamn hero. 

Tony’s husband had apparently exchanged punches with the bigot that left both men bleeding profusely from their noses. “Then Honeybear uppercuts him out of nowhere and it’s a total KO,” Tony says, moving on to make Steve’s drink—a mojito; how typical of Captain Boyscout McSexypants. “I thought I was watching Ali versus Foreman on replay. It was beautiful.”

Bruce snorts at the comparison without glancing up from the tablet. 

Clint’s face contorts and he knits his brows in frustration as the sparse details from Tony fail to add up in his mind. The stacked cards look dangerously close to toppling over. “You want us to believe in this ‘mysterious’ paramour, and all you’re giving out are a bunch of ridiculous nicknames and made-up stories with no evidence and no pictures. Sounds completely legitimate.”

“Hey, why did I never come across this husband of yours when I was your PA?” Natasha chips in, the corner of her mouth quirks up. Steve grins at the way Tony’s face turns red and his nostrils flair—from what he has learned, courtesy of Shield and Ms Potts, Tony’s pride hasn’t recovered from being thoroughly fooled by the Black Widow two summers ago.

Tony tosses a lime at Natasha. She swats it away with an expert backhand, and the lime crashes into Clint’s deck of cards. The archer snarls a string of expletives, forcing out Steve’s stern 'Captain America is disappointed in you, son’ look. Tony flashes a lopsided smile from the bar. “Well, Ms Rushman, I don’t discuss all aspects of my life with personal assistants. Even ones as attractive as you.”

“Call me Rushman one more time and—" 

Thor finally turns to join the conversation and butts in before Natasha delivers the rest of her threat. "Your husband must be a good, honourable man. I’m sure he’s worthy of his place in Valhalla."  The response draws surprised looks around the room. Even Tony double-takes at first, his eyes wide and bug-like as if he can’t believe what his ears are picking up. He recovers fast and rubs his hands together in glee. "See? The god agrees with me. It’s settled, I win.”

The conversation turns to Fury and Shield—specifically, determining if Phil Coulson is a human mimicking an AI or an artificial intelligence pretending to be a 39-year-old homo sapiens sapiens. Tony brings over the drinks and sinks to the floor next to Clint. The archer leans over and whispers. “For the record, I know you’re lying. You’re describing the perfect man and he doesn’t exist. You might as well say you’re married to Superman because at least Christopher Reeve was a looker." 

Tony rolls his eyes. "You’ll eat your words soon enough, birdbrain." 

***

‘Soon enough’ turns out to be a month later when the topic of Tony’s mystery husband makes an unannounced appearance in the middle of a mission. Taking on a small army of unidentified robots possessing a hive brain, near a country fair, leaves Steve, Natasha and Tony in charge of shepherding a group of children away from the direct line of fire. Thor and Hulk keep the main fighting focused on them while Clint takes out the spare droids, one by one, from his spot on a nearby roof. 

Natasha leads them past smouldering scraps of metal and burning tarp, towards the carousel where the children huddle together, their faces white as sheets. Behind her, Steve’s limping along. He’s bleeding into his suit after taking several hits earlier from the droids and their shoulder-mounted plasma cannons. Tony provides aerial support, keeping the stray robots away from the kids. 

"You know,” he begins on the team’s shared comms channel, watching Natasha approach the terrified children with an unnatural, almost enviable, ease, like she has spent a lifetime perfecting the art of looking after them. “Platypus is really good with kids too. His sister sometimes leaves her daughter with us when she’s travelling, and he’s a natural with her. I always thought kids are fussy about everything.” Clint groans. Tony ignores him and continues, letting JARVIS take control of the armour to round up and disable the remaining droids. 

“Jeannie always says Lila is a fussy baby at home. She has made a career out of screaming when things don’t go her way. When she stays with us, she turns into an angel because of Platypus.” No one responds. Tony’s attention shifts to how pale Steve looks in his viewfinder. He watches the Captain stagger behind Natasha and asks JARVIS to scan his teammate to take stock of his injuries; Tony knows once the mission is over, Steve will downplay his condition. He’ll brush it off as “just a couple of knocks, nothing too serious,” and bury himself in paperwork in his office to avoid medical attention. The man hates hospitals. Tony can’t blame Steve—he detests them, too. 

“My scans detect Captain Rogers has sustained three broken ribs and severe lacerations,” JARVIS drawls in his thick, mechanical voice. “Readings indicate his supersoldier abilities have already contained the bleeding, and the ribs should heal on their own by the week’s end.”

“Thanks, J.” Tony lands on the ground next to Steve. They watch Natasha usher the children towards the perimeter that Shield agents, who finally arrived at the scene, have set up. Worried parents, some of them openly sobbing, stand behind the barricades, waiting to be reunited with their children. “Captain. You’re hurt,” Tony informs Steve as a matter of fact. 

“I hadn’t noticed,” Steve says, deadpan, and lets out a pained breath. 

The faceplate lifts. Tony gives a half-smile at Steve. “Let me carry you back to the infirmary. You need medical attention and my husband is a big fan. He’ll lose his mind when I tell him I carried Captain America bridal style back to base.” Fortunately for Tony, whatever objection Steve’s about to raise dies on his lips as exhaustion wins him over. He collapses face-first on the muddy field, and Tony’s kneeling by his side in a flash, checking for a pulse. He sags inside the suit in relief when he finds one, and JARVIS helpfully diagnoses “severe fatigue” for the Captain. The AI chooses that precise moment to reveal to Tony that Steve Rogers hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in three months. 

“Avenger down,” Tony tells the team. A chorus of concerned voices floods the comms channel. “The Captain’s had a long day. I’m taking him back to medical, you guys handle cleanup and Coulson. I am busy in the evening, so, don’t call me or page me unless the world is on fire and one of you is actually dying." 

No one speaks for a few moments. Clint cuts through the static in a flat, disinterested tone. "What’s keeping you busy, Stark? Sexy date in the Bahamas with your imaginary husband?" 

"If you have to know, birdbrain, it’s our anniversary and I’m going to the base to see him.”

Clint chortles. 

“You still won’t tell us what base he’s stationed at. Let me guess, is it Area 51? Is your imaginary husband an alien, Stark? Holy shit, you’re married to Superman." 

The words vex Tony. "Do you ever shut up, Barton?” He doesn’t wait for a reply and turns off his comms. Tony carries Steve in his arms and flies back to the Tower.

***

A few weeks later, after pulling another all-nighter in the lab, Tony walks in on Steve, Natasha and Bruce gathered in the kitchen for breakfast. Clint’s on vacation. Tony counts that as a blessing. He knows despite Clint’s cynicism, at some point, the archer started tailing Tony’s every move, inside and outside the Tower, to find out more about Platypus. Working as an assassin over the years, Clint honed his ability to stay under the radar, but all of that training didn’t stand a chance against JARVIS and his all-sensing presence.

“Barton’s been following me,” Tony says, pouring himself a coffee. He curses—someone, and he knows it’s Thor, keeps leaving coffee grounds inside the pot. That barbarian. “He thought he was being clever by using the vents, but nothing gets past JARVIS.”

Bruce narrows sleep-heavy eyes at Tony: “I thought J doesn’t surveil us.” The words come out as nothing more than a low, gruff mumble. Stifling a yawn, Bruce slouches forward and rests his face on the granite countertop. His eyes droop; for all of his unparalleled work in anti-electron collision theory, Bruce Banner remains incapable of being a morning person.   

“He doesn’t when you’re in your private quarters. The vents are public areas, and standard building security protocols apply.” Tony strains his coffee. He makes a mental note to speak to Thor—the Asgardian proved himself to be a fast learner of Earthly etiquettes. He’s come a long way from smashing coffee mugs to ordering customised drinks at Starbucks without pissing off the baristas. Even Captain America sometimes gets the stink eye when he asks for soy milk instead of dairy. Tony suspects baristas around the city are too enamoured by Thor’s godly presence to ever crib about his order.  

“Why would Clint stalk you through the vents?” Steve asks. Tony finds the puzzled look on Steve’s face endearing. “50% of his DNA is bird. He’s just following his instincts,” he says. Tony bites back a laugh at Steve’s hardened expression; he appears genuinely distressed by the idea that one of his human teammates may not be 100% human. 

Tony admires the way the Captain works hard to adjust to his new life in the 21st century—waking up to an alien invasion led by a horned Norse god proved to be a hell of a way to get over the initial culture shock. And, while Steve made a quick study of smart kitchen appliances and most of the Internet, genetic modifications and other advances in technology set off regular alarm bells in his head. Noticing the way Steve’s lips curl downward, Natasha offers a quick clarification: “Tony’s being an idiot. Clint’s not actually part bird, even if he is as obtuse as one." 

"Well, birdbrain has to get more creative than vents to get the jump on JARVIS,” Tony says, squeezing between Steve and Natasha. They hear Bruce’s gentle snores—he really hates mornings—and Tony whispers. “Honeybear is the only one who has gotten past J.”

On cue, JARVIS chimes in softly: “That is correct. His method was delightfully inventive, one that has enhanced my detection abilities tenfolds.”

Without being prompted, Tony volunteers the information to his teammates in a hushed tone: “We had a bet. Each of us picked a random day to break into Stark Industries. The goal was to get into my office without alerting J." 

Steve and Natasha listen, their expressions dull, as Tony explains in unnecessary details how his husband got the jump on artificial intelligence—Natasha makes mental notes to make her own attempt later if only to test her own skills against an all-seeing machine. 

"Honeybear set off a small and easily contained fire in our backyard while I was sleeping. Because J’s primary protocol is to protect me, he had to assess its threat level. But, it was in a contained environment; the variables were known, and the calculation should’ve been easy, except his protocol says he cannot dismiss the threat until it is eliminated,” Tony says, watching Steve’s eyes widen. The Captain, ever the cynic, is probably working out a hundred different world-ending scenarios about a rogue AI. He and J aren’t so different in their personalities, Tony thinks. 

“JARVIS spent most of his processing power keeping an eye on me. His second protocol says he must at all times protect the Stark Secure Server, my private server. And, no, Natasha, I know that look. It’s not at Stark Industries, I know you’ve looked, and I won’t tell you where it is so that Shield can go snooping.” Natasha glowers at him, her cheeks flushed at being caught red-handed. “That left J with very little juice to handle everything else for all Stark Industries offices around the world. He didn’t even notice Honeybear walk onto the premises or enter my office.”

Tony pauses to let his teammates absorb and appreciate his husband’s ingenuity: Steve looks impressed, Natasha scowls at Tony. Bruce, with his eyes still closed and head down, breaks the silence. “I’ve seen J’s documentation. You wrote him to back himself up on local servers precisely to avoid this situation. You said your roommate at MIT gave you the idea. Plus, you use an insane amount of RAM, I’ve seen your set up.”

Tony claps.

“Finally. Someone who sees the obvious error in this story. And yet, somehow, Honeybear got into my office undetected. Either he’s the superspy of the millennium—sorry, Widow—or someone is lying.” Tony glances at the ceiling. “What? You like him better or something?” JARVIS doesn’t respond. Instead, music flits in from the overhead speakers: Tell me lies. Tell me sweet little lies (Tell me lies, tell me, tell me lies). Oh, no, no you can’t disguise. 

“Smartass.”

***

On Christmas Eve, Tony arrives at the common floor and overhears the team in deep conversation. His curiosity plants him in a corner outside the lounge, within hearing distance, but strategically hidden from the occupants inside. He picks up on Natasha speaking with an underlying worry in her tone. “That’s not the point, Clint. When I assessed him, he was dying. Very painfully, if I may add. He’s proven himself to be a team player and he’s a vital member of this team—" 

Clint cuts her off. "He’s delusional, Nat. He’s making up an entire person and coming up with these larger than life stories. It was funny the first time, but it’s clear he believes in the stuff he says. If he’s losing it, we need to know because we’re a team. We have got to have each other’s backs at all times.”

Steve chimes in: “His life is his own. We should respect his privacy, Clint. I’m sure when he’s ready, he’ll introduce us to his husband. Don’t force it on him.” Tony’s built-in cynicism would have once made fun of the unadulterated optimism behind Steve’s words. But, hearing the Captain speak in his, and Platypus’, defence like that makes Tony want to immediately buy the Brooklyn apartment he knows Steve’s eyeing and give him the keys in a gift-wrapped box with a bow. 

Captain America’s assurances fail to convince Clint or soothe his exasperation. “Your optimism is misplaced, Cap. There is no husband, no boyfriend. Nothing! Nat and I have looked everywhere and there’s not a trace of Stark ever getting hitched, let alone to another military man. I get it, don't ask, don't tell when that was still the law, right? What about now? There has to be some kind of a legal record, somewhere, if Stark's really married.”

“Maybe it’s a manifestation of his trauma,” Bruce supplies. “He’s well overdue a psych evaluation. He hasn’t talked to anyone since the invasion. We should cut him some slack.”

Clint doubles down. “We need to know if he’s hallucinating before someone tries to take over the world again. It’s one thing if he’s making it up for street cred, but if he genuinely believes in it…" 

"He’s creating another armour,” Natasha says. Tony feels vindicated by the admission—he knows she pokes around his lab whenever Stark Industries business calls him away to the other coast. Her clandestine efforts fail to outsmart J’s all-sensing presence, but confronting the Black Widow about it, and risking dismemberment, ranks low on Tony’s list of priorities. To have her admit it in front of their teammates takes a small weight off his chest. “I’ve seen the blueprint. This is a leaner, tougher armour with some serious firepower.”

“Yeah. Fury commissioned it,” Steve says. Someone—Bruce—curses out loud at the revelation. Tony bites his lips and presses a hand over his mouth to stop himself cackling. Fools, those god-damn irredeemable fools, Tony thinks. Steve continues. “He wants to recruit that Air Force Colonel he always raves about.”

“James Rhodes.” Clint jumps in. “See, now he is an impressive man. I’ve read his files and I can see why Fury’s in love with him. Hell, I’m in love with him, too.” Tony’s close to tears from holding back his laughter at the archer’s enthusiastic tone; he doesn’t want to risk giving away his location and miss the rest of the conversation about the new recruit. “So, Stark’s agreed to make a suit for the Colonel. That's…surprising, seeing how possessive he is of his tech. He tased me last month when I tried to get a good look under the hood.”

“Maybe, Fury made him an offer he can’t refuse.”

“Does Stark know?” Natasha asks. “About Fury’s plans to recruit the Colonel? I heard Nick mentored him in college.”

“Shit,” Clint shouts. Tony regrets the lack of visual cues to go with the congregation inside and makes his own: Clint jumps on the sofa without warning next to Bruce, who turns a deep shade of green. While Steve and Natasha work to calm Bruce down, Clint squats on top of the backrest, like a bird perched on its nest among sky-high branches. Tony laughs at the imagery in silence. 

“Rhodes went to MIT too, didn’t he? He studied aeronautics and astronautics—basically, rocket science. And, he’s Stark’s age. It’s not impossible they crossed paths there. Do you think Stark is holding onto some creepy university crush or did he make up his fake husband based on the Colonel?" 

"He really needs that psych eval." 

That’s when Tony decides he’s heard enough. He can barely keep himself together and in his excitement, he knocks into a solid, immovable mass. "Fuck,” Tony mutters and looks up into Thor’s dark blue eyes. Maybe the city baristas had a point, Tony thinks, and it’s futile to fight the Asgardian charm that oozes from every pore on Thor’s body. 

Tony still pinches himself from time to time and wonders how a god fell out of legends, waltzed into his life and took up residence in his penthouse. After butting heads over Thor’s murderous brother Loki, they forged a friendship based on mutual respect—another thing which puzzles Tony because Thor’s a deity and he’s just a guy. Thor protested once when Tony blurted it out. “You’re not just a 'guy’.”

Thor’s quieter and more reserved than his broad GQ-model-like physique suggests; he prefers to observe instead of participating in the team’s special brand of eccentricity. Everyone on the team agrees that Thor is immeasurably perceptive. 

“Hello, Pointbreak,” Tony says, clasping his shoulder. “What are you doing out here? You’re missing all the fun inside. They’re talking about having me committed because they don’t believe Platypus is real. They think I’m hallucinating.”

Thor’s face twists into a frown, a contrast to Tony’s playful grin. “Then they are silly,” he says. “I have seen how fondly you speak of him, Tony. You love your husband." 

"More than I can put into words, buddy.” Tony sighs as his smile falters, his arms crossing over his chest. “Platypus is the bedrock of my life. Got me through some really bad times. After everything he has seen me say or do, he’s still here, and I wonder what I did to deserve him. You know? It’s surreal. Which god answered my prayers that I got so lucky?”

Thor steps forward until he’s up in Tony’s face, mere inches separating them. That man may possess a delightful and exuberant personality. But he has no concept of personal space, which Tony files under 'Usual Asgardian Oddities’, along with Thor’s habit of speaking to inanimate objects when he thinks no one is looking. Large hands rest his bony shoulders in a hard grip, and Tony thinks Thor is about to impart some godly wisdom. Interruption, if only to point out the awkwardness of their proximity, may come across as rude. "Listen here, Tony Stark. I have lived and watched over your realm for a thousand years. I’ve seen civilisations rise and fall, kingdoms destroyed by greed, great men brought down by hubris. But, you, my friend, you are among the best of them. Midgard should be proud to call you her son. Never ever doubt your worthiness.” Thor beams. 

Tony tries to think up a response to that, but his mouth snaps shut. How does one top a speech where an actual god calls you worthy? In the end, Tony nods and stays still until Thor lets him go. “I will consider it a great honour the day you choose to let us meet the man who has stolen your heart. For one who’s deserving of your love, I also consider him worthy.”

