#the way my brain is half baked turning gold into guns

[nadiacattaneo]

When: 15th April 2023 Where: Nadia’s ship, Port Grave Who: @fenriksblade​

The thing with being a captain, that a lot of her crew could never grasp, was the business of it all. Sure, a lot of the fun came from the hunt, the thrill of finding the treasure they’d set out for, the drinks shared whilst inspecting their ways on the way back to the island. But as soon as they hit the shore, it was all about turning that into a real profit. Money spoke a lot louder than jewels, after all. Especially when you were like Nadia, with a taste for the finer things in life. 

And today, that’s where Fenrik came in.“And your team can handle that?” She was skeptical, of course. The plan was, for all its purposes, a risky one. But if they pulled it off it could benefit them all. Nadia dealt in gold, Fenrik in weapons. And the people they sold to wanted power. There was money in it all.

[queenmuzz]

So, anyways, I saw something @liulyam had posted for Spardaverse a while back I DON'T KNOW HOW I MISSED THEIR WONDERFUL ART FORGIVE ME! Anyways, I saw specifically THIS piece of art, and it sent the brain juices into overdrive....

So, the same thing plays out everyday. Nero gets off the school bus and runs in, backpack flying, and tells his uncle excitedly about his day at school, before racing up the stairs to tell his dad the same thing, in the same adorably animated manner. Unfortunately, Vergil doesn’t respond the same way as Dante, sitting still, not even acknowledging that the boy is talking to him. Initially, Nero doesn’t mind, understanding his recently rescued father has been through a lot, and needs time and patience to recover. But as the months pass by, Dante notices that his nephew doesn’t run up the front steps as eagerly, his descriptions of school become shorter, paler. And most worryingly of all, Nero spends less and less time with Vergil, preferring to peek his head in the man’s room, sigh, and slowly make his way to his own room, closing the door sullenly.

“What’s going on Nero?” Dante takes the plunge and asks him one day, before the boy trudges up the stairs. “You haven’t been that rambunctious ball of energy lately.”

Nero kicks the worn hardwood floor. “It’s dad… I know you told me I need to be patient,” his face scrunches up at the word, it’s a thing he’s never been able to truly do. He’s definitely a Sparda boy. “But he just keeps ignoring me. He won’t talk, won’t even look at me. It’s like I don’t even exist! Maybe...maybe he doesn’t want me to exist-”

“Hey now!” Dante needs to nip this train of thought in the bud. He knows first hand where it can lead to. Had he not found Nero nearly nine years ago, while wandering the world, drinking up every bar’s entire inventory in a vain attempt to fill a void in his chest, who knows where he would have ended up? “Your dad...well, even without the stuff he’s been through, he was never much of a talker. Always preferred to have his actions speak for him.” “But that’s the thing, Uncle Dante!” Nero blurts out, close to tears. “He DOESN’T DO ANYTHING!!! He doesn’t care!” And with that, Nero bolts up the stairs, past Vergil’s room, not even checking up on him, and slams his bedroom door with such force, Eva’s portrait wobbles on the desk and tips over. Dante sighs, sets his mom back up, and slowly makes his way up the stairs. Not to Nero’s room; Dante knows better than to provoke that tiger cub when he’s in an ornery mood. It’s time to talk to his dad.

Vergil, or what’s left of him, is sitting in an oversized chair, the only one that fits his giant frame, facing the window, the only one in the place with a view. If he’s heard the ruckus (and Dante knows he has), he makes no indication that it affects him.

“Verg,” he calls out, “I know it's been rough, I know I piled on a lot of shit on you, the whole thing about having a kid and everything these past nine years. I’m not expecting you to just snap back to normal, and start insulting me like in the good old days, but…” Dante’s not good at this sort of thing. He’d rather Royal Guard his emotional turmoil. It used to be with alcohol, but now it’s with a cheery smile. “The kid needs a sign that you’re still there, you’re still fighting. I know you are, hell, you’re the one that helped me take down that bastard Mundus on Mallet Island. But that’s the thing, Nero’s only heard things that you’ve done, not seen them. You need to show him yourself, otherwise…” Vergil makes no motion, and even Dante, stubborn as he is, knows it’s fruitless to continue much more, “you’re gonna lose him too.” And then Dante heads back downstairs, to see if he can whip up a snack to bribe his nephew to come out of his lair. Strange, he swears he hears the rustle of fabric from Vergil’s room, as if his brother had just moved.