On his way out, Tony texts his husband: You won’t believe it but I think Thor just blessed our marriage. 

The reply comes immediately: Holy shit. I feel blessed already. Merry Christmas and see you soon xx. 

***

Fury calls the team for an urgent meeting after New Year’s Day. His memo reads like every other missive he sends, curt and to the point: Meeting at 10 @ HQ. Don’t be late. 

They take Tony’s private jet to DC because the Quinjet was out of commission, undergoing repairs after their latest mission—a villain holding Manhattan’s power grids hostage—damaged the engines. Onboard, they huddle in front of the flatscreen watching CNN analyse Justin Hammer’s trial. Tony gives them a breakdown of his business rival—how Justin tried to sabotage the Stark Expo by presenting cheap knockoffs of the Iron Man armour that blew up the entire venue. The anchor reads out charges levelled against Hammer: money laundering, racketeering, fraud, public endangerment, copyright infringement. And a dozen lawsuits from Stark Industries and affected civilians.

“Ouch,” Clint says, reclining in his seat. “That’s a bit excessive, even for making cheap knockoffs of your suit and blowing them up at your expo, Stark.”

“Trust me, birdbrain, we take corporate espionage very seriously,” Tony replies. A live feed shows Hammer arriving at the courthouse in orange overalls, with dark circles under his eyes and his hair in disarray. The press swarms around him, shoving microphones and cameras in his face. Hammer tries to push his way through the crowd. “Oh, Justin. You know, if he had even an ounce of charm in his bones he could’ve gotten the charges reduced.”

“You can’t charm your way through everything, Tony,” Bruce points out. 

Tony smiles. “Not everyone can, no. My husband on the other hand—” The shift in the atmosphere is palpable. Clint tunes out of the conversation to stare out the window. Bruce shifts uncomfortably in his seat, Natasha presses her lips together in a frown, and Steve surveys the lines on his palms. Only Thor shows interest, so, Tony continues. “Few years ago, I dared him to charm a store manager at Macy’s. They had this perfume set from their exclusive collection. I wanted to see if Platypus could convince her to give him a set for free. You should’ve seen him, Thor. He knew all the right things to say, the right moments to smile, and I think if he had asked, she’d have given him the keys to the store. We gave it back later because it would’ve come out of her paycheck, otherwise. Platypus is a real charmer. You’ll love him.”

Thor’s laughs drown out Clint’s audible scoff. “I look forward to meeting him.”

“We should buckle up, we’re about to land,” Steve says, pointing to the seat belt sign. 

***

Fury waits for them in a conference room on the top floor of the Triskelion. One by one, the Avengers fill in, with Tony being the last to enter. He takes the seat closest to the door. 

“I’ll keep this short,” Fury says, without preamble. It’s one of the few things Tony admires about the director—he loathes wasting time as much as Tony. “The Avengers Initiative was started to be Earth’s first and last line of defence against extraterrestrial threats. We’ve shown the world why we need to exist and your heroic efforts have won us more goodwill from the public than we have anticipated. My bosses have instructed me to expand this team. You will meet the new recruits over the course of the year. They will train with you and Stark has agreed to house them at the Tower.”

Clint perks up. “Colonel Hottie said yes?" 

Natasha kicks him under the table. 

"What? He’s perfect. He’s smart, brave, and real. No offence, Stark.” Tony shoots him a dirty look. Clint turns to Steve. “Hey Cap, what’s your opinion on team romances? Yay or nay?" 

"Clint,” Steve gives him his best 'Son, stop disappointing Captain America’ look. “This is neither the time nor the place.” The archer slumps in his chair and says loudly, “Look, I just want to know how many protocols I’ll be breaking to ask Colonel Rhodes out on a date." 

Before Steve or Fury can answer, a new voice replies. "The answer would be none, Mr Barton. As flattering as your proposition sounds, I am unfortunately off the market.” All seven pairs of eyes turn to the doorway—James Rhodes leans against the doorframe in a grey polo shirt, a black bomber jacket and a pair of tight-fitting black jeans. Clint swallows and stammers. Natasha kicks him again. 

“Colonel Rhodes,” Fury says and motions him to come forward. “Meet the team." 

Rhodes takes stock of the room, his eyes resting a millisecond longer on Tony, and says, "Hey. Call me Jim." 

Steve’s the first to rise as he moves in to shake Rhodes’ hand. "Good to meet you, Colonel. We’ve heard a lot about you from Fury, and we’re looking forward to having you on the team.” Bruce and Natasha go next: They exchange quick, courteous 'hello’s before Clint almost trips over himself to greet Rhodes. He tries to play it cool but stutters at the last moment, and the words—"I’ve read your file, Colonel, where have you been all my life?“—come out all jumbled, lacking the charm and finesse he had practised ever since Steve let it slip that Fury was trying to recruit Rhodes. On his turn, Thor flashes the Colonel a knowing smirk, and despite never reading any of Rhodes’ files, he says, "Good to finally meet you, Jim. I’ve heard a lot about your adventures." 

Finally, Rhodes turns to Tony, who has been hanging back with his hands jammed in his front pockets and a closed-off expression on his face. "You look like the cat peed in your cereal today." 

"It’s your fucking cat,” Tony grumbles. He doesn’t move away as Rhodes treads over and steals a peck on the lips. The rest of the team stare in stunned silence; except Fury, who rolls his eye, and Thor, whose indulgent smile suggests he feels pretty damn good about himself for uncovering some hidden knowledge before everyone else. Steve notices the identical wedding bands on Tony and Rhodes’ fingers first, and it finally clicks. “You’re married to Tony?" 

"I am afraid the secret’s out, Captain. I am the mystery husband you’ve been hearing about and I assure you, I’m very real.” Rhodes slings a hand over Tony’s shoulder, and Tony melts into the touch, leaning on him for support, with a hand around Rhodes’ waist. No one speaks—no one fully overcomes the shock around the revelation, and though Steve looks like he’s working out the right words to say in his head, he stays quiet. At some point, Thor starts recording the confusion in the room as it unfolds—for a Space Viking who gives off strong Luddite vibes, he turns out to be exceptionally adept at using Earth tech. Tony isn’t surprised that Thor not only knows how to use a smartphone camera but he also developed a keen sense of when to use it—Barton looking like a flustered deer caught in headlights should be memorialised in every medium. 

“I’ve been told the secrecy around my existence has become a matter of concern among the team,” Rhodes says, fixing his gaze on Clint. The archer shrinks in his seat. He avoids looking at Tony. Or Rhodes. “I’m happy to answer questions, perhaps over dinner, and provide clarifications on whatever my husband has told you about me. He likes to exaggerate, as I’m sure you know. But if you don’t mind, I’d like some privacy with Tones right now. We haven’t seen each other in a year and this meeting was not my idea of a reunion. It’s lacking in some quality action if you know what I mean.” He leaves very little to the imagination. Steve’s scandalised; jaws clenched and his eyes dart from Tony to Rhodes and back to Tony. Thor continues recording as he holds the smartphone in front of the Captain’s face until Steve tries to swat it away, and misses. Only Bruce, Tony notices, shows remorse for doubting his accounts and questioning his sanity. 

With a final nod at the team, Rhodes walks out. “Coming?” He asks from the doorway. “I’ll catch up,” Tony says and lingers long enough for Fury to dismiss the team and leave. Clint’s sour expression—his nose crinkles as if he smelled something horrible—clashes with the way Tony’s eyes sparkle and his grin stretches ear to ear. “Hey birdbrain, how does it feel to be a clown? For what it’s worth, you never had a shot with him because I sealed the deal in '87. You were still working the circus. Yeah, that’s right, I read your files too—even the 'redacted’ ones.” Tony trots out of the room as Clint flips him off, with a big, smug grin plastered over his face. Some things are worth the wait—Rhodey has always been worth it. 

–FIN–

[senseandaccountability]

Fic update: ‘I can see us gather at the gates’, part 8/32

Fandom: Dragon Age Pairing: Female Trevelyan/Iron Bull Rating: M for future updates Summary: He doesn’t trust mages, she doesn’t trust Qunari; it feels oddly fair. A former Circle mage and an estranged Qunari spy get entangled in each other’s lives over assorted Thedosian drinks. Chapter summary: Like all the previous times he’s been on the edge of it, dying is pretty overrated. Notes: I scream into the void with this fic but there you go. :D 

Chapter 8: Dragon Piss (Fallow Mire) (AO3 link)

x. 

He’s just a kid, unhorned and soft -  fat as a qalaba, Vasaad says, racing him to the outskirts of the jungle where the rocks form challenges and the sun never reach - and they climb the old trees and even older stone. They stumble, kids always do up there and that is the very clever reason they are not allowed to go. But they're just kids, far from clever. They stumble and fall and Vasaad is lucky, gets caught on a few softer corners and tree branches; Ashkaari crashes.  Everything after is blurry and gentle, the edges softened by potions.

“What were you supposed to do today?” Tama asks, without removing her hand from his arm.

Slowly, grasping for his memory, he begins to rattle off the tasks and duties; they’re as many as his fingers. Maybe that’s the point, to make them remember.

“So why did you run to the jungle?”

Ashkaari has no answer that Tama will want to hear so he drags it out, pretending to think while her touch remains. "You must take better care of yourself," she says sternly.  The Qun hates wastefulness and dead imekari is a terrible shame. For her, for them all. He doesn't want to make Tama look bad. He will remember.  For several months, at least.

x. “Welcome back,” Armaas says. His commander, the voice in the field. Hissrad can’t remember being gone, but his body is full of pain. A broken rib, a punctured lung, a long, deep wound running from his left shoulder blade to right side and he has to sleep propped up on his stomach in the infirmary. He learns that he has been out for days. He learns, too, that they're right about his commander. Doesn't lose a single man, they say. He leads from the front and shouts you back from the dead if he has to. The intense pair of eyes that follows Hissrad's every move here certainly looks like it belongs to someone who could. Years later, on Seheron, he’ll look into those eyes again before his axe falls down over Armaas's neck. Your soul is dust, Tal-Vashoth, he'll think but he won't be sure ever again. x. “Your blocking is still shit,” Hissrad manages from where he lies propped up by pillows and blankets and a wasted bedroll. Even his horns hurt. “Your plans are still shit,” Vasaad counters. “You’ll be the death of me, big guy. Can’t believe they gave you command.” “Maybe you were the only other option.” “Maybe they just want to let Seheron kill you so they don’t have to,” Vasaad says and there’s warmth and mockery and bone-hard truths in the joke. Hissrad grins. It must be the hundredth time one of them gets wrecked in battle, yet every single one feels like absolute crap, everyone worse than the others. Hissrad has carried Vasaad’s skinny ass across half a jungle, cursing into the skin on his back -  don’t you dare, asshole - and Vasaad’s dragged him out of burning buildings, pits of poison, traps laid by mages and rebels and they’ve always survived. They’ll always survive until one of them fails. x. Their newest Viddathari may be little more than a twitchy kid but he’s got hands strong as iron, knows curses in several tongues and he refuses to leave Hissrad’s bedside until Hissrad gets well enough to carry him out and lock the door. “Hey!” the kid protests but Hissrad is determined. His right arm may still be broken and the bone-deep wound along his side smarts like fuck but malnourished elves are tiny. “Sorry, Gatt,” he says and pats the elf’s head. “Can’t recover with an audience.” x.  Boss is heading towards the building where they expect to find the clan leader of the Avvar, her jaw set and her determination cut in stone, as if she’s gone and become a brawler when Bull wasn’t looking. They have my soldiers. She had been very closed-off this morning, grim and focused, barely had time for a briefing before they set out and her tone is still clipped whenever someone brings something up with her. “Surely you are not challenging their chieftain in battle, darling?” Vivienne’s voice betrays nothing but Bull is willing to bet she isn’t looking forward to having her day ruined by a bashed-in skull. “It will be fine.” At first it almost is. As fine as it ever is, fighting in someone else's stronghold, lacking every advantage of the enemy. But for a while they can make up for what they lack in strength with what they possess in terms of sheer determination. Until they can't. “Take out their mages!” “Let’s not,” Bull growls, carving his blade into the spine of an attacker. In the corner of his eye he can see the Avvar leader rushing forth, his greataxe in front of him, ramming into their flimsy line of defense and Bull curses, trying to wrestle free from the archers he’s stuck with but it takes too long. Vivienne shouts something, Boss shouts something back and when Bull finally shoves the last dead archer from his blade, there’s no time left. He pushes the mages back, hears them swear at him and then, things become a little blurry. --- He wakes up in darkness. Total, throbbing darkness and his first thought is that he’s lost his other eye. That would definitely be shitty. “Bull, can you hear me?” He does, he can. But when he tries to speak, there are no sounds emerging from his body. Great, now he’ll be both blind and mute. What a gift to send back to Par Vollen. Maybe they can put a ribbon on his horns. He feels her hands on his chest, magic flowing out of them and into him and it’s soft, like a warm bath but then she twists it, angles it so he gasps for air instead, crying out in pain, and immediately it stops. She’s leaning over him, judging by her breath against his neck, her voice closer to his ear now. “I’m sorry.” The pad of her thumb brushes over his cheek. “I’m so sorry, Bull, but I have to do that again. I’m trying to find what’s wrong.” Less talking, more healing, he thinks. She does the same magical crap again. And again. The pain is just as sharp, just as staggering. He feels like he’s losing his mind. There’s something broken that won’t mend, something stubborn that won’t budge. “Hurry,” Vivienne says somewhere nearby. “He’s bleeding quite a lot, darling.” “I know. Can you…  shit.” Boss’s touch leaves him and if he could speak, he would have asked for it to return. Magic or not, her hands are soothing and if he’s dying here, he’d like to feel calm about it. Like all the previous times he’s been on the edge of it, dying is pretty overrated. A burning, painful kind of overrated that he could do without. In the end lies glory, so the Qun claims. Perhaps that's right, he just can't see it. But then again his eyesight never really recovered from losing one eye. Even bad jokes are wasted on death. The last thing he hears is Boss, her voice increasingly desperate, telling him to stay with her as she pulls at the threads of his flesh with her magic, forcing it to close over his wounds. --- He drifts in and out of consciousness and sleep and through it all he can hear her voice. In fact, she never stops talking. She’s quiet when she’s nervous and she talks when she’s afraid; he knows this about her. He knows this about her and in this particular setting, it twists its way into the back of his mind, lingers. As the pain torments him and whatever draughts and spells he’s been exposed to do their thing, he hears her mutter her way through what sounds like magical theory in Orlesian. Between a nightmare and a potion-induced episode about ghouls he can discern sentences from a book on the Inquisition of old - he knows because the nights in camp get long and sometimes there's nothing to do but read the only thing someone like Cassandra or Boss has carried with them. He prefers it when they bring Varric’s crappy but hilarious smut novels over the tedious ones on human history, but he’ll read anything. "You can't take blows meant for me," she tells him because - as he’s come to understand - she truly has no idea what front-line bodyguard means, its concept as foreign to her as stealth or frivolity. Bull replies in grunts and monosyllabic words. “Don’t die on me, you stupid man,” she whispers to him as he drifts out of sleep momentarily, blinking as the sunlight from the window falls across her features. It makes her look on fire, lit with the sun itself. If he had been an Andrastian, he’d probably be praying by now.   “I’m sorry,” she says and he’s feeling more awake by then, though not awake enough to argue through the lack of strategy with his boss. He keeps his eyes closed. Feels her hands running over his chest, then quickly brushing against his forehead. She’s got the lightest of touches; it leaves some kind of mark. “This is on me. It’s my fault.��Please, survive.” --- He wakes up, properly now, to her sleeping form. The room is dimly lit but his senses have returned, making it possible for him to discern the actual shapes of everything around him. A pile of medical supplies by his bed, a couple of books, a warm blanket and a goblet of what looks like water. Outside the only window in the room, darkness has fallen. He feels sluggish and heavy, unused to his own body. And there’s a sense of oddness somewhere below his chest. At first he can’t tell what the sensation comes from and blinks, prepared for all sorts of bad news as always after being knocked out in battle. You never know what limbs you’ve lost or what new impairment you’ve suffered, any warrior could tell you that. But this, Bull realises rather quickly, this isn’t him. It’s Boss, sleeping with her face pressed into his belly, her arms spread out over his upper body and her hair tickling his chest. Small puffs of warm breath dampen his skin as her body rises and falls over his; there are soft snores and sleep-sounds and there’s an intimacy to the scene that snakes its way into his chest, the unfamiliar outline of it at once thrilling and strange. It’s definitely…  something. All the gentleness in her, everything about her that she keeps hidden as they work methodically side by side to push this damn world back from the brink of destruction, is suddenly visible in the way she’s sleeping, unarmed, undone. Her hair is loose, strands of it cascading over his flesh; her neck is bared and looks more inviting in the candlelight than he’s ever seen it before; lacking its usual multi-layered outfit, her body sleeps free and soft, curved around him, around itself, the generous shape of her ass almost impossible not to reach out and touch. It’s the intense privacy of the moment, he thinks. The intimacy of sleep coupled with the fact that she had worried. About him. He pretends to be asleep when she wakes, startling herself, bolting upright like someone’s caught her in the act which effectively ruins his. Bull can’t hold back a laugh, even though it hurts deep inside him, all the way up along his ribs. Boss flushes bright red, cursing under her breath. The tension in her body is so acute, so severe that it practically cuts through the air. For a brief moment he wonders if she’ll set something on fire. Then, when she forces herself to look at him, he can see nothing but relief in her eyes. It hits him, like a hammer. Maybe it hits her, too, because she scratches the back of her head and looks away. She takes a step to the side. Another one forward. Glances at the doorway over her shoulder. “I’m - this-” she exhales slowly. “Not a word, Bull.” He remains exactly where he is, watching her and grinning - because it seems to infuriate her in a subtle and delightful way and also, mostly, because he can’t help himself. “My lips are sealed.” He gestures towards his mouth, ignoring the pain the motion brings. “I won’t tell a living soul that you snore like a bronto, Boss.” “You’re an ass.” Then, quiet and already half-way outside the room. “I’m glad you live.”