--

Nero sits at Dante’s desk, working on his math homework. It’s his least favourite thing, fractions. Uncle Dante is a whiz at them, and usually would be able to help him, but he’s gone out on an ‘Really quick, won’t be more than a half hour’ errand run. It’s been nearly two hours, and the only other adult here is his dad… so Nero is practically by himself.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of Nero’s neck prick up, and he hears scrabbling at the front door. He’s still not allowed to go out with Uncle Dante or Auntie Lady on their hunts, but he knows what a demon feels like, especially when there are a lot of them. ESPECIALLY when they’re really powerful Instinctively, he grabs a chair, and wedges it underneath the door knob, and looks around in a panic. He’s never had to deal with a demon attack by himself before. He remembers his uncle has a case of weapons that he was told to NEVER touch beside the jukebox, but Nero figures that he can say sorry to his uncle later. He smashes the lock with a billiard ball, and yanks open the lid. He’s disappointed. He thought there would be a treasure trove of swords and guns, but all there are two swords, one red and one blue. But he doesn’t have much of a choice, and the whine of protesting wood ends with a thunderous CRASH, and demons pour through. “FIND THE HERETIC GOD SLAYER!” One says, before turning in Nero’s direction. Without much warning, it shrieks as it launches at him with razor sharp obsidian claws.

Nero might be little, but his uncle has trained him well. Whipping the two blades around, they connect the monster’s waist in a pincer move, and like a pair of scissors, bisect it in a shower of blood and ash. Nero swears he hears a voice (or is it two voices?) approvingly say, “Impressive!” but doesn’t have a chance to savour his very first demon kill as another demon comes at him, knocking him over. The reddish gold blade clatters away on the floor, way out of reach, not that it matters. Nero’s pinned to the ground by a skeletal foot, as the demon lifts a blade to impale him. He squeezes his eyes shut, preparing for the end.

The final blow never comes. Instead, he hears shriek, and the pressure on his chest instantly subsides. He opens his eyes, to see it stagger back, its decapitated head clattering to the floor. Its brethren likewise are either dead or dying, their high pitched screams shattering the glass in the jukebox.

Nero’s first thought is that his Uncle has finally come home, Dante’s come to save me! But what’s odd is that there’s no sound of Dante’s beloved Ebony and Ivory. And last he checked, his uncle never was able to shoot out blue ghostly blades that now impale most of the horde. But it doesn’t matter, because his uncle is here to save the day! That is, until he yelps as he’s quickly, but not roughly picked up and held as whoever holds him spirits him out of the building, the blue blade still clutched in his hand. Nero begins to panic, but hears a voice, almost like a croak, as if the vocal cords had been in disuse for years…

Nero

And even though the voice is harsh sounding, it's one of the most comforting things Nero’s ever heard.

--

Of course that half hour errand run would turn out to be three hours. But when he was promised a free pizza for clearing out that demon nest on the West side, Dante couldn’t say no. Besides, he’d pick up some freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on the way home as a way of apologising to Nero. The kid might be cross with him, but he’d forgive him the moment he smelled those chewy biscuits. Dante might even let him have more than half of the package.

So when he gets home to find his front door smashed open, his office trashed, and worst of all his jukebox shattered-wait no, worst of all, his nephew missing, all thoughts of pizza and cookies vanish from his mind as he rushes in, guns drawn. There’s no sign of life, but the black splatters of demonic ichor painting the walls shows that some real bad mojo went down here. The strangest thing though, is Agni, a weapon Dante was definitely sure he had under lock and key, laying there on the ground, alone.

“Alright, time to spill your guts” he yanks the blade up so that he’s at eye level with the pommel, “What the hell happened here?” Agni makes the same response as Vergil. Which means silence.

“I swear to…” he pulls out ivory, and presses the muzzle into the (more troubled than usual looking face), “You’re gonna tell me what went down, or we’re gonna see how many bullets I can jam into your ugly mug.” “You told us to remain silent.” He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, consider that rule temporarily relaxed.” “There was an attack.” Agni starts, its distorted voice unusually agitated, “The little one fought with great valour, but eventually even he was overwhelmed.” Dante’s blood goes cold. “But then a great bulk of a demon came out and slaughtered the attacking filth, and spirited the boy away, alongwith my brother.”

“Rudra’s still with Nero?” That’s odd, if they were trying to capture the kid, they’d disarm him first.

“Yes, they are not far, I think they’ve stopped moving.”

“Alright,” Dante makes his way out of the disfigured wood, “let’s go find the kid and your bro...and if he’s alright, maybe I’ll reconsider giving back your talking privileges.” “Oh, that would be wonderful, will you allow us to leave the dark box? It’s been so long since we’ve fought, we crave batt- ”

“I said IF, and I won’t guarantee anything if you keep jabbering on and on.”

--

Angi directs the demon hunter to a dark secluded alleyway, a few blocks from Devil May Cry. One hand on its hilt ready for attack, the other fingering the trigger of Ivory, he cautiously makes his way past the recently overturned garbage cans, to a shadow alcove, where a shadow crouches. Beside it is Rudra, glowing faintly, it’s turquoise blue light providing enough illumination for Dante to make out what has happened. There’s Nero, peacefully slumbering away, apparently unharmed, not even his shirt is torn. And holding him gently, stroking his downy white hair with a giant hand...is Vergil… And for once, even though he is still staring straight ahead, there’s a different look on his face, a sense of contentment.

Huh Dante thinks to himself as he holsters the weapons, I was right, actions DO speak louder than words.

[ussgallifrey]

Up On The Housetop

✦ Summary: You meet him in the most peculiar of ways. Or, the five times Bucky was incapable of using a door and the one time he was. ✦ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader ✦ Warnings: Mentions of violence ✦ Word Count: 2.1k ✦ Author’s Note: I was listening to Christmas music when I had this hysterical image of Bucky crashing through a window as the song played in my head. It sparked this. 

01. Journey Coffee House, Midtown Manhattan - November 13, 2026

You're already running late for work when you enter the busy cafe. The downpour outside had spurred you on in search of something warm. Anything to get your day moving in a better direction after the failed alarm and lack of matching scrubs to wear. There's a line wrapped around the front tables, stopping with you directly off to the side of the front doors.

If you bought the boss's usual order, you might be able to smooth this right over. As the minutes tick by and the line slowly eases forward, you're praying for a miracle to get you off the hook for being so late. By the time you make it down to the hospital, you'll be at least fifteen minutes behind. Maybe a few chocolate scones would need to be bought to make it pass with the head nurse.

"Oh my god," someone behind you says before the sharp crash of glass against the floor has the place thrown into a panic.

Screams ring out as a fight rages on, only feet away from you. A soaking wet mess of black tactical trying to pull some freak in neon green off his back.

They're clambering for control over broken glass shards, sending patrons scattering in the moment. With your back pressed up against the still intact window, the men struggle past you. Before the one in black sends the other down by throwing him into a table. It splits in half with the sudden weight. And then he's on top of the guy in green.

You let the breath you were holding in finally release. The man stands up, bruised and worse for wear as he sheepishly surveys the damage. And then he's hauling the other guy off the floor and out into the downpour of the street. 

It takes you a full hour to get to work and by that point news footage of the Avengers fighting has taken over the TV at the nurse's station. A video pans across the devastation to show the Winter Soldier dragging the wannabe villain down the street.

02. Bank of America, Lower Manhattan - November 21

This week has Saturday as your one day to get all the errands done. Which, unfortunately, means going in to pay off a portion of your bank loan. Ever since last winter when the major storm in January took out your furnace and busted a water pipe in the apartment above you, things had been unbearably tight in the financial sense. But it was almost paid off, a damn year later.