[twdeadlysins]

Bloodletting: Part Two

Season two, episode two (2/2)

Pairing: Eventual Daryl Dixon x Reader

Word Count: 3,098

Warnings: Slow burn, the usual walking dead violence, language, blood, and such with possible typos

Author’s Note: I don’t own anything from The Walking Dead, so all credit goes to their respective owners. This is a twd series rewrite with the reader inserted into the mix. I did and will continue to use dialogue from the actual show because I want it to be similar to what you’ve already watched, but obviously have the reader in it.

Sorry it’s been a while since I’ve uploaded another part for this series. Writer’s block, lack of motivation, and just life has been factors in why I haven’t. I’m trying to get back into the groove of things! <3 

If you want to be (un)tagged for this series rewrite, don’t hesitate to send me an ask, message me, or leave a comment and I’ll add/remove you. The same goes for any other fics! I’m in no way, shape, or form a writer. Any feedback is appreciated, but hate is a different story. Thank you and enjoy!

The gifs I use aren’t mine, so all credit goes to their respective owners.

MASTERLIST // TWD SERIES REWRITE

Daryl and the others were casually strolling through the woods to go back to the interstate before they heard a bloodcurdling scream ring out in the silence. The hunter raced with the group close behind in the direction it was coming from while he went for his crossbow on his shoulder. Andrea was on the ground crawling backwards as a walker was trying to nab her, but a woman with ear length brown hair rode on a horse with a bat in hand, striking the dead with a blow to the head. 

The woman urgently asked the blonde if she was Lori, obviously in a rush and desperate to find her. Carl’s mother announced she was Lori and so the mysterious woman said that Rick had sent her and that she needed to come with her. Lori was baffled and didn’t understand what was going on and frankly Daryl didn’t either. 

“There’s been an accident, Carl’s been shot. He’s still alive, but you’ve got to come now.” Lori’s eyes widen with her mouth gaped open in shock to the point where she didn’t move a muscle, just wandering her eyes back and forth unable to say or do anything. “Rick needs you, just come,” the woman strictly urged and that managed to make Lori snap out of it as she quickly shrugged off her backpack. 

Daryl whipped his head towards the mother. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. We don’ know this girl, you can’t get on that horse!” but she didn’t listen as she continued to hop up onto the mammal. 

“Y/N said you had others on the highway, that big traffic snarl? Backtrack to Fairburn road, two miles down is our farm. You’ll see the mailbox, the name is Greene.” After that she galloped off into the woods where the group just came from leaving the others to comprehend what had just happened and the hunter to fire an arrow into the walker’s head that sat up with a wheeze. 

The travel back to the highway was quiet and left Daryl to think about what had happened. She mentioned Rick, Carl and Y/N by name, so she obviously knew them and the shot that rang out prior was consistent with her story, she didn’t seem like a threat either… just sincere. The archer couldn’t do anything, but inform Dale and T-Dog about what occurred and then meet up with Rick at the farm tomorrow. Dale questioned with concern about Carl being shot, so Glenn elaborated about them not knowing since they weren’t there and a girl had swooped Lori up and took her. 

“You let her?” Dale inquired towards Daryl which made him get defensive. 

“Climb down out of my asshole, man. Rick and Y/N sen’ her, even knew Lori n’ Carl by name,” he retorted, brushing past the old man while Andrea angrily walked into the RV. Dale had asked if she was okay after learning that her screams were due to a walker, but all she gave him was a heated glare. 

Shortly after, everyone was discussing about going to the farm, but Carol refused to leave which led to Dale point out that they were split- scattered and weak. “What if she comes back and we’re not here? It could happen.” Carol made a valid point, but so did Dale and it was a tough decision to think about. If Sophia made her way back to the highway and they weren’t there, it would be horrible. Everyone was searching for her and the place she knew where her group would be was the interstate, so to not see them there… she would feel helpless and wander someone where else… she would never be found.

Daryl had a plan, tomorrow morning would give them a chance to rig a big sign and leave her some supplies. He was going to stay with the RV tonight leading Dale and Andrea to stay back as well. Glenn wanted to too, but was instructed to go- to reconnect with the group and get T-Dog there since he had a blood infection that went from bad to worse. Learning that information sparked an idea from hunter, so he went to his motorcycle- Merle’s rather and snatched an oily rag off to get what he was really looking for inside his pouch… a bag of prescription meds. Daryl tossed the dirty cloth to Dale, scolding him for leaving it on his brother’s motorcycle and asked why he had waited so long to say anything. 

The archer searched through his brother’s stash for something that could help T-Dog with his infection. He threw a bottle of strong painkillers to Glenn and oxycycline to Dale stating that the medication was top quality, not the cheap stuff and with that he walked away. 

After you had provided Maggie with the rest of your group’s location, you settled into a wooden rocking chair looking off into the sunset lit field still huddled in a blanket. Rick had came outside not long after and stood with his hands on his hips, his signature stance, and you could tell by his expression, he was thinking. 

“Hey,” you softly called, making him break out of his thoughts and turn his head to look down in your direction, not making eye contact with you. “Carl will get through this- you guys will get through this. Maggie went to go get Lori, Shane is out there with Otis to get those damn supplies, and you’re here, giving your blood. Everything will be fine.” Rick nodded his head, going through what you said to him in his head before giving you a small smile, finally looking at you. 

Hershel came out of the house and went to stand beside your best friend after giving you a concerning look to which you just smiled hoping it would assure him you were fine. You still had a fever, but overall the medicine was helping with your infected wounds and easing the bruised bone that was your hip. The two men talked about Hershel’s house and how it’s been in his family for over 160 years and it hasn’t been touched by the dead which was a miracle. Walkers were everywhere it seemed, but this place- this farm makes the world seem normal, like the apocalypse didn’t even occur. He elaborated that he had lost friends, neighbors… family. His wife and stepson’s death was the result of the epidemic, but his daughters were spared and he was grateful to God for that. “These people here, all we’ve got left is each other. Just hoping we can ride it out in peace ‘till there’s a cure.” 

“We were at the C.D.C… it’s gone now. There is no cure,” Rick informed which brought a wave of sadness to course through you not only because of the tragic event, but also that there was no cure- that there was no stopping the walkers. It was your life now and you’d have to survive through it if you wanted to live that is. 

“I don’t believe it,” Hershel chuckled. “When AIDS came along, everyone panicked. One boy in town came down with it and some people pulled their children from school, so they didn’t have to sit in the same room-” 

“This is a whole other thing-” 

“That’s what we always say, ‘This one’s different’-”

“Well, this one is,” Rick blatantly said, trying to get his point across since it wasn’t reaching Hershel’s head. 

The old man lightly snickered and you knew he was going to continue the debate. “Mankind’s been fighting plagues from the start. We get our behinds kicked for a while then we bounce back. It’s nature correcting herself, restoring some balance.” You managed to barely roll your eyes at his statement not agreeing or believing that was the case. Rick gave him a ‘bitch-da-fuck’ look that clearly yelled he wasn’t convinced. “I wish I could believe that.” 

“No disrespect Hershel, but I don’t believe that shit either and never will. Do you really think nature is correcting herself with the fucking apocalypse? People are not even human anymore and you think a cure will make it all better? I’ve seen their insides hanging out and they were walking around like it was a flesh wound, no cure can fix that.” You couldn’t hold your tongue anymore, you had the urge to voice your opinion to hopefully open up his eyes, but you had a feeling it would take more than words to change that. Before he could even think of an answer, you could hear hooves galloping in the distance. 

Once Lori got off the horse, she stood there and started to sob as Rick made his way over to elope her in a hug that tugged at your heartstrings. Her grip on him was tight and they rocked back and forth a couple times before Lori started to walk forwards making her husband walk backwards desperately wanting to get to her boy. The two of them proceeded to walk towards the room and you plopped down on the couch wanting to give them their privacy and space. 

“Here.” You glanced up to see Hershel offering you some more medication and a glass of water, so you took the pills out of hand and tossed them in your mouth before grabbing the glass to swallow the contents. “Thank you,” you muttered earning a nod in return as he pivoted to go into the kitchen. “Hey, Hershel,” you softly called and he halted to peer at you. “I’m sorry ‘bout earlier, I just… I tend to curse a lot and loudly voice my thoughts and opinions… especially when I keep them bottled up.” 

“It’s okay, Y/N, I don’t blame you,” he assured before disappearing into the other room, but the little voice in your head kept pestering you, telling you that he was lying. You shook your head and mumbled for it to shut up and took another sip of the water before scooting back into the couch, hugging the blanket around yourself. 

“Y/N,” you heard someone call. You lifted your head and bewilderingly scanned around the room for the source since you had just woken up from a nap. Hershel was standing near the dining table raising a glass of orange juice with another in his other before setting one on the wooden surface. Once you limped your way to the table and into a chair to drink the juice, Lori was helping a pale Rick into the room making you choke on the liquid at his sickly appearance.  

Hershel gave Rick the other glass, ushering him to drink more once he took a sip and was about to put it down. “Rick you look paler than me, drink the whole damn thing,” you joked, earning a glare from the deputy, but he complied. 

Lori placed both of her hands on the back of the chair across from you for support as she spoke. “Okay, I understand when Shane gets back with this other man-” 

“Otis,” Hershel corrected, making you take a sip while peering at the interaction before you, having a feeling this was going to get tense. 

“Otis, the idiot who shot my son.” When you choked the first time, it was minor, just a little clear of your throat and you were fine, but this- this sent you over the edge. You set down the glassware as you coughed, earning concerned expressions to which you held your index up for them to wait. “Oka-okay continue, m-sorry,” you said with a tiny smile as you cleared the itch creeping up your throat, going for your cup praying nothing else would make you go into a coughing fit again. 

“Ma’am, it was an accident,” Hershel softly assured, but Lori wasn’t having any of it as she told him she’d take that into advisement later, but for now he was the idiot who shot her son. You couldn’t help finding the whole conversation amusing how Lori was blatantly dissing Otis and you didn’t blame her, but you didn’t entirely blame Otis either. Yes, he should’ve been more aware before pressing the trigger, but at the end of the day it was an accident. 

Rick placed his hand on top of hers. “Lori, they’re doing everything they can to make it right.” 

You nodded agreeing with your best friend, both palms wrapped around your glass. “Otis feels guilty… obviously someone would feel that if they accidentally shot a kid,” you muttered, glancing into your half full cup, before peering back up and clearing your throat noticing you said that out loud. “He’s trying to redeem himself, tagging along to go to a walker infested high school to get the supplies needed to save Carl, so… let’s go easy on the guy, okay?”

“Okay, as soon as they get back you can perform this surgery?” Lori questioned seeming to hear, but ignore what you and Rick had said. “I’ll certainly do my best.” Rick’s wife nodded at his response before asking if he’s ever done the procedure before. “Well, yes, in a sense.” 

“In a sense?” She said and your brows furrowed and titled your head in confusion. “What do you mean in a sense? You’ve either done it or not doc,” you replied. 

Rick made a remark about how they didn’t have the luxury of shopping for a surgeon to which Lori lightly chuckled knowing that before she inquired for assurance that Hershel was a doctor.

“Yes, ma’am, of course. A vet.” 

Your orbs widen and you spit out the orange juice understanding exactly what type of doctor Hershel really was, but Lori wasn’t on the same page. Rick and Lori gave you a ‘wtf’ look before going back to Hershel with hope in her eyes. “A veteran? A combat medic?” You shook your head as you wiped the juice off of your face, waiting for Hershel to inform them. 

“A veterinarian.” You peered over at the couple and the look on their faces… they were shocked to hear that the only patients he has ever had were animals. Lori put her reaction aside and asked what animal he’s done the type of surgery on before. As she started listing a few mammals, Rick quietly announced he had to sit and as he did so, he lost his balance, falling onto a chair. Everyone rushed to aid him, you even bolted up to help, but you winced at the sudden rush of movement and eased back down in your seat seeing that Lori had gotten it covered.

“Completely over your head, aren’t you?” Lori said staring at the vet after she made sure her husband was fine.

“Ma’am, aren’t we all?” 

Nightfall had masked the sky as you were all watching Hershel take Carl’s blood pressure. Lori’s side was leaning against the door frame while Rick was in front of her waiting for the vet to report an update. Hershel had requested for you to stay off your feet for a day or two until your hip was better to deal with and your fever wasn’t too high, so you were seated in an armchair staring at the wall above the bed in a daze. This whole situation was fucked. First you get stuck at the interstate, you lose Sophia, and now Carl’s critically injured and everyone’s separated. You hoped Shane and Otis were okay, you really wished you could’ve went, but you would’ve just slowed them down or even get yourself killed in the process. The rest of the group was back at the highway and you just wanted them to get their asses to the farm because it already felt weird not being with them. 

The doctor removed his stethoscope and informed that his pressure was dropping again and time was running out, so Rick hurriedly jumped the gun and demanded for him to take some more of his blood, whatever Carl needed no matter how much, give it to him and then he was gonna go… Go? 

“Go? Go where?” His wife questioned in confusion catching what he said as well. 

“He said five miles, they should be long back by now. Something’s gone wrong,” Rick elaborated and he wasn’t wrong. It has been hours since Shane and Otis drove off to the high school to get some supplies. Yes, it was infested with loads of walkers, but it shouldn’t have taken this long. “Are you insane? You’re not going after them.”

“Rick, listen to your wife,” Hershel advised, but Rick wasn’t listening and started to talk about them getting into trouble, but the old man reminded him he was in no condition to do anything about it. Your best friend had given too much blood, he could barely stand and even if he tried to go after them, he wouldn’t make it off the porch. Rick was stubborn and wasn’t backing down, saying if something went wrong, he had to be there. His wife sternly said his place was here and if Shane said he’d be back, then he’d be back. “Rick, I know you want to, hell I do too, but we have our limits,” you mentioned in defeat. 

“I can’t just sit here!” 

“That’s exactly what you do!” Lori snapped. “If you need to pray or cry or tell God he’s cruel then you right ahead, but you’re not leaving, Rick. Carl needs you… here and I can’t do this by myself,” she softly muttered. “Not this one.” 

Guilt suddenly washed over you once Lori had said the last bit. She went through Rick being in hospital alone, you weren’t there for her and Carl or even Rick during that time. Sure you visited a couple times, but it was brief and usually late at night after visiting hours since you had a friend that worked in the hospital who let it slide. You didn’t want to face her because you’d blame yourself for getting him shot and now thinking back it was selfish for you to do that, but you thought it would be better if she didn’t see you. Regardless, if you had to stay put, then so did Rick. You’d just have to wait for Shane and Otis to come back from their supply run, and the others from the interstate. Once they save Carl, then him along with you and Rick will heal and get better, that’s when things will start looking up. After that, you all can resume what had you out in the woods to begin with… finding Sophia. 

_____________________________________

MASTERLIST // TWD SERIES REWRITE

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it! If you’d like to added or removed from the tags don’t hesitate to send me an ask or message! <3

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[bloomsoftly]

the color of lightning, pt. 1

Darcy/Pietro, rated T

read: part 2, part 3

Now on AO3.

Agent Darcy Lewis is called in after the Battle of Sokovia to help identify the bodies of the deceased. Except, it turns out, one of them isn’t quite dead.

this is a mirror fic to @paranoidwino‘s Life is Unfair (which is amazing and you should read it!). a million thanks to @dresupi -- i couldn’t imagine posting a quicktaser fic without your seal of approval. ;)

Darcy received the emergency alert before dawn.

It was the first time her phone had ever blared that particularly shrill tone, and Darcy fell face-first on the floor in her haste to scramble out of bed. She got dressed in the dark, eyes too bleary with sleep to benefit from the bedside lamp’s light anyway. The phone went off with another alert, and she  scrambled to turn it off. As she swiped at it, the screen displayed over a dozen text messages and several missed calls. They were all from Jane.

Darcy, you're in the States right now, right?

Darce, please tell me the jack-booted thugs didn't send you to an active war zone.

DARCY.

God damn it, Darcy. PICK UP YOUR PHONE.

The rest of the messages continued in a similar vein. Hastily, she typed out a quick text.

I'm in DC. just got called in. will call when I can.

Then, she called her superior and reported in. Coulson didn’t have much to say, except, “Turn on the TV, Lewis.”

She did. The destruction of Sokovia broadcasted from every station. It played in slow motion from a thousand different angles. Darcy didn’t think she could bear to watch the tragedy, but wasn’t able to tear her eyes away from the devastation.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, dumbstruck. No other words would come. “Oh my god.”

Luckily, Coulson didn't seem to expect anything more eloquent from her. “I know. Agent Lewis—”

Darcy couldn't answer, too riveted in the horror flickering across the TV screen. With a gentler tone, Coulson prompted, “Darcy. I need you to come in. Bodies will be arriving via helicarrier in a matter of hours, and I need people I can trust to oversee the identification of the deceased.”

That pulled her attention away from the traumatizing footage. “Identification of the bodies, sir? In DC?”

Coulson’s sigh reverberated through the line, tinny but audible in its exhaustion. “Yes, in DC. The area wasn’t stable enough to—Darcy, we can’t take the chance of someone picking up the bodies to use for—research.”