You're almost finished up with the teller when a series of gunshots ring out in the open lobby. 

A startled scream escapes your throat as the world grows hazy. Surrounded by a group of guards stands a masked man. He's saying something, but you can't really hear it with the hot wave of terror running through your veins. But as people start dropping to the ground, you're quick to follow.

If it was just a robbery, there wouldn't be all the theatrics. But it seems the main guy ranting in the center of the room has a personal vendetta against this particular bank - just your luck, of course. He's got a gun pointed at an employee in a blue suit, something about past employment being vehemently spat out.

A guard pulls your purse in search of valuables - he'll be lucky if he finds anything. Maybe a handful of quarters for the vending machine and a few dollars rolling around in an otherwise empty wallet.

And then there's a burst of glass. Shielding your eyes as the decorative ceiling falls in, you hear the drop of boots on the marble floor. And then punching, shouting, more shooting. You dare a peak, finding a flash of red and black wings. Curling in further to make yourself as small as possible between the wooden divider of the teller's booth.

A final punch brings heavy breaths and then… silence. Slowly bringing your head up, you see two of the Avengers wiping blood from their mouths as they round up the group of robbers. Another rush of team members follows shortly after as they check for damage.

The Winter Soldier meets your silent gaze and he gives you a funny look in return. A small quirk of his lips as he recognizes you from the cafe just a week prior. And oddly enough, you feel yourself smiling back before an agent walks over to check you for injuries. He's already gone once you've been cleared to go.

03. Brooklyn Hospital's Emergency Department, Brooklyn - December 4

Things have been relatively calm for a Friday. Enough time in between patients gives you and a few of the other nurses a chance to put up more of the usual decorations. Snowflake garland along the main desk. A small tree in the waiting room. Stockings behind the nurse's station bearing the names of the main residents. 

"Hey, Sara? Can you hand me another one?" You ask, balancing rather haphazardly on a desk chair as you press red and green ornament stickers onto the window.

The automatic doors slide open with a rush of cold air and a loud amount of bickering. Hopping down, you catch the sight of dark crimson as two figures rush towards the desk.

"'m fine," the one says.

"Like hell you are," the other barks, seemingly holding the majority of the bleeding man's weight.

There's a flurry of people as the one is brought back to a room. 

"Yeah," Sam Wilson sighs with a heavy hand against his forehead, "He jumped from the thirty-first floor."

You gape, amazed that anyone could survive that fall - let alone walk after it. And then your brain clicks together when you realize who the two men are.

Your name is shouted from the first exam room by the doctor on call, "All hands on deck!"

In an instant, you're there with three other nurses, applying pressure to the main lacerations. Squeezing down on the right forearm as the doctor applies pressure to the massive wound on the inner thigh, the Winter Soldier groans.

And then he blinks as another nurse tries to place an oxygen mask on him before he loses consciousness. He tries to bat at it with his metal hand to little avail. But then he seems to meet your gaze. 

"'Course you'd be here."

And he laughs. He collapses back as he full-on laughs.

04. Flatbush Shopping Center, Boerum Hill - December 17

The mall is pleasantly warm but far too crowded for your taste. However, you're desperately scouring for a secret Santa gift for the Christmas Party and you've all but ran out of options before it starts in four hours. The opportunity hadn't presented itself until today, as you covered shifts and worked the graveyard hours more often than you would have liked.

It took enough energy just to throw your scrubs in the wash and eat a microwave meal before collapsing on your bed. You certainly hadn't had the energy left to actually shop. But now your time had run out and you were only allotted a few more hours before something had to be wrapped and delivered.

The crazed holiday shoppers don't fully overpower the sparkling decor, yet. The arches of garland, the silver and gold tinsel bells, the giant lighted candy canes. It's a nice change of pace from the homemade decor at the emergency room. And it smells better too, something warm and sweet wafting through the mall from Auntie Anne's. 