The air sat heavy with the words he didn’t say. Right. Hydra. Darcy nodded, even though Coulson wasn’t there to see it. “Got it, Son of Coul. Just tell me where to go.”

-:-

Several hours later, primed and ready with several cups of coffee and a shirt that was not inside-out (it turned out Darcy was not particularly skilled at getting dressed in the dark), She arrived at the morgue.

The entire building was eerily still. Only a handful of people were assigned to the task of identifying the bodies—Coulson didn’t lie about wanting to keep it quiet. Everyone stayed quiet in their work—either out of respect for the dead or due to the stifling silence that permeated the building. The only sound was the quiet thunk of SHIELD security as they made their rounds through the building.

Knowing that she couldn’t put off her job forever, Darcy sighed and entered her designated room. It was filled almost wall to wall with black body bags. She had to pause just inside the doorway to tilt her head back, willing away the sharp burn of tears that lingered at the back of her throat.

Darcy offered a silent plea for the dead to find peace, because they could not speak for themselves. Then, shaking off the last of her hesitation, she moved to the first bag. After confirming that the woman inside matched the identification found with her body, Darcy painstakingly wrote Tanya Ivanovna Mirkova on the little card.

And so the day passed. Darcy moved from one bag to the next, verifying identities and copying their names down before moving on. Her back started to ache terribly, but she refused to rush through the task. In some strange, morbid way she felt as though she was responsible for sending them off, and she wanted to do it right.

She was about three-quarters of the way through the room when an anomaly brought her up short. Darcy had paused for a moment, stretching out her sore back and cracking her neck before moving on to the next body. Stifling a small yawn, she pulled the zipper down on the next bag only to freeze in shock.

She would recognize that face, that hair anywhere. It was Pietro Maximoff.

(read more link here)

Pietro Maximoff, whose body was most definitely not supposed to be in a random morgue in Washington, D.C. Darcy simply stared at his face for a long moment, wondering absently if her sleep-deprivation and general second-hand trauma was causing her to hallucinate. She blinked a couple of times to clear her vision, and—nope. He was definitely still there, and she was absolutely certain it was Pietro.

But, why? How could this happen? she wondered. Was this what Coulson had been worried about? That somehow a superhero’s body would get ‘misplaced’ and end up in an easily-accessible, unsecured location?

Darcy stalked away from the body and thought frantically—surely someone had to know that Pietro was missing. He had a twin sister, didn’t he? Poor Wanda. She must have been frantically searching for her brother’s body.

Darcy pulled out her phone to call Coulson. He didn’t answer, so she tried again. Still nothing. Frustrated, Darcy bit off a curse and left a vague but urgent voicemail. She didn’t mention Pietro by name, just in case.

Once that was done, she glanced back in his direction. “As much of a troublemaker in death as you were in life, huh?” she asked sadly. A lump lodged itself in her throat and anger simmered hot in her belly—this was not the end a hero deserved, to be left forgotten in a random morgue halfway across the world. This was personal for Darcy.

After years of working at SHIELD (it turned out that it was really difficult to get a job when you were legally forbidden from speaking about past work experience), Darcy had gotten quite close to both Clint and Natasha. She’d seen the footage; Pietro had clearly sacrificed himself to save her favorite archer’s life.

Darcy wondered if there was a way she could give Pietro the send off he’d earned. An idea struck her and she began to move toward him, only to stop when she remembered the last 17 bodies she still had left to identify and catalogue. Assuming Coulson took a while to call her back, Darcy had the time to finish her original task and then come back to Pietro.

She worked quickly but methodically to identify the remaining bodies. Within the blink of an eye, it seemed, Darcy was back at Pietro’s table. She stared down at him. His body was covered in blood and soot, and his handsome face was tough to look at—his expression still carried the faint impression of excruciating pain.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Darcy grabbed some tools and went to work. Using her SHIELD field medical training, she painstakingly removed all of the bullets from Pietro’s body. If she was quick enough, she might have him cleaned up by the time his sister came to collect his body. It was the least she could do, Darcy thought.

As she removed the last of the bullets, a low groan broke the silence of the room. Darcy panicked and jumped backwards, dropping the tool. It clattered loudly, bouncing on the metal table before landing on the tile floor. Before she could stop herself, Darcy looked at Pietro’s face and hissed, “Pietro? Was that you?”

Which was ridiculous. Pietro was dead, Darcy scoffed to herself. She was hearing things because she wished he wasn’t, and her sleep-deprived brain was only playing tricks on her. Rolling her eyes at herself, Darcy took a step forward.

“W-wanda…s…sestra.” This time, Darcy saw Pietro’s mouth move as he choked out a call for his sister. He was alive.

His eyes opened to slits, and he groaned, “U..p-pomoć…Kér-kérem. Kérem…u p-pomoć. P-Please.”

The pain glimmering in Pietro’s eyes spurred her to action. Darcy screamed for help, shouting repeatedly for a doctor. With the distant sound of boots thundering down the hall in their direction, she leaned forward and grabbed his hand. “I’ve got you, ” she reassured, leaning over him. “I’m going to make sure you’re okay.”

He squeezed her hand tightly, painfully, then released it. “Stay with me, Pietro! Stay with me,” she cried, still gripping his hand, but it was no use. He was already unconscious.

-:-

The next several hours rushed past in a blur.

Darcy watched fretfully as paramedics pumped Pietro’s heart in an attempt to keep him alive long enough to get him to surgery. She had to step away and release his hand to give them room to work. She flexed her fingers several times as she watched them work—they still tingled from the distressed way he'd held her hand. Darcy’s whole body shook from stress, flinching with every squeeze of the balloon pump.

When the paramedics strapped him to a gurney and raced to an operation room, Darcy followed. No one tried to stop her, which was good—she really didn't want to have to pull the ‘federal agent’ card. Not that she was acting very professional at the moment, with a brain full of wool and a thousand-yard stare.

Her thoughts were strangely empty, save for one: she desperately hoped that Pietro’s last moments didn't belong to the morgue, trapped in a body bag in the dark, crying out for his sister. Her last vision of him was an agonized grimace in a handsome face, pale and still. Then the door to the operating wing swung closed.

Darcy stared at the white walls for a long moment, then mentally kicked herself. She wasn’t a surgeon, but she could protect Pietro and his sister in other ways. She straightened up and checked her phone—still no call from Coulson—before she headed to the main desk with a purpose.

It wasn’t every day that a man returned from the dead in the hospital morgue, apparently. Which worked in Darcy’s favor, because the admissions staff turned the paperwork over to her with little fuss. She froze for a moment, staring at the first line (NAME OF PATIENT).

The nurse misunderstood and tsked lightly in sympathy. “Let me get you something to wipe your hands, dear.” Darcy frowned in confusion, then realized—her hands were shaking, and smeared with Pietro’s blood. She dropped the pen abruptly.

After wiping her hands clean and thanking the woman, Darcy wrote Mikhail Petrovich on the line. Darcy was glad that she hadn’t written Pietro Maximoff’s name anywhere before starting to clean him up; Hydra would have no qualms about destroying the hospital and everyone in it. Not if it meant they could regain control of one of the twins.

Realizing she couldn’t fill out the rest of the form, Darcy alerted the nurse. “Ma’am, I’m really sorry but I can’t fill the rest of this information out. I know his name from my records, but we had so many civilians flown in from the disaster in Sokovia—”

The woman rolled her eyes. Darcy started to bite off a second, irritated apology, but the woman cut her off. “No, I’m sorry, I should have realized that. You’re SHIELD, right? It’s alright. I’m assuming you’d like to be notified about his progress?”

The lump in Darcy’s throat returned, and she nodded. The nurse grinned. “Of course you do. Who wouldn’t want to be responsible for a man who looks like that, am I right?” she teased with a wink. Without waiting for a response—which was good because Darcy had no idea what to say to that—the nurse continued, “I’ll let the doctor know to keep you apprised. Hang in there, dear. Mr. Petrovich is a medical miracle.”

Darcy roused a tired half-smile and excused herself to find a place to sit. She chose an uncomfortably stiff chair that maintained a direct line of sight to the operations wing. It also put her within easy access to the coffee machine, which was a plus. Settled in for the long run, Darcy counted the passage of time by the amount of coffee she drank and the number of unanswered calls she made to Coulson.

Somewhere between coffee cups #4 and 5, Darcy received a flurry of texts from Jane. I’m glad you’re safe, Darce.

Wait, you ARE safe. Right??

I never should have let you take a job with the shadiest of shady government agencies.

Cracking her first true smile of the day, Darcy texted her back. I’m safe, Janie. In the hospital.

Realizing how that would sound, she added, Not for me! I’m supervising. Thank you for checking, though.

Before Jane could reply, Darcy sent one last text. But we both know you couldn’t have stopped me from working for Coulson anyway. My brain was not made for astrophysics, and I love you too much to ruin your research.

Darcy lifted her coffee cup to her lips, only to realize that it was empty. Figuring she could stretch her legs a bit, she got up for a refill.

When Darcy sat back down, a message from Jane was waiting. Call me when you can, okay? Take care of yourself, Darce. I love you.

Tears burned her eyes, and Darcy tilted her head back to lean it against the wall. Almost unwillingly, she thought about Pietro’s twin, Wanda. She must have thought her brother was dead, and it broke Darcy’s heart. If—no, when—Pietro made it out of this initial surgery, Darcy needed to let her know that her brother was alive. Even if he didn’t make a full recovery, Wanda deserved to know. To say goodbye, at the very least. The problem, then, would be to figure out how to get in touch with her. But that was an issue for later, once Darcy had heard from the doctor.

The last of Darcy’s adrenaline finally faded, leaving her achy and exhausted. She maintained her vigil, focusing on the doors leading to Pietro’s operating room. Everything else blurred and softened at the edges.

She wasn’t aware of how much time had passed until her view of the doors was obstructed by a pair of blue scrubs. Rubbing her eyes, Darcy raised her eyes up to the doctor’s face. The woman looked as exhausted as she felt, and a spike of fear surged in her gut.

Scrubbing a hand over her face briefly, the doctor got straight to the point. “We’ve managed to stabilize him, for now.” Darcy’s whole body sagged with relief at the news. Her head fell back, bumping against the wall hard enough to bruise. She ignored the stab of pain and instead smiled tremulously at the doctor.

But the doctor wasn’t done. “He’s still critical, and to be perfectly blunt it’s a miracle he has made it this far already. If he has any family, it might be best to get into contact with them. Just in case.”

Darcy swallowed heavily and nodded. “I will find out, thank you.” She hesitated, then asked, “Do you think it would be alright if I sat with him, sometimes? You know, if he doesn’t have family, or—”

The doctor’s eyes softened slightly. “You’re the one who found him alive, aren’t you? Down in the morgue.” At Darcy’s nod, she sighed and allowed, “We usually only allow family, but I think I can make an exception considering you’re a government agent and you saved his life. Besides, it might do him some good to have someone there to talk to him.”

The doctor hesitated, then turned to look at the clock. Following her gaze, Darcy was surprised to find that it was well past 8:00 in the evening. Her stomach seized in a sharp reminder that Darcy had consumed nothing but coffee all day. “I have to move on, Agent—”

“Lewis.”

The doctor dipped her chin. “Agent Lewis. They’ll be moving Mr. Petrovich to room 313 when he’s ready, but this late in the day it might be best if you went home and came back tomorrow. In the meantime, please let me or one of the nurses know if you need any more information, alright?”

They parted ways, and Darcy headed to the nurse’s desk to liaise about security measures for Pietro. If the hospital staff were curious about the fact that she was instituting heightened safety measures for a random civilian, they didn't let on. The nurses seemed to take her explanation easily enough.

By the time Darcy had settled everything, another hour had passed. She was halfway to her car before she realized she had yet to contact Wanda. She tried dialing Coulson again, only for the call to go straight to voicemail.

Pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration, Darcy abruptly remembered the number Coulson had made her memorize, something to contact the Avengers if there was an emergency. It was a long shot, to say the least.

Which is why Darcy was shocked that someone picked up.

“State your name and authorization, please.”

“Umm, my name is Darcy Lewis. I’m an agent of SHIELD and I need to speak with Wanda Maxi—”

“I have strict orders not to take calls from SHIELD, Agent Lewis.”

“No, wait—please, this is important—” She was too late. The line was already dead.

“Damn it!” Darcy was too frustrated and exhausted to do anything but order takeout and head to her apartment. She'd have to try again the next day.

-:-

A sudden realization jerked Darcy awake the next morning. Within seconds, she was sitting upright and cursing herself. “Damn it, Darcy,” she grumbled to herself, pulling on her clothing rougher than was strictly necessary. “Why didn't you think of calling Clint?"

Stumbling into her apartment’s sparse kitchen, she put on a pot of coffee to brew. As the heavenly smell began to permeate the kitchen, she pulled out her phone and dialed Clint's secure line.

He didn't pick up, which wasn't all that surprising. Luckily, she knew he checked his messages regularly.

“Hey, Clint. I know you're dealing with the aftermath of whatever the fuck happened in Sokovia, but listen. I have information about the two strays you picked up while you were over there. I know that one was—injured, but I have information that you need to know. I need you to call me ASAP. I'm not kidding, Clint. This is life or death stuff. Call me as soon as you get this.”

-:-

It turned out that coma patients were boring as hell.

Darcy felt guilty for even thinking it, of course, considering the fact that she hadn't even been sure he'd survive surgery the day before (and still might not, though she quashed that train of thought ruthlessly).

Still, the fact remained—sitting with a coma patient was boring. Especially when you weren't a family member or loved one. Remembering the doctor’s comment that hearing someone speak could help, Darcy dragged her chair closer to the bed.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. It was so awkward. Finally, she said the first thing that came to mind, which happened to be a debate between over whether cats or dogs made better pets. She stumbled at first, then settled into a rhythm.

Darcy spoke to Pietro until her voice went hoarse. She talked to him about everything, from her favorite movies and books to her childhood bouncing from foster home to foster home. She even told him about working for SHIELD (non-classified stories only, of course) and her experiences as one of the first Midgardians to meet and befriend Thor.

Partway through a recounting of her and Jane’s encounter with the Dark Elves in London, Darcy realized the shadows in the room had shifted to obscure most of Pietro’s face. Blinking owlishly, Darcy checked the time and found that the entire day had gone by.

“I'm gonna have to start setting alarms so that I'll actually remember to eat meals while I'm here,” Darcy grumbled, absently patting Pietro’s hand as she stood from her chair. When she realized what she'd done, Darcy snatched it back and blushed profusely. It didn't matter that no one was there to see her; she rushed out of the room like a bat out of hell.

[silvershadow1711]

I Caught Fire excerpt pt.2

(Here’s the other part of this Awakening fic I did. I think I’m going to post my unfinished work here so as not to bother readers on ff.net and ao3 with drabbles)

–

“Don’t Leave Me” pt. 2 – He detested the healing tent, for so many reasons. The simplest was that he just couldn’t stand being around other people, especially not the people of the Ylissean League, and a trip to the healing tent meant human interaction was a given. Perhaps on a more complex level (one that he would never admit to anyone willingly) was the fact that medical bays of any sort always reminded him of that tentative transition period after the great war. That time when he had barely been king for a fortnight, when the dead still littered the streets and the sand was red from fresh spilled blood.

While hatred had stewed in his mind and heart, there was no time for revenge. Every temple had been converted into a hospice, but it still wasn’t enough to contain the massive influx of wounded and dying. What could he do other than open the castle up to them, despite the protests of the lords and nobles. What was he supposed to do; let women and children that may as well have been him and his mother, die on the streets? The bourgeois would’ve preferred that, but he had never cared for the opinions of the rich and powerful. That was something Ylissean dogs would do.

The sight of the wounded, with their limbs missing and bones shattered and guts hanging out of them like streamers was never truly wiped from his mind. He’d seen enough of it over the course of two wars- he didn’t need any reason to further humanize these damnable Ylisseans.

Gangrel stood by the edge of the tent, far enough from the cots so as to not be in the way, but close enough that his presence could not go unnoticed. At a glance, it would’ve been easy to assume he was angry, enraged even, the way his jaw clenched as he practically seethed at the woman currently sitting on the only occupied cot. The young woman, her already pale skin an almost sickly gray from blood loss, sat with one arm slightly raised and shaking from the apparent effort of keeping it aloft while the other held her overly large shirt up over her stomach while still covering her breasts (Bryn, like most Plegian women, did not take kindly to wearing small clothes).

A younger, very petite blonde girl donning the attire of a War Cleric was wrapping a tourniquet around her midsection. It was obvious the girl (who’s name was Liz or something) wanted to say something to her patient, but every time she opened her mouth, she froze, before casting a furtive, almost frightened glance toward the man looming over them in the background. Gangrel met every timid glance in his direction with a death glare. He had been silent the whole time, but the look on his face spoke volumes. Eyes forward, girl, before I take them away from you. He didn’t need the silly little chit looking at him when she had a job to do. Finally (he was beginning to suspect the blonde princess wasn’t exactly good at her duties), Lissa tied the bandages in place, getting to her knees as she brushed off her hands.

“There. All patched up.” Her patient smiled up at her, obviously weary, but sincerely grateful. “Thank you, Lissa. You’re a lifesaver.” “Yeah, well, I can be a life taker too, so you’d better actually rest this time if you know what’s good for you.” Bryn rolled her visible eye. “Yes, mother.”

As the cleric left (finally), Gangrel walked over until he occupied the spot she had just vacated, saying nothing as he watched the other woman gingerly lower her shirt, wincing slightly. Heaving a deep sigh,  she slumped forward a bit, clearly exhausted.

“Well?” She prompted, not bothering to look up at him. “Go ahead. I know you’re just dying to lay into me.” For a second, he thought of holding back, leaving her to rest in peace… of course, the former Plegian king had the impulse control of a child, and a second was as long as he could restrain himself.

“How could you do something so positively stupid?! You’re supposed to be a master tactician, someone  who’s smarter than the rest of us idiots!” “What I did was tactically sound–” she tried to interrupt him, but he wasn’t having any of it. “Does it look like I’m finished? No! Now let me talk!”

“…I’m listening.” The way she looked up at him, guileless and enraptured despite the exhaustion and pallor of her face, took all the wind from his sails. He sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He had allowed his anger to fade, and that was his mistake. Anger was easy. Anger was comfortable. The emotions swirling inside him now were new and confusing and they terrified him. Fear, misery, guilt, concern and, yes, a bit of anger, but for all the wrong reasons. Reasons he wasn’t used to. Everything within him now was born of love, love for the stupid, reckless woman sitting in front of him. It made everything he felt more intense, to the point of physical illness. He wasn’t used to caring about anyone, and to suddenly have someone thrust in his life he cared for so much… it was like drowning.

He reached out, brushing the backs of his fingers against the curve of her cheek. She was so soft, but so cold. Not as cold as she had been on the battlefield, but close. “Why did you put yourself in danger like that?” he asked in a tortured whisper. “Trying to beat me to the grave?” To anyone else, he’d have meant that as a joke, albeit a rather morbid one, but with Bryn, it was simply a grim reminder that every second he had with her was precious. That there was no guarantee they would have much more time together. The ever looming threat of Grima already gave him nightmares, he didn’t need the added horror of watching her fall on the field of some inconsequential skirmish.

For a long time, Bryn was silent, but it seemed to be more from the toll her wounds were taking on her than any kind of hesitance. Finally, she spoke up, her voice weak and tired, only emphasizing her words.  “Just trying to keep you safe. You’re lucky I was there; if I hadn’t pushed you out of the way, that berserker would’ve cleaved you in twain.”

The truth of her words left a sour taste in his mouth….

He had been so caught up in picking off the undead archers and tricksters that surrounded them that he hadn’t even noticed the silvery glint of the ax that nearly bisected him until Bryn shoved him hard to the side. He’d hit the ground at an awkward angle, twisting his wrist painfully as he instinctively tried to catch himself, but he hadn’t noticed any of that until much later. At the moment, all he could focus on was the woman standing between him and the Fell servant that nearly killed him. That blow, meant for him, only grazed the young tactician, but the razor’s edge of the blade still sliced effortlessly through what flesh it met.

She wasn’t wearing her usual breastplate (it was only a skirmish! The Risen they faced weren’t even that strong!), and her thin clothes offered less than no protection. Everything seemed to slow down as Gangrel watched the bright red arc of blood that followed the path of the ax fall to the ground. It seemed to take Bryn a moment to even realize she’d been struck, but he needed less time than that to get back to his feet. As he held his ever present Levin sword aloft, he could feel his blind rage mixing with and strengthening his magic. The air around them burned and cracked loudly as a bolt of lightning emanated from the sword into the shambling bag of rotting bones and flesh that was the Risen. It could not even howl in agony as it exploded into a (unsatisfying) cloud of acrid purple smoke. Gangrel was sure he would’ve gone on a massacre, probably hunting down Risen and ally alike if only to quell the rage burning within him, had there not been a strained whimper behind him.

He turned, all the anger and hate within him doused by fear as he watched his betrothed clutch at the wound that gaped across her belly, trying to stem the flow of blood that had already dyed most of her shirt and trousers. He dropped his sword at once, not caring that they were still in the midst of a battle, rushing to her side before she fell and injured herself more. It was just a flesh wound, but it bled so much, and she was so pale and cold… How could he have let such a thing happen? He was supposed to protect her, and he had been doing such a good job of it too… Of course, things like this always happened, though usually with less disastrous results. No matter how hard he fought to keep her safe, Bryn always had to jump in and take blows meant for him. More often than not she just deflected them expertly, but the fact remained that this was getting to be a habit…

“I was doing just fine, thank you. Maybe if I didn’t always have to worry about you getting yourself hurt, I could pay more attention to what was going on around me.” The young tactician gaped at him in disbelief. “Oh my gods…. Are you actually trying to blame me for this? I save your life, and you’re trying to blame me for getting hurt?” “Damn it, Bryn, I don’t need you saving my life! I’m supposed to protect you! There’s only one person here who’s life matters, and it sure as hell isn’t me.” That look she fixed him with, that sad, disapproving look, made it feel as if there was a chunk of ice in his throat, choking him.

“…Don’t say that, Gangrel. Please don’t. You know I hate it when you talk like that…” How dare she guilt trip him when he was in the right? It was a disgrace… but it worked. It wasn’t fair- wasn’t he guilty of enough things, things much less noble than loving someone who mattered more than him? Gritting his teeth, he ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair.

“It’s the truth.” He seethed. “You know it’s the truth as well as I do. You are all I have to live for, Bryn. I am nothing without you. If anything were ever to happen to you, let alone because I couldn’t protect you or save you…” He simply trailed off. He knew what he wanted to say, and she undoubtedly did too, but he simply couldn’t put it into words. Not out of fear of making it real, but because there were just no words to describe how lost he would be without her. She had shown him a glimpse of what real life was like for the first time since he was a child. Death would not be enough to stop the pain of losing her.                                

Bryn remained quiet for a long moment, before reaching out and taking one of his hands into her much smaller ones. Those delicate looking hands were rough and calloused, the fingertips like sheets of ice against his skin. She cradled his hand against her chest, right over her heart.

“I know, Gangrel. You think I don’t know? I live with that dark cloud hanging over me constantly. That all consuming fear that the person you love won’t be there tomorrow…. That you’ll be all alone and miserable again, and what’s the point of even living like that?” He was more than a little surprised to hear her talk like that, given how much she believed in preserving life. She looked up at him, her face a mask of misery.

“I feel exactly the same as you. So how can you not understand why I have to keep you safe?” So many reasons bubbled to the surface of his mind that it took a moment to untangle them all. The main reason was because it was simply too difficult to wrap his mind around the fact that somebody cared about him.  Not because of what he could do for them (or to them), but because of who he was as a person. A lifetime of evidence to the contrary made that hard to believe, but here was the proof, that this woman was willing to throw her life away for him. Of course, he couldn’t tell Bryn all of that- despite her best wishes, he tried to keep his thoughts and feelings hidden from her. Bad enough that Emmeryn had seen him at  one of his lowest points, Gangrel would rather blast himself in the face with an Arcfire tome than let Bryn witness him having a breakdown. She was still waiting for an answer, though (the tactician did not appreciate rhetoric), so he had to tell her something.

“Because I’m the one who’s supposed to be protecting you! I don’t need to hide behind your skirt, I need to keep you safe.” “But why can’t we keep each other safe?” “Because I’m the man!” He raged, instantly regretting how loud his voice had gotten. The last thing they needed was Chrom running into the tent, Falchion drawn and looking for any excuse to cleave him in half. Gangrel lowered his voice, but still seethed with frustration. “I’m the man, and the man is supposed to keep his woman safe. …what else am I good for?” There was the crux of the problem, it seemed. It was impossible not to feel useless around Bryn- she was just good at so many things (well, not cooking, but she was even working on improving that). She wasn’t the one who needed him, he needed her- he’d told her as much when he proposed. Their relationship was entirely one-sided. And now, she even fought his battles for him… how long would it take for her to realize he was simply a drain on her and walk away?

She was looking up at him, with that same horrible, sympathetic look Emmeryn seemed to have reserved for him alone. Somehow, Bryn’s single eye seemed to concentrate the pity, making it even worse.

“Stop staring at me like that!” he hissed, resisting the urge to cover his eyes. It wouldn’t do any good- he could feel that stare, boring into his soul. “Oh, Gangrel…” she even shook her head sympathetically… which made her next words all the more bemusing. “If I sculpted a man out of Pegasus dung, he couldn’t be as full of Pegasus dung as you are.” “…what?!” She frowned up at him, her furrowed brow and pursed lips looking no less intimidating against her pallid complexion.

“What else are you good for? How about making me happy? How about keeping me sane? How about giving me a reason to keep moving forward when every fiber of my being is screaming at me to give up? Or is that not good enough for you? Would you be happy if I were some weak little noble lady who swooned at the first sign of danger?”

For some reason, a vivid image of Maribelle, with her shrill, grating voice and revolting little parasol popped into his mind. The look on his face was all the answer she needed. Sighing deeply, Bryn lifted her legs onto the cot and gingerly laid down, her face tight with pain. She was silent, but obviously fighting back whimpers, evident by her hands clenched tightly in the sheets. Scarcely thinking about it, the former king reached out and took her hand into his own, squeezing it gently to let her know she could squeeze back. She did as she finally stretched out and, were he a lesser man (like Chrom), he probably would’ve cried out in pain himself. She had a really strong grip.

She turned her head slightly to look at him once more. “I’ve been fighting on the front lines all this time, and I have no intention of stopping until there is no more fighting left to be done.” “What if I tell you to stop? I’m your husband, what if I tell you you can’t fight anymore.” Bryn smiled widely at this, a glint of humor in her dark eye.

“First of all, you’re not my husband, you’re my fiancée because someone doesn’t want to get married by a priest of Naga-” “It’s not because he’s a priest of Naga, it’s because the marriage will be null once we get back to Plegia, and also because fuck Ylisseans and their weird wedding traditions.” Gangrel had already made it quite clear time and again how he felt about getting married amongst the Shepherds. Brides wearing white? No feast? Fuck that noise. The paler woman chuckled softly.

“Well then, until we get to Plegia, you can’t order me to do anything, and even once we’re there, you still can’t order me to do anything because I outrank you- you’re just a foot soldier now, remember?” Dammit, why did he ever say that aloud? But Bryn still wasn’t finished. “And even once we’re married and you’re king again, you still can’t order me to do anything.” “Why the blazing hells not?!” It wasn’t as if he had any intention of ordering her around. He wasn’t one of those pathetic excuses for men who felt like a big shot because they treated women poorly- he could pick on someone his own size, thank you. But he would think that when he was a proper king again that she might hold a little more respect for him, at least… She simply smiled benignly at him.

“Because I’m stronger than you, Gangrel. I can beat you in combat without even breaking a sweat.” “That was a one-time occurrence!” he seethed, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. How could she bring that up now? “All three times? You shouldn’t feel bad, dear- I’m stronger than most of the men in this army. Hells, most of the girls are. We just have a more useful skill set.” “… if you’re still trying to make me feel better about being completely worthless, congratulations; you’ve failed miserably.”

“What I’m trying to do is tell you that I don’t need you putting yourself in harm’s way to keep me safe.” For the briefest moment, the wind was taken out of his sails, but he recovered quickly. Or tried to. “I’m not you, I don’t–” “What, do you think I don’t notice all the times you’ve taken blows meant for me? I have one eye, I’m not blind. Hells, you’ve been doing it longer than I have, I’m ashamed to say.  I probably would’ve been killed a while back if not for you, and while I know I should be grateful- and I am, Gangrel, I truly am- it makes me sick to my stomach to see you get hurt in my place. Especially when I should be smart enough not to get caught unawares in the first place.”

She reached out, lightly brushing the backs of her fingers across his side, tracing the faint remains of one of the first scars he’d gotten since joining the Shepherds. It had been a skirmish, much like the one today, the only real difference being that back then, he could barely stomach the annoyingly cheerful tactician who always hounded him. He could’ve easily let that Risen spear her like a fish- he held no affection for her and it would’ve served her right for not paying attention. But he couldn’t. For some reason that eluded him to this day, he had thrown himself in front of her, taking the blow and loosing a decent amount of blood in the process. But honestly, he hadn’t regretted it, even back then. Now, he was thankful for that knee jerk reaction.

Pulling her hand away from his side, Gangrel laced his fingers with Bryn’s. He could just see the glint of her engagement ring (he’d buy her a much nicer one when they went back to Plegia). “If a few more scars is the price to keep you by my side, then I’m happy to pay it.” “I feel exactly the same way.” Bryn said stubbornly. His sentimental mood was crushed with a wave of annoyance and frustration.” “That is so fucking stupid!” “You’re stupid!” For a long time, they glared at one another, daring the other to back down first. Of course, stubbornness and a refusal to admit when they were wrong were two of the things they had in common.

“We are a terrible couple.” He said finally, sitting on the cot beside her.” “We’re probably going to kill each other one of these days.” Bryn agreed, curling around him. “I’d rather you kill me than some Risen’s stray arrow.” “I don’t want you to die in a random skirmish, either. Or ever, from anything.” She sighed deeply. Closing her eye. Her weariness seemed to finally be taking it’s toll on her. “Look, I promise to stay safe if you’ll do the same.” “What?” He was completely thrown for a loop by that seemingly random request.

“What I was saying before before I got derailed, thank you very much, was that I have no intention taking myself off the front lines. And I have a feeling that you won’t stop fighting either.” “Not until you stop or I get the grisly end I was promised.” Bryn opened her eye and glared daggers at him. “Neither of those things is happening. Which is my point. We spend more time fighting each other’s battle’s than paying attention to what’s in front of us. So let’s just try to keep our eyes on our respective part of the battlefield, at least a little more than we do now.” “…you only have one eye, Bryn. You can’t even see the whole battlefield.” “I compensate for that!” She snapped at him. “Stop trying to make excuses to die before me, dammit! I want to grow old together.” Gangrel laughed wryly.

“I never think about getting old.” It was mostly because he never expected to live as long as he had. “Well, you need to start. Didn’t you promise me you’d love me even when I was an old crone?” “Of course I will.” He said truthfully, leaning down to press his lips against her cheek. He’d love her till the day he died, however soon that might be. “I’ll love you no matter how old and gross you are. But I never said anything about me getting old.” A small, but surprisingly strong hand wrapped around his throat.

“Excuse me?” “What? I’m just saying, women get ravaged by age more than men.” “Says the man who already has crow’s feet and frown lines deeper than Wyvern Valley.” “You swore you’d stop making that comparison!” “Then stop making weird faces like that- it creeps me out.” As they continued arguing, any promise of staying safe was long forgotten. It didn’t matter though; it was unspoken, but very clear neither had any intention of letting the other die before them.

[poutypanic]

Finding Purpose Chapter 10

Fic Rating: Mature 

AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10529928/chapters/25177836

Chapter Summary: A lot of stuff gets resolved, and then there's some bonding time. I promise the whole chapter is not angst-ridden just bear with me, there's a lot of fluff too. (> ^_^ )>.

Fic Summary: You've been living alone in Hanamura for the past five years, and are content to stay that way. You have a troubled past and have let it isolate you. One night a ruckus is coming from the Shimada Castle. Against your better judgment you check it out, eventually, you end up befriending an archer with a past as equally troubling as yours.This is a romance/fluff and slow burn, coupled with action and angst.

Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Repeat. In through the nose, and out through the mouth. In through the nose, out the mouth.

You’ve tried to find the most secluded part of the facility to try and not have a mental break down in. It’s not going that well for you. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this level of stress and worry. Along with a different kind of emotional hurt that you’ve never felt before. A deep and heavy sob is threatening to rip itself from your chest, and you're fighting it with every bit of willpower you’ve got left. You shouldn't fight it; you'll feel better after letting it out, but you're stubborn.

Alas, your emotions are out of your control, and you start to sob despite having tried so hard to keep it from happening. With your thighs pulled up against your chest, you bury your face into your knees and just let it happen.

“Hey friend, you mind if I join ya?”

Apparently, this spot isn’t secluded enough. Either that or he was trying to find you. Your eyes snap open. Jesse is standing a safe distance away from you, actually waiting for your permission, and won’t sit until you say it’s okay.

“Leave me alone, Jesse.”

Jesse huffs, “I think I can handle whatever it is that’s got your jimmies so rustled.”

You scowl at him, “My jimmies? Are you serious?”

“Yeah! I’m bein serious.” He pauses so he can pull a handkerchief from his pocket and steps close enough so he can hand it to you, “Ya’know he’s in the best hands possible.”

You stare at the handkerchief like it’s a venomous snake, coiled, and ready to lurch at you.

“I know that.”

Jesse frowns, “Would’ya take the fuckin thing? Your face is a mess.”

You take it from him and look away while you clean up your face.

“You should give talkin to me a chance; I might not disappoint ya.”

Fine. You point to the floor next to you, your way of giving him permission to sit.

“Did Hanzo let you know he got hurt? Or were you there when he got shot?”

Jesse furrows his eyebrows, “That’s gonna be a double negative.” He sits down and starts to connect the dots, “He didn’t let us know, did he?”

“Why would he do that? Why would he not tell you or me, the moment he got shot, or that he was hurt?”

“Ah, I see, that is strange isn't it.”

“Strange is an understatement.”

“I reckon, and this is just some speculation on my part, that maybe, it’s cause he’s still fightin with his demons.”

All you can do is hum nervously and shake your head. You really don’t understand. Or maybe you do. It's just hard to get past the denial, and you need more convincing.

Jesse is trying to be especially careful with his words, “No matter how much’cha love somebody, unfortunately, friend, ya can’t love their demons away. Trust me, I know from experience.”

“Hmm.” You get what he’s saying now. He’s right, even if you wish that wasn’t true. If only things could be that easy. You’re not sure what to do with the information, and Jesse can sense that.

He continues in an even more careful tone now, “I just think he could use a little bit’a help. Some uh, guidance, ya know? From somebody who knows what they’re doin.”

You agree. Now you just have to figure out how to put your own words together. How to talk to Hanzo about this without coming off angry and judgmental. That’s enough talking about this with anybody other than Hanzo; you don’t want to talk about Hanzo behind his back any more than you already have. So you would like to change the subject.

You tell Jesse thank you for the wisdom and then change the subject to Ana, “She still pissed at us? If I’m being really honest, I don't think I remember even half of what she was going off about.”

Jesse shrugs, “She’ll forgive us. I understand where she’s comin from. We coulda let her know we were leavin. She wouldna stopped us, wouldna told us no. We’re suppose’ta be a team around here, and leavin under a vale’a silence was very unteam like of us.”

“Huh, yeah. We sure didn’t stop to think about that did we?”

Jesse chuckles, “We sure as hell didn’t. You would’a thought at least one of us would’a stopped and thought, hmm, maybe we should at least leave’a note er somethin.”

Dr. Zeigler walks around the corner and finds both of the people she wanted to talk to, “Ah, Jesse. We’re moving Genji into a different location, and I could actually use some of your help with him.”

Then she turns her attention to you, “You can visit with Hanzo. He’s stable and awake. I’d like him to stay in the infirmary for a night or two. He needs to rest, though, so no funny business.”

What a ridiculous thing to demand of you at this current moment. Though if there’s one thing you’ve learned about Angela, it’s that she’s not good at picking up on vibes. So you don’t hold it against her. You quietly thank her and wait for them to disappear.

You sit there for couple more moments just trying to get some of the fog to clear from your brain. Even after you are able to get yourself up and moving, it’s still not enough to get yourself to walk through the infirmary door. You stand just outside it, giving yourself a stern talking to.

You have to handle this well. This is a test, and a big one that you can not fail. It’s going to be hard. Your feelings are hurt, and you've got a lot of emotional comfort invested in this asshole.

Breathe in through the nose, and out through the mouth.

You walk through the door. There he is, in a hospital bed, wrapped in up in medical dressings around his torso, and an IV dripping blood into his veins. He looks tired, the normal glowing sheen that usually accompanies his skin is not there right now. You take a seat on the edge of the bed.

Hanzo won’t look at you. He seems ashamed, is ashamed. With a clear mind, that’s not flooded with bad stress, he realizes that he was being irrational and acting on intrusive thoughts. He can only hope that you’ll forgive him. What a terribly impulsive, self-destructive decision. But the truth is he’d been making those same kind of self-destructive decisions for nearly a decade. Even the most harmless of bad habits are hard to break. So it's going to be a little hard to break the bad coping mechanism he's had for years now, and he’s lucky it hasn't killed him yet.

“I’m not going to ask you why you didn't say anything, why you were just letting yourself bleed out. Jesse could have been helping you long before me and Genji got back. I’m not stupid, and I think I already know why.”

From the moment he had heard that Genji was hurt, it had started to feel like a downward spiral. Your description of him over the comm hadn’t nearly given justice to just how bad he looked. Seeing Zenyatta in the same kind of shape, the omnic that helped his brother comes to terms with what he had done to him, with his new body, and a new way of living. All those moments when he couldn’t get you to talk to him. When that dragon’s roar was all he could focus on, and somehow he knew something terrible was threatening to happen. He knows it's not his fault, yet it still felt that way, and still kind of does.

Hanzo says quietly, “I should have known sooner.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I should have known that my brother was in trouble sooner. Maybe then, things would not have gone so poorly.”

“There you go with the what if’s again. Besides, how the hell were you supposed to know sooner?”

“If our connection was not so broken. The dragons could have communicated.”

“So, what? Is bleeding out supposed to be your fucking penance for that!” You throw up your hands. Breath in through the mouth, out through the nose. Wait, no, that's not right.  “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to yell at you.”

You’ve got too much nervous energy to sit. So you hop up off the bed, and Hanzo nearly tries to get up after you. He wishes he could just promise that this will not happen again. But he already knows you wouldn’t believe him, nor does he really believe himself when he thinks that. So he refrains from blatantly lying to you.

“Do not go. I am sorry, this is just… who I am.”

Now you look at him, “I’m not leaving, and that’s bull shit. Just because you can’t help those thoughts doesn't mean it's who you are. They don’t define you as a person. There’s more to you than just that, so stop it.”

The last part of that sentence was childish, sounded childish, and you don't care.

“Do you truly believe that.”

“Yes. I do.”

If only your commands could wield enough power to make such things go away. Hanzo understands what you're saying but couldn't possibly begin to figure out how to make this better, “What I am I to do about it.”

“Get some help. From someone who can give you the guidance you need to combat those impulses when they arise.”

That sounds nearly impossible, “I do not know if anyone could.”

You get close to him your face inches from his, “I think you mean, you don’t know if you’d be willing to try. Hanzo, I will not allow you to let me love you this much if you plan on dying out in the field. You have to try."

Hanzo looks pained and is struggling to find words, “How do you expect me to let a stranger help with this?”

You don’t know how to answer that question so you continue to try and beg, “If you get help, I’ll get help. I’d be full of shit if I said I couldn’t use it.”

Hanzo looks away from you, still refusing to even say he’ll try. This is critical. As you're not sure if you can do this, any of this, if he refuses to get the guidance he needs. You wouldn't be able to focus on missions, keep an alert and clear head, if you're constantly worried that Hanzo might get hurt, and not report it again. Then your mind starts to spiral. You couldn’t leave, can’t give up on him, even if he refused. What kind of person would that make you? And who would look after him? Besides all of those points, you love him, you'd miss him, and it kills you to even think about walking away from something with so much promise...

“Alright, I will try asking for help. Even if it feels… ignominious.”

Your eyes roll. You’d argue against that last statement, but you’re just relieved that he’s up for the prospect of even trying. Even if he thinks it’s something as ridiculous as, embarrassing. Then you correct yourself. No, it’s not ridiculous, not coming from a person with his background.

Hanzo reaches out and wipes tears away from your cheeks. Tears you weren’t even aware had escaped, “I am sorry for causing you so much distress. Please do not give up on me.”

A wave of guilt floods your body, before a flood of relief replaces it. Could he sense your desperation? He must have. Then again, how could he not have? Right now it’s just words, just a promise, but it’ll have to do. And you’ll have to have faith in him.

“I think I’m in far too deep to ever be able to do that.”

He smiles meekly, “Would it make you feel better to know I feel the same?”

You plop down onto the bed and playfully say, “Maybe.”

He takes a hold of your hand and kisses your knuckles, your palm, and your wrist. He holds your hand against his face and whispers, “I love you.”

No more crying goddamnit, “I love you too.”

A deep and almost musical voice comes from the back of the room, “I am most delighted to hear such calm resolutions!”

Despite the voice sounding pleasant and non-threatening, you and Hanzo both nearly jump out of your skin. You look behind you, searching the room for the source of the voice.

“Hello?”

“Greetings! If you would be so kind, I was wondering, if perhaps you could tell me if my student is doing well?”

You gently pull back the curtain that surrounds a bed at the back of the room. On this bed lies Zenyatta, who is attached to many wires and still not looking quite whole yet.

“I think you’re talking about Genji? He’s fine; he’s just getting fixed up right now.”

“Ah, I see. Thank you.”

You introduce yourself. Normally you wouldn’t introduce Hanzo for him, but right now it seems appropriate. When you do so, Zenyatta already knows who he is. Of course, he does.

“Hanzo! Yes, I know you. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Same to you.”

“I apologize for not having interjected earlier than I did, but I felt it was best for the two of you to come to your own conclusions before I interjected.”  

The thought, ‘Shouldn't you be mad this guy was eavesdropping?’ crosses your mind. But the thing is your not, it’s as if the omnic was meant to hear the conversation, “What do you mean?”

“I would be happy and privileged to help the both of you in your journey to mental enlightenment. I do believe I am more than qualified to do so. I am not trying to come off as arrogant, just confident. I strongly believe I can help you reach better mental clarity.” He raises one of his arms in an excited manner, “My student can vouch for my qualifications! Please, ask him.”

Whatever it is about Zenyatta that gives off an aura of calm and kindness makes you believe him, and you don't really feel the need to check with Genji. Hanzo has heard plenty about the omnic from his brother and is actually shocked he didn't think to make the suggestion himself. It’s understandable that such a thing would slip his mind while he’s hurt and also trying to fight the idea itself altogether. This is as ideal as this could get. Hanzo has heard so much about Zenyatta, that he doesn't feel like a complete stranger to him. The idea still doesn't sit comfortably yet. But yes, if Zenyatta is willing to try and help him, then he can certainly try and let him.

~

It's been nearly a week since Zenyatta has been back up and running. He's taken the time to stop and catch up with each and every one of his friends. He is delighted to see his best friend and student Genji back to his optimal shape. And he's feeling even more delighted and privileged to have both his brother and him sitting on either side of him meditating before they get into a session of much-needed guidance and enlightenment.

As Hanzo is only human, he hasn't fully recovered, but he can tell that he is doing well. Zenyatta has always been able to see what people call auras, though, to him, it's more of a sense than a thing he actually sees. Hanzo is not nearly as helpless as he thinks he is, and Zenyatta is even more confident still that these sessions will do wonders for him. Hanzo is already good with discipline. He just needs fine tuning and more mental convergence. Zenyatta has never met a hopeless cause, and Hanzo is far, far from that.

Zenyatta is deep into his meditation. Most days he finds it easy to slip into a place of tranquility. Though today, he is about to be tested.

Genji grumbles, "You know brother you don't need to not wear a shirt all the time.”

He is shocked that Genji isn’t more focused. Zenyatta knows he’s more than capable. Perhaps he is more nervous than he is letting on.

Hanzo grumbles back, ”Says the person who never wears anything at all.”

“I think that’s hardly the same thing.”

Hanzo sighs, ”If you must know, the cloth feels heavy on my wound. It catches on the dressings, and it is uncomfortable."

"Uh huh. Just because I haven't been around here, doesn't mean there aren’t people I can't ask to see if you wear a shirt on a regular basis."

Hanzo opens his eyes and slaps his knees, "Why does this matter?"

Genji says with a purposeful overdramatic  inflection, “Cause I do not appreciate you lying to me brother."

As with most situations of conflict, Zenyatta is patiently waiting to see if this will resolve itself. Though he will soon realize that even with two adult men, who on a regular basis are more than capable of being mature, will regress to childlike unresolvable quarrels when in the presence of a sibling. He listens as Genji threatens to go to you for information.

"Do not bring her into this nonsense!"

"Oh, I wonder why! Huh? Cause she knows the truth! Your no-shirt-judging truth!"

Zenyatta sighs as they continue to bicker with each other, "My students! Please. Just, chill out."

"I am not the one being immature,” Hanzo says as he stares Genji down.

"I'm going to find out your truth brother."

“Dramatic. There is nothing to find out.“

Zenyatta hums, “Perhaps this is a quarrel that can be resolved at a later time?”

Genji laughs, “I am just messing with him Master, but now I’m intrigued. What is the truth?”

“I wear clothes. You truly think I walk around here trying to look like a tool?”

A sly grin spreads across Genji’s face, “You are making this far too easy for me.”

Hanzo points to Zenyatta, “Your Master is wearing pants, and yet you are not. Please explain that to me.”  

They continue to bicker about the proper etiquette surrounding wearing, and not wearing, certain items of clothing or none at all. Zenyatta is about to break out his conflict resolution skills, when something occurs to him. They are actually having fun. Amusing themselves by arguing over something trivial. In turn, it’s making them more at ease than the actual meditation is.

So he puts his hands into his lap, lets his orbs float mindlessly around him while he observes the display of sibling banter, and tries to gather a better understanding for future sessions. Not to mention, he is rather entertained.

~

Hanzo sits in his room, practicing some of the tranquility exercises Zenyatta had asked him to get more acquainted with. He had asked, with a little bit of shame, if music would be appropriate during these exercises. Zenyatta had informed him that whatever he needs to do to achieve deeper states would be appropriate. Music can be therapeutic and calming. Music taps into human emotions and can improve focus and impulse control. So Zenyatta highly recommends that he use it.

He’s got his earbuds in, sitting cross-legged in a computer chair.  It’s nothing especially comfortable, but Hanzo finds it to be perfect for his task at hand. He's not sure how much time passes, before he opens his eyes and starts to roll his shoulders. He almost falls out of his seat, because you're sitting on the bed in front of him, in the same stance, and he has no idea when you got here. You look endearing and casual. Wearing no pants, navy blue underwear, and a simple t-shirt. He removes the earbuds and gently places them on the desk.

You open one eye to look at him briefly before closing it again, "This is really difficult, I just keep thinking about food. I'm not even hungry."

"That is not so bad. A harmless thing to think about. Truthfully I thought about food a lot, but I am hungry.”

“Of course you’re hungry.” Your eyes remain closed, “Are things going well?”

While you’re not explicit about what you’re asking about, he knows. “Yes, and much better than I had anticipated.”

“Does it feel like something you can stick with?“

“Absolutely. Zenyatta has a better way with words and meditation than anyone I have ever met. Nearly every piece of guidance he gives is… clarifying.”

He hadn’t realized it before, but you were holding your breath. When you start to breathe again, it becomes extremely obvious. Like you had been preparing yourself for an answer that you wouldn’t like. That hurts, but he doesn't blame you. It’s understandable, and the feeling passes quickly when you smile and finally open your eyes.

“You have no idea how great it is to hear that.”

“I have some idea.”

He frowns as your eyes linger on the bandages that are still wrapped around his torso.

Hanzo thinks you’re staring because you’re tired of seeing him wrapped up like this, “Hopefully, I won’t need to wear these for much longer.”

He’s wrong, “Is it messed up that I think you look kinda hot with all bandaged up like that? I mean, I don’t think it’s sexy that you're hurt. It just...looks good for some reason.”

He laughs, “The only thing ‘messed up’ about what you just said is the word ‘kinda’.”

You absolutely love the answer he gave you. It causes your eyes to light up with lust. You slowly get up from the bed and walk towards him.

"Well, if I'm being truthful, food wasn't the only thing I was thinking about."

"Hmm, also a nice thing to let your mind wonder to.”

Hanzo can feel his heart quicken as you drop down to your knees in front of him. You gingerly take a hold of his ankles and remove him from his position. Now you're between his legs, leisurely pulling his pants down enough for you to get at what you want.

He’d lean back, close his eyes, and relax. But Hanzo enjoys watching as your head bobs up and down far too much. With the added pleasure of seeing you with your hand down in your underwear. You’re humming and moaning, and every sound coming from your mouth is sending a pang from his head all the way down into the space you're making feel warm and wet.

The way you look up at him through your eyelashes as you continue to lovingly get him off is making him feel weak. Your mouth is soft and delicately textured. You’re enthusiastic but gentle. You take all of him in and your back arches slightly as your body tries to reject it. But you quickly are able to relax and resume massaging circles within your underwear.

You’re making him feel so good that it is causing him shake a little. He weaves an unsteady hand into your hair and gently grasps hard enough to get a small whine out of you. It makes you even more enthusiastic, and he can feel the pressure within his body getting ready to release itself.

“Ah,” he whispers your name. “You feel good, you're so…ah… ah..”

With him still in your mouth, you smile, and he's had enough. He tries his best to keep his hips from bucking into your face, but a few small ones escape him. You don’t mind though as you were ready for them.

When you release him from your mouth, you sit back and continue to try and finish yourself off, all while lovingly looking up at him from the floor.

There's no way he'd leave you to take care of yourself. No matter how lovely the sight of it may be. So he gets down onto the floor with you, takes you by the waist, and lays you back. He lays down next to you and uses one of his legs to keep yours spread apart. Hanzo takes both of your hands and places them onto his face.

As his hand replaces your removed one, you pull him forward and kiss him passionately. He returns every bitten lip, every flick of your tongue laced with fire. You roll your hips up into his hand. Your hands on his face turn into arms tightly wrapped around his neck. You pry yourself from his mouth so you can throw your head back as you come.

“Ah! Ah! Hanzo! Oh, Baby…” You groan, “Fuck…”

He chuckles against your cheek, because your poor neighbor, Lena, is bound to hear that. He doesn’t care about being embarrassed and doesn't try to quiet you. He kisses your neck and runs his hand along your chest, groping lightly, until your breathing has slowed down to a normal rhythm.

He whispers into your ear, “Dinner?”

All you can seem to be able to do is hum, and he takes that as a yes.

~

The next day, there's a spontaneous party that’s broken out in the mess hall. Every single agent is there. There's plenty of booze, music, and loud banter. You had gotten here long before Hanzo had, since he had a particularly long session with Zenyatta today. So you're already fairly under the influence and having a grand time.

When he gets there, he leans against a wall with a drink that was shoved into his hand by Jesse. He's not planning on having much. It wouldn't be good for him right now. He's just observing, as you haven't noticed him arrive yet. You look to be having an animated… what is that? An argument? A conversation? With Hana. He can never tell with the two of you.

You look towards the doorway looking for someone, and apparently, that was him. Because you open mouth grin, wave at him, and run over. You slow down as you approach him so you can give him a careful hug. He gives you a kiss on the forehead as you nuzzle into the crook of his arm.

He has you like this for a while. But you're full of energy,  and he knows he'll have to release you soon. You dance, well, more like wiggle, against his side to the beat of the music. Then Hana chooses a song that makes you very excited.

"Hana! Holy shit this song is OLD!"

Hana is already clapping her hands together, and dancing, "It's still fun! Come here lady, dance with me!"

Hanzo doesn't know what song this is. He’s never heard it before, but apparently, several other agents also know the song and start to sing along as the lyrics start up. It is a very whimsical, uptempo song with lots of keyboard, and it certainly does sound old. But as Hana had exclaimed, it is fun, and the lyrics are easy enough to catch onto. You're practically bouncing now, so Hanzo gives you a small push of encouragement, and off into a little dance huddle you go.

Hanzo can't think about a damn thing while you’re enthusiastically swinging your hips, shaking your shoulders, and singing along with the rest of the group. You've got the biggest smile, and you're having so much fun. It's the cutest sight, and he's happy to just be able to witness it. These are the kinds of moments he likes to live for these days.

But then he happens to see his brother sneaking away from the party. Hanzo scans the crowd for Jesse and finds him seated with Lena and Reinhardt, who's got the pup seated in his lap, and if that's not one of the most ridiculous things he's ever seen. Hanzo is curious as to why Genji would be fleeing a scene that seems to be made for him. So he follows.

When Hanzo finds him he's sitting outside in the grass of the track and field meditating. He takes a seat next to him and starts to meditate with him.

He quietly questions, ”Not a fan of the party brother?"

"No, not today, I'm afraid."

Interesting, ”May I ask why?"

Genji takes a minute to respond, "Only if you're prepared for the answer to possibly make you feel bad."

"I am prepared."

“Parties… they are a shared experience. Where everyone is under the influence, acting like idiots. Especially that one. I can't get drunk, so sometimes I get a little envious of the pleasure I can't partake in. Today is one of those days; it will pass."

Hanzo chuckles.

Genji side-eyes him, "What?"

"Since when do you need alcohol in order to act like an idiot?"  

Genji can't help but laugh, "Thanks, brother."

"Would it make you feel better if I did not drink?"

"You don't have to do that."

"Actually I do, doctors orders.” He starts to get back on his feet,  “Come, we will both be sober idiots amongst all of the drunk ones."

Genji laughs, "Are you calling yourself an idiot?"

Hanzo shrugs, "Do you mean to tell me you disagree?"

They look at each other, and for a moment, it feels as if it's a decade in the past before the tensions in the clan had risen to breaking levels. For the first time, it feels like this is going to work. They can maintain this.

Genji’s sight briefly grazes over the bandages that still are wrapped around Hanzo. They are starting to become less and less with each day but it’s still a reminder, “No. You are the biggest idiot I know."

Hanzo claps his hands, "Then it is settled; let’s go.”

Genji looks back at Hanzo as he starts to walk off, “Why do you, of all people, want to go back to the party so bad?”

Hanzo shrugs. He wants to go back because he knows he’s missing out on some great shenanigans. He’d like Genji to come with him so they can both perhaps experience some fun memories together. He feels that’d be something worth sharing.

Genji grins, “Is it cause your girlfriends being cute?”

“Perhaps. I would imagine by now Jesse has to be doing something ridiculous.”

Genji hops up, “We are missing out, aren’t we?”

They walk back into the mess hall together, while making bets on who they think will be the first person to get up on a table to dance. Genji thinks it will be either you, Lucio or Hana. Hanzo knows better and does not bet on you. You won’t be doing that unless someone is already up there and invites you to join them. So he places his bets on Lucio, and Genji settles on Hana. They’re both wrong. It’s Satya who’s the first to get up on a table. But it’s not long before Lucio and Hana join her. Then not much longer 'til they drag you up there with them.

As the party starts to settle down, several agents move into the common room. Here is where Hana convinces many people to play video games with her, including Hanzo and Genji. You’re far too tired and far too gone to even try. Hanzo’s got several pillows supporting his back against the couch on the floor, and you’re settled in between his legs with your head resting against one of his shoulders.

Hana’s chosen a racing game, that everyone can easily learn how to play. Surprisingly, Hanzo is pretty good at it, and surpassing Genji every time. The master, however, is Hana, who nearly always ends up in first place.

“Hey, brother aren’t you supposed to be cooler than me? Why are you losing so badly?”

You chuckle, “Yeah, Genji, why do’ya suck?”

Jesse, who’s not playing but giving words of encouragement, sitting on the couch with Genji, leans forward, so he can see you, “Woman, your eyes aren’t even open.”

“I don’ need to see to know.”

Genji retorts, “The both of you can shit talk all you want, but I’m catching up!”

As the night grows older, some agents retire to their rooms. While others simply fall asleep for the night in the common room. You’ve fallen asleep, but you had scooted down to use his thigh as a pillow and are now covered by a blanket that Lucio threw over you before he and Hana left. Jesse’s taking up most of the couch, passed out, using Genji’s lap as a pillow, hat over his face, and snoring not so softly.

It’s very late, and Hanzo is starting to feel delirious. So he gently gets situated on the floor with you, while Genji is harping on him about being tired.

“You’re getting old.”

“It’s three in the morning.”

“Funny that you’re tired now that I’ve started winning.”

Hanzo huffs, “You’ve only started winning, because I am tired.”

Genji may be poking fun, but he’s still doing the same thing Hanzo is doing. Getting settled in for what's left of the rest of the night.

“I'm sure you believe that.”

This could go on for another hour, “Good. Night. Genji.”

“Yeah, yeah. Good night, brother.”

[jessejackreyes]

Okay, so this is an excerpt from the third chapter of a fic I am writing. The whole thing is posted on Ao3 right now, but I kind of wanted to post this separately in the hopes of getting feedback specifically on this part. It is an action scene and I am trying to get better at those because I have very little practice with them.

The context necessary to understand this scene is pretty simple. After the explosion at Zurich, Gabriel became Reaper and started his life as a vigilante while Jack became 76 and became a terrorist that works with Talon. The two of them have fought twice before, with Gabriel escaping each time. They don't know each other's identities. Reaper and Ana rejoined the newly recalled Overwatch and no one but Ana knows who Reaper is. Its an r76 thing that will eventually get to a reunion of some kind.

If anyone has any thoughts on it, good and bad, I would love to hear it to try to improve my flow and style when it comes to fight scenes/action scenes. Thank you for the consideration :)

The Past Haunts Chapter 3

They had just begun to get a feel for the other members, just begun to learn how to work together on the field when Reaper was sent out on a retrieval mission. McCree, Lucio, Hanzo, Genji, Lena and Reinhardt accompanied him. They expected heavy resistance, hence sending along the crusader with the rest of the rather large team, but everything started out really well. They were coordinated, everyone listened as McCree led them; he made a great leader when he stopped acting like an idiot. Talon hadn’t expected them and they managed to blow through their grunts with ease and take the package, some kind of computer core in a thick briefcase.

They were awaiting their evac, package in tow, when it happened. Reaper felt a slight pain in his chest briefly before his entire body exploded in agony. He fell to his knees as he tried desperately to break himself apart and escape whatever was causing him this pain, but no matter how hard he tried, he stayed solid, rooted to the spot.

Before he could even begin to figure out what to do he heard two gunshots and a loud pained scream, Lucio. He turned to face where the scream had come from with great effort, only to come face to face with a familiar mask. The rest of his team must have also turned towards the intruder. Reinhardt charged the man before anyone could speak or even really react. Lucio screaming in pain was all he needed to react.

Jesse called out to him clearly noticing, at about the same time Gabriel did, that the response had been expected, goaded even. 76 walked forward calmly as a rocket powered metal giant flew towards him in a frenzy. The mercenary was dragging Lucio along the ground behind him by the hair, Gabriel could see him bleeding. The poor kid’s kneecaps were blown out so he couldn’t skate around. Reinhardt reacted predictably as the masked man held the bleeding, whimpering DJ between him and the rushing crusader. The rocket booster cut off before he accidentally hurt Lucio and the large man stumbled to stop and regain control of himself.

76 dropped the Brazilian, who fell to the floor in a pained heap. The terrorist took advantage of the crusader’s momentum and lack of balance and bodily threw him over his shoulders where the old German hit the ground with a loud thud, dazed for the moment. An arrow shot down from Hanzo’s perch, atop the nearby roof as 76 made swift work of removing Reinhardt’s helmet, the archer being the first person to react sensibly to the situation. The masked man nimbly dodged the silent projectile. Spinning swiftly, a strange mechanical bar glowing in front of his eyes. The damn mask was a tactical visor, of course it was, that was how he noticed the damn arrow in time.

With mechanically enhanced aim his rifle shot a trio of missiles at the building the sniper was perched on. Debris flew everywhere as an explosion rocked the building’s foundation and the portion of it the sniper was on collapsed. Hanzo lept away from the roof to avoid being buried by the collapsing structure, a mistake as three quick pulse rounds found purchase in his body, one in his dominant shoulder, one in the stomach and the last in the chest, inches from his heart. The archer fell heavily from the air, facing the ground bleeding and unmoving.

Reaper growled as he struggled to move. This was bad, the kid was their medic and he was down while the elder Shimada was bleeding out very quickly. McCree, Tracer and Genji all reacted in near unison. The gunslinger was forced to roll away from the falling debris to get a clear shot, bringing his gun out as he did so. Genji unsheathed his sword with a roar and dashed nimbly towards the man who had just shot the cyborg’s brother. All the while Tracer pulls her own pistols out and rapidly blinks to the other side of the masked man, checking up on the still dazed Reinhardt.

76 didn't even bother to dodge the sword being aimed at him. Instead, he used his arm to catch it, the blade sinking down into his forearm, through the armored jacket, stopping only once it hit bone. He staggered back, but no pained sounds escaped from behind that mask. McCree followed up with a quick shot that lodged itself in 76’s shoulder instead of his heart as the staggering back threw his aim off slightly. The gunslinger regained his bearings, recovering from his roll and lined up a shot straight to the bastards head.

Jesse pulled the trigger, the mercenary spun as he and the ninja grappled and suddenly Genji was his target instead. The cyborg reacted quickly, his sword dislodging itself and with a quick spin he deflected the bullet away from himself. A swift hard kick to the back his legs collapsed Genji to his knees as 76 plunged a combat knife into his right shoulder in the perfect spot to render it nonfunctional. A shot caught the mercenary right between the eyes, his mask chipped slightly but held against the revolver’s shot.

The gunslinger adjusted, aiming instead for the man’s heart. The next shot impacted, right in the sternum, as the masked man brought the butt of his rifle down hard on the side of the cyborg’s head. The ninja fell to the ground stunned as three more shots rang out. 76 could not dodge the cowboy’s bullets entirely, but none of them found the target they were actually looking for. Anyone else would have gone down after 4 bullets to the chest, but this man hardly seemed bothered by it as he brought his rifle to bare.

Tracer was back in the fight, Reinhardt climbing to his feet behind her. She was on their assailant in a split second, though not fast enough to stop the first shot out of that rifle. It found purchase in McCree’s mechanical shoulder with a loud clatter, rendering the entire contraption useless, his gun falling from the metal hand. Tracer interrupted any plan to follow up as her guns firing forced the man with the rifle to dodge away.

She blinked around him dodging and shooting, his armor absorbing her individual shots much more effectively than the cowboy’s. After a few seconds of this treatment 76 brought his rifle to bear at an empty spot and fired another trio of rockets. Moments before they exploded against the ground Tracer blinked nearby. The edge of the explosion caught her and she lost her footing. She reversed herself in time a few seconds before the man could get a good shot at her, but he seemed to have been expecting that. As soon as she reappeared a short distance away the butt of his rifle made contact with her chest with a loud crack. She attempted to blink away, but when she vanished this time she did not reappear.

76’s attention strayed too far from the big German man behind him as a massive hammer swung down at him. The mercenary had only a split second to move his arms to take the brunt of the hit as it sent him flying several feet through the air. A soft grunt of pain escaped the masked man for the first time in the fight when he landed with a thud. There was no time to celebrate anything at the sight as 76 recovered quickly to toss a grenade into the center of the group of fallen agents.

The crusader did exactly what his namesake would imply the moment he realized that his friends were in danger. He threw himself on the grenade so it would only harm him. His armor was thick and he was tough, he could take it. There was no explosion, merely a discharge of electricity that easily wound its way along the surface of Reinhardt's armor and into his body through hole where his helmet should have been. His body convulsed briefly and then was completely still.

“Don't move,” Jesse’s voice called out as 76 rose back to his feet. The mercenary ignored him, instead moving to reclaim his rifle. The cowboy shot, his aim wide. “I said freeze,” The man’s voice was somewhere between pained and seething with hatred.

“You're the only one left,” That distorted voice taunted Jesse. “Think you can do this on your own?” McCree didn’t respond and the mercenary ignored his gun. “Do you know what this is?” He asked holding up a metallic cylinder to the cowboy. Reaper recognized it immediately and from the looks of it so did the gunslinger.

“Biotic emitter,” Jesse replied quickly, suddenly unsure of himself. The device could deploy specially engineered nanites that very effectively healed wounds in the field. The nanites were very expensive and had a very short life span once the field was activated, so these devices  were rare and expensive.

“That's right,” His tone was condescending, Gabriel could just imagine the smirk beneath the mask. “Your archer friend is bleeding out quickly and the kid is not doing much better. You give me what I came for willingly and this little trinket makes sure they don’t have to die right now,” Reaper knew McCree well enough to know what he would do. The thought confirmed when the cowboy slowly lowered his gun. “Now drop it,” McCree did as he was told, it was stupid to give up his only weapon against the mercenary, but he wouldn’t let his teammates die if he could help it. “Good boy, now get me that computer core you stole.”

Jesse did as he was told, the case was not really hidden, in fact 76 could probably see the damn thing from where he had stood. It sounded like he simply wanted to gloat. Reaper watched the exchange, watched as the mercenary smashed the butt of his rifle into Jesse’s temple and he fell to the ground unconscious once the handoff was complete. He watched in stunned silence as the masked man dropped the biotic emitter to the ground between Lucio and Hanzo and a soft yellow glow enveloped them, surprised that he kept his end of the bargain.

He stood in the middle of the biotic field himself, stretching his arms and legs as the nanites worked to repair the damage done to his body as well. Once he was satisfied with their progress he turned to face Reaper for the first time since the encounter began. He sauntered over to where Reaper still fought to move his body, the briefcase holding the computer core in one hand, rifle lazily held over his shoulder with his other hand. The man suddenly turned his head slightly to the side and he spoke to someone who was likely monitoring his progress.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, your agents were worthless, but I got the package. I'll be at the extraction point in ten. Don't make me wait,” The mercenary’s attention returned to the only conscious opponent he had left. “Nice team you've got here Reaper,” The wraith growled in response, still unable to actually form words. “This new Overwatch is, at the very least, entertaining. Can't say I've had this much fun in years,”

Gabriel did not understand why this asshole hadn’t killed his teammates, why he was wasting time right now. It only infuriated him more. This man was toying with him, with all of them. If he didn’t kill Reaper right now there was no way in hell the wraith was going to return the favor when the tables were turned. Being merciful was never his strong suit.

“This brings the score in our little game to me with one win and you with two,” 76 squatted down to bring his mask level with Reaper’s own. “It would be a waste to kill you and your friends while I am currently losing,” Was this asshole really treating their fights like it was some damn game? “I'll tie up the score next time, after that I won't have any reason to let you and your heroic little friends live. Consider it incentive to improve your performance,” There was a short pause as those red glowing eyes stared at Reaper. “I'm tempted to take off that mask and see what's underneath it, but i suppose that would be unsportsmanlike right now. I am losing after all,”

76 turned away with a cruel laugh, it sounded inhuman through the mechanical filter he used. Gabriel could only watch helplessly as the man calmly walked away, his prize in hand. Several minutes passed and the buzz that held his body agonizingly in place faded away. He moved rapidly the moment he could, ignoring the agony left behind that still attacked his form. Hanzo had a pulse, was breathing, same with Lucio who must have blacked out at some point because he was also unconscious. He let out a sigh of relief before calling back to HQ.

[avengerofyourheart]

Sharing is Caring (Bucky One-shot)

This was so much fun to write, especially since it was for my lovely Roo. Please let me know what you think! It kinda made me laugh, so I hope it does the same for you. ;) 

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Sharing is Caring (reader x Bucky)

Characters: reader, Bucky, Clint, Sam, Natasha.

Summary: Your mutual crush on Bucky is at a stalemate, but you get both get a push after Clint discovers one of your weaknesses.

Warnings: Fluff! Small mentions of drinking and prescriptions drugs.

Word Count: 1850

A/N: This fic is for my love, my darling, my favorite Canadian Insomniac: Roo aka @sebseyesandbuckysthighs . Happy Birthday, my dear!! I love you forever!!! Also, this was inspired by a hilarious conversation between the Avengers Trash Tower ladies and I that took place months ago. I’m so happy to know you all, my darlings!! And yes, Roo, I still have that legally-binding screenshot. ;)

Tags are at the bottom

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“Y/N…”

“No.”

“Please, Y/N?”

“I said no,” you replied firmly.

“Aw, come on! You can’t possibly eat all of those yourself! And it’s just rude to eat them in front of me,”  Clint pouted, eyeing the box of cupcakes in front of you.

Leaning forward, you spoke emphatically, “Y/N DOESN’T SHARE FOOD.”

Clint leaned away, “Geez! Why are you yelling? And since when does Y/N refer to herself in the third person?”

“Since Y/N has been binge-watching ‘Friends’ for weeks,” Sam answered for you.

“Y/N personally identifies with Joey Tribiani. And correction,” you spoke as you licked some frosting off your fingers, “Y/N has finished watching ‘Friends’ and moved on to ‘Seinfeld’.”

Clint rolled his eyes, “Okay enough with the third person thing. Besides, you shared with Bucky!”

You remained focused on unwrapping yet another cupcake—this one Chocolate with Salted Caramel Buttercream—knowing if you met Clint’s eyes too much would be revealed.

Shrugging casually, you finally answered, “He gave them to me. I was trying to be nice.”’

“Uh huh…and why would he do that?” the archer asked pointedly, sly smile upon his face.

“Shut up!” you whispered sharply. “He said he was just passing by my favorite bakery and thought I could use a treat. That’s all.”

“Sure thing, Y/N. And denial is just a river in Egypt,” Clint winked as he stood up, quickly dodging a wrapper you had tossed at his head before leaving the room.

Okay, so maybe you knew that Bucky paid a little more attention to you than any of the others and yeah, maybe you were more liberal with food around him. But something always held you back from moving beyond simple sustenance. One of you had to make a move but so far neither could make it happen. Friends who share cupcakes was pretty good for right now, though.

___________________

Shockingly, that cupcake-fueled sugar high interfered with your already screwed-up sleeping schedule so you curled up on the couch and continued your binge watching as you waited for the sleep aid to kick in. You always had trouble keeping to a regular sleeping schedule, only dozing off in random intervals most of your life, but lack of sleep inevitably would eventually catch up to you. On missions, you were great in the field because staying alert and keeping watch was part of the job. Once things calmed down back at the tower, you usually attempted some normalcy and gave in when prescription sleep medication was offered. At times there were side effects, though, or sometimes you would just drop off without much warning.

That night, you must have drifted off on the couch but you vaguely recalled hearing voices and someone helping you to your room, probably Nat.You awoke the next day in your own bed feeling almost rested. Approaching the kitchen, you stifled a yawn as you heard murmurings between a few of your teammates. Sam shushed the others as he caught your eye and they all turned your way, now suddenly silent.

“What?” you asked, eyes narrowed.

“Nothing! Good morning, Y/N. Sleep well?” inquired the sandy-haired man as he failed at ‘acting casual’.

“Um…not too bad. What’s going on? You’re acting weirder than usual, Bird Brain.”

He released an over-the-top and obviously fake laugh, slapping his own knee. Did people actually do that?

“You’re hilarious, Y/N. I gotta go now,” he announced and made a beeline for the hallway as your eyes followed his retreat.

“What’s up with him?” you asked, returning your focus to Sam and Nat.

“Not a clue,” claimed the redhead. “You want some eggs?”

“Sure,” you replied, accepting a plate and then settling down on the couch, searching for the last episode of Seinfeld you remember seeing. You pressed play and dug into your breakfast with Sam coming to join you and Nat following shortly after. Neither of them were as fully invested as you were, but they caught bits and pieces and laughed along with you.

A new episode began, this one where Elaine was withholding a secret from George and he tried to get it out of her. He was successful after discovering the so-called combination to her mental secret-keeping “vault” was Peach Schnapps.

Sam snickered. “Well I guess we know what Y/N’s combination is…” he whispered to Nat, but apparently not quietly enough.

“What was that, Sam?” you questioned, pausing the episode.

Nat swatted his arm, “Idiot! We weren’t going to say anything!”

“About what?!? Come on, guys. Spit it out,” you beckoned and shifted in your seat, turning their way.

Catching Sam’s eye, Nat finally relented, “So…you kind of muttered in your sleep last night while you were on the couch…”

You waited for more, “Okay? What did I say?”

“Um…nothing really, but I might have mentioned that you can keep up conversations sometimes so Clint had the brilliant idea of using that to his advantage. He asked you a few questions and recorded it…”

Shocked, your eyes flew wide, “He took a video of me sleep talking?!? That’s so creepy!! I’m gonna kill him…” you threatened, but then your mind caught up. “Wait…what did he ask about?”

Sam hesitated, “Why don’t you just watch it and THEN you can kill him.”

Nat pulled out her phone and pressed play.

“Well, I’m glad you each have a copy, encouraging this depraved behavior,” you scowled, taking the device from the redhead.

The video was blurry, then finding focus on your sleeping face, eyes closed with lips barely parted. You actually looked relaxed and peaceful. It was strange seeing yourself this way.

“Y/N,” Clint spoke from behind the camera, then hearing you groan in recognition.

“I don’t know about this, man…” Sam’s voice was heard.

“Shhh. I just want to get it on video so I can use her own words against her. Y/N? You’ll share those cupcakes with me, right?” Clint tried to coerce you to say something incriminating, it seemed.

“Yeah…” you heard yourself breath out in agreement.

“Yes!!! You’ll always share your food with me, right? Like you do with Bucky?”

Your brow furrowed, “No…no sharing…my Bucky…”

“What’s all this?” a male voice was heard off-camera, causing Clint to turn that direction along with the camera in his hand. Bucky’s handsome face visible in the shaky frame for a few seconds. “Is she asleep? What are you doing?”

“Shh. I’m just trying to get her to admit that she’ll share…”

“No!” you almost shouted in your drowsy voice. “Y/N doesn’t share Bucky…my Bucky…” you muttered, nuzzling further into the pillow.

Silence fell as Clint turned back to see Bucky’s shocked expression, giggles escaping from the other Avengers.

“Oops. Well, that’s more of a confession than I bargained for,” Clint admitted with a chuckle.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough,” Natasha broke through with the voice of reason. “I’m taking her to her room.”

“No, I’ll take her,” Bucky insisted, footage of Bucky scooping you up in his arms was shown before Clint stopped recording.

You stared at the black screen for a moment, then slowly raising your head. Nat wore an expression of guilt, while Sam’s body looked tense, ready to run if you attacked or something.

“I’m sorry, I should have stopped it sooner... before it even happen,” Natasha conceded.

Sam spoke next, “I tried, Y/N, I mean, I…”

Silence hung heavy for a moment, intensifying their fear of your reaction. You then exhaled, meeting their eyes.

“I’m not mad at you two. We all know who is to blame and when I find…” you saw a flash of movement out of the corner of your eye before it disappeared around the corner. “CLINT, YOU CAN’T HIDE FROM ME, I SWEAR…”

In one swift motion you leapt off the back of the couch and were in hot pursuit, catching a glimpse of him just ahead of you. Rounding a corner sharply, you were met with a solid wall of Henley-covered muscle. Large hands—one warm, one cold—caught you by your upper arms just before you two collided.

“Whoa, there, Y/N. You okay?” Bucky asked, your heart fluttering as you met his stunning blue eyes.

“Sorry, um…yeah. I’m okay. I just need to kill Clint,  have you seen him?”

Bucky released you, burying his hands in his front jeans pockets. “So you saw that video?”

Feeling vulnerable with arms crossed, you dropped your eyes, “Yeah. It was quite the show, apparently. Listen, um…I didn’t mean…I was asleep, you know? I mean, you’re not…MINE. You’re like, my teammate or whatever and as for the sharing that was….”

He cut you off, a finger under your chin brought your eyes up to meet his with a grin below them . “I don’t mind. Being yours, I mean.”

“What?”

“I’ve wanted to say something for the longest time, but I guess I wasn’t sure…” he raised a hand to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your soft skin. Your hands gathered the front of his shirt, tugging lightly.

“Hope this clears things up for you,” you whispered before pressing your lips to his, feeling an instant spark that quickly caught fire as his metal arm pulled you close. One hand released his shirt, your fingers then lost in his long chestnut strands. His tongue caressed your bottom lip, causing you to groan and gain him entrance. Flames of desire threatened to consume you before pulling back for oxygen, his forehead pressed against yours. Wide, goofy grins adorned each of your faces.

He cleared his throat, still smiling, “As for the sharing me thing? Personally, I’d prefer you didn’t.”

You laughed. “Trust me, I have no intention of sharing you. You are mine,”  you declared, arms grasped around his trim waist, your chest brushing his.

“I’m good with that,” he grinned, leaning down with lips grazing yours when you heard a sound above you, heads snapping upwards.

“Awwww,” a muffled voice was heard from the ceiling. “You two are so cute! You’re welcome. Hey, you’re still gonna share food, right? I mean, I have proof you said yes…”

“That’s not legally binding, Bird Brain!” you yelled, glaring at the disembodied voice. Your eyes met Bucky’s, “Wanna give me a boost?”

Bucky smiled in compliance, lacing his fingers for you to step in, hands on his shoulders offering you stability. He easily lifted you and upon reaching the large air vent, you opened the hatch before crawling in. Clint let out what can only be described as a pterodactyl screech to see you crawling his way with camera phone at the ready. It was time for a little payback, you thought with a grin.

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Oh man, Clint is in for it. haha! This was kind of fun. Let me know what you think, I love to hear from you!! You are all wonderful and I appreciate you. :)

Tags:

@holycoldcoffee @anitavalija @animeroses318 @littleingram @writingruna @imaginingbucky @writingbarnes @bovaria @dontstopwiththelyin @cojootromuelle @catwomvn @marvelfanfichq @gold-liess @re2d2  @thewintersdoll @black-eyed-bucky @livvvi01 @marvelgoateecollection @4theluvofall @supersoldier-wifey @black-andwhite-life @priettierthanyou @marvel-ash @sebbytrash @serzhantjamesbuchananbarnes @wakandasoldier @marvelobsessedalways @themcuhasruinedme @kaylaornaw @jesstwinings @hurricane-overseas @buckysberrie @marvel-lucy @marvelingatthewonder @you-and-bucky @love-marvel-forever @hymnofthevalkyries @kinqshley @beccaanne814-blog @love-for-fanfics @maece-rette @shiejinx @the-real-tony-stank @marveladdictsa @feelmyroarrrr @avengermama @sebseyesandbuckysthighs @tiredofthisgeneration @ewfilthymundane @angelina-mariex @buckyywiththegoodhair @rogersxbarnesx @heismyhunter @lbouvet @bionic-buckyb @ryverpenrad @timeladylaurel @melanie451 @thisisthelilith @symphony25 @ijustwanttobepartofyourworld @abovethesmokestacks @officialcaptain-marvel @i-want-to-fuck-that-dorito-man @missmotherhen @malfoy-milkovich-royalty @erinvanlyssel @therealcap @mrs--healy @finhabastos @johnmurphys-sass @tori-medusa-belongs-to-bucky @nykitass @readingtoescape @snakesgoethe @langinator @laurenwhitehouse-blog @mizzzpink @anxuanpham @hellomissmabel @with-a-hint-of-pesto-aioli @howdoesoneadult @sofster9000 @melting-like-silver @lostinspace33 @moodymonster25 @vaisabu @ek823 @you-didnt-see-that-cuming  @yellowtheremarvelfan  @sarcastic15overlord @mirkwood---princess  @stovehairington  @msshadowboxer  @reniescarlett  @wellfuckbuck  @coffeeismylife28  @lilasiannerd  @bunchofandoms   @sarahpanda65  

[ezzydean]

IDK IF UR TAKING FIC PROMPTS RN LIKE FEEL FREE TO IGNORE THIS BUT CLD U DO A SEIKISUSOU KNIGHT AU??? IDK WHY I SUDDENLY REALLY NEED THIS PAIRING TO BE A THING,,, ESP IN A KNIGHT AU WHERE THEY FIERCELY PROTECT EACH OTHER IN BATTLE IDK IM SORRY

I really have no idea how long this has been here in my inbox.  But I am finally getting around to doing some of my 20+ prompts again.  Thank you for this and don’t be surprised if this au pops up again cause if there is one thing I love it’s ships whose members battle side by side and kick ass together and fiercely protect each other.

also SeiKisuSei

(it’s about 1300 words so don’t forget to check under the cut)

“I’ve told you a million times,” Seijuurou hisses through his teeth as he blocks yet another attack.  They’re not very precise attacks but they hit hard and he’s growing wearier by the blow.  “Stay out of danger.”

“You’re so dramatic.  It hasn’t been a million times.”  Kisumi spins on his heel and slams his palm against an armor clad soldier’s chest plating, grinning wickedly when it turns molten under his fingers and melts into the enemy’s chest, sending him to his knees in howling pain.  “Maybe fifteen.  This week,” he adds as he ducks under a spear and launches a bolt of white hot fire at the man who threw it.

Sousuke sweeps in then, shield bashing enemies left and right until he reaches them.  He takes one look at Seijuurou’s sweaty face and Kisumi’s wild eyes and lets out a groan of disgust.

“The rest of the troops have wiped out their rear guards and archers all that’s left is for us to clean up this lot.”

Kisumi looks over the group of enemies spread out around them, far fewer than he expected really, and grins.

“Leave it to me.”

He sucks in a deep breath and everything around them grows grey, Kisumi’s magic sucking the very color out of the world as he plucks and twists and pulls the threads only he among them can sense.  The hair on Sousuke’s neck stands up and he braces his shield against the ground, readying himself for the slaughter.  Seijuurou’s eyes slip shut and he leans his back against Sousuke’s.

The metallic taste in the air and the sizzle that wrenches through their very bones haunts Seijuurou for weeks.

Kisumi, Sousuke thinks, is far too charming even on a bad day, completely charismatic on a good day, and downright dangerous no matter the day.  He tried to explain one time that he and Seijuurou just worry about him and want to keep him out of harm’s way; harm’s way which finds Kisumi with an accuracy that is unnerving and a persistence that would wear down the most patient of saints and Kisumi revels in it.  Kisumi had told him that he just likes hitting people and watching their faces light on fire and that he is very good at what he does and doesn’t need them to worry about him so much.

“Watch your own asses instead of mine,” he had joked.  “The last thing I need is to lose either of you because you’re too worried about me.”  Then he had buried his talented fingers in Sousuke’s short hair and pulled him into a kiss that made him forget what they were talking about in the first place for awhile.  He still holds Kisumi’s slender frame tight against his broad chest that night, still traps Kisumi in a tight embrace that makes the mage smile and nuzzle against Sousuke’s throat.

The battle had not been one of the better outcomes.  Seijuurou’s small unit of the… not really main brigade material members and their sudden arrival thanks to one of Nanase’s hunches had been the only thing that had really kept their casualties from reaching one hundred percent.

He looks around at the numerous medic tents set up, knowing that each one had far too many wounded and far too few medics, and pinches the bridge of his nose.  Sometimes he wonders just what the hell they’re all doing here.  If he was a smarter man he would take his unit, take the only thing of his family he has, and head into the woods at the base of the mountains.  Kisumi wraps a cool hand around the back of his neck and he looks into purple eyes that hold the mysteries of the night sky and the wonders of the sea and everything in between.

“Oh thank the gods a mage,” a nearby medic interrupts them and Seijuurou pulls himself out of oblivion and shutters his expression.  There’s no need to shoot the already frazzled medic a look of irritation that would only make his life even harder.  “We’ve got tons of wounded soldiers that need help.”Kisumi glances down at his light battlemage armor - which is really just normal light armor that he’s pieced together himself and modified over the last year - and then looks around.  Looks behind himself and then over Seijuurou’s shoulder.  Then looks back at the medic with wide eyes and points to himself.

“Me?”  Seijuurou has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from snorting.  Especially when the medic nods eagerly and tries to reach for Kisumi’s elbow to lead him towards the nearest medic tent.  Kisumi waves his hands in the air easily avoiding the man’s touch.  “Oh no no no.  Yeah no.  I’m a mage but I’m more of a death and destruction, light stuff on fire kind of guy.”  He wiggles his fingers around and makes a few grand gestures.  “Not a set broken bones and do the glowy healing thing kind of mage.”  He grimaces and shudders a little, licking his lips like he just tasted something horrible and lingering.

“He once got a splinter in his finger and cried for two hours because it hurt.  He’s really not who you’re looking for.”  Seijuurou smiles apologetically and urges Kisumi away from the medic with a hand on his lower back.

“You forget,” Kisumi whispers menacingly, “that I can knock you on your ass in less than five seconds in hand to hand combat without even a drop of magic.”

“Oh no.  I remember.”  Sousuke grins and hefts Kisumi over his shoulder.  Kisumi notices the flicker of discomfort on his face but is too focused on not letting Sousuke launch him into the icy lake to be able to say or do anything about it.  It’s time like these that he almost wishes he could do more than rain destruction down on fields.  That he could nurture and heal as well as he could maim and destroy.  His shrieks and curses ring out through the clearing as Sousuke keeps trying to throw him into the lake and he clings on for dear life and it only takes a minute for Seijuurou to stumble out of their tent, bleary eyed and sleep ruffled to watch the show.

“You two could be in the tent.  Warm and cuddling with me and this is what you’re doing instead?”

“He was having a crisis,” Sousuke explains.  “So he needed a wake up call.”

“Throwing me in a freezing lake is not a wake up call.”

Sousuke looks back and winks and Seijuurou who shuffles a few steps closer.  Then Sousuke rolls his shoulders and twists his arms and Kisumi is sailing through the air.  The water splashes dramatically as he hits the glassy surface, giant waves and sparkling mist flying up and just hanging in the air.  Kisumi is standing in the center of the main splash and glaring at Sousuke, eyes glittering dangerously through the water.

“You can do amazing things, Kisumi.  You’re not all death and destruction and fire,” Sousuke says softly.  He looks pointedly at the water slowly finishing its rise into the air and shifting back into gravity’s embrace.  It really is a beautiful sight.  Seijuurou is mesmerized by the light sparkling through the droplets hanging in the air and the slow ripple of the water from Kisumi’s feet and the equally sparkling light shining in Kisumi’s eyes and slow relaxation of his entire body.  Then everything shifts back into normal speed and Kisumi falls backwards into the water.

“I think you broke him.”  Seijuurou wraps his arms around Sousuke’s waist and buries his face between Sousuke’s shoulders.

“We’re all a little broken,” Sousuke replies.  Kisumi’s head pops back to the surface of the water and he blow bubbles petulantly until he runs out of breath.  Then he submerges his head and pops up right away, shaking water from his hair as he wades back to shore.  “That’s what makes us work together so well.”Kisumi plucks at his soaked shirt and grumbles at them about it until Sousuke sighs dramatically and offers to help him remove it.