And then there's a cracking and shattering spray of glass as a fight breaks out. Somehow, you're not even surprised by who you see. A flash of dark hair and gleaming metal as a jingling green elf is tackled to the ground. 

A crowd's forming, phone's raised to try and capture the Winter Soldier attacking one of Santa's elves. But a spread of security guards is holding everyone back. You almost want to roll your eyes, but you can't help the smile appearing on your face. 

When it's all over and the police are toting a bruised man in elf ears through the mall, he spots you still standing by the escalator with an amused smirk on your lips.

He hides his grin as he pushes his hair back behind his ear. And then, he's actually walking over to you.

Somehow, you can't help what comes out as he stops in front of you.

"So, what's with you and glass?"

He barks a laugh and it surges right to your heart. 

05. Cranberry Street Apartments, Brooklyn Heights - December 24

The radio crackles on the kitchen counter as you finish another tray of cookies. A classic Christmas station guiding you through the late night as you strive to get that second batch done. The first had been horrifically burned on the bottom and you were ready to prove your baking skills to your family tomorrow. 

Your apartment is well decorated this time. A little here and there over the past year led to even more lights for the windows and a decent sized tree by the computer desk. You'd even managed to buy some fairy lights for above the bed, but they were definitely staying up the full year-round.

As you slide the last few cookies onto the wire rack for cooling, the radio switches over to another song.

"Up on the housetop, reindeer pause / Out jumps good ol' Santa Claus / Down through the chimney with lots of toys / All for the little ones, Christmas joys!"

You hum along, gliding across the kitchen floor. Tapping the carrot noses of your two small ceramic snowmen on the countertop.

And then… a crack of glass.

You freeze as your living room window shatters into a mess of glittering tiny blue shards. Two bodies tumble in, over the top of your couch, crashing into your coffee table and breaking it in half with the combined weight. 

Stumbling backwards into the fridge, you sink down to the floor as punches are thrown. Watching in horror as your apartment is shredded to pieces.

A broken wooden leg from the remnants of your table is used as a weapon for the Winter Soldier against a faceless enemy. It collapses onto your floor as the victor's chest heaves with deep breaths.

And then he turns, face speckled with bright red blood as he finally takes you in.

"Seriously?" you squeak from your small position on the floor.

He stands with a groan. Rubbing his hand on the back of his neck with a sheepish expression. Eyes shining with something sweet and amusing.

Moving from your spot on the kitchen floor, you offer him a fresh-baked cookie. He seems hesitant, considering the unbelievable circumstances of his appearance. But you insist. He perches on your lone barstool as you wait for the authorities to arrive to collect another bad guy.

Warm cookies and laughs shared easily between you. And despite how it happened, it's marked down as one of your best Christmas Eves to date.

+ 01. Cranberry Street Apartments, Brooklyn Heights - December 31

There's a nervous rap of knuckles against your front door. Pulling yourself from the kitchen, you hesitantly open the door - expecting another person from Stark's insurance team to tie up the loose ends of your claim. But instead, you're met with sweet blue eyes and a small smile.

Opening the door all the way, you lean against the frame as Bucky holds out a single white rose.

"Just wanted to say sorry, again," he laments as you take the flower, holding it close to your chest.

You let a laugh slip from your lips, "Like I told you the other night, not your fault. Though I am concerned about your habit of coming in through windows."

He laughs as you raise your brows with a bright gleam.

"To be fair, I did use your door this time."

You give a nod, feeling the flutter of excitement in your belly. "You did. Very commendable. Should make a habit of it."

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he rocks back on the balls of his feet. And you become acutely aware that you're still holding this conversation in the open hallway of your apartment building.

"Yeah?" He quips after a moment, "Does that apply to all doors or… or just yours?"

There's a pleasant thrum in your head as your heart sings sweetly in your chest. Holding out a hand, warm fingers tentatively take yours as you bring him inside your apartment. The promise of something new and exhilarating to bring in the new year as he squeezes your hand for the first time.

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[sian22redux]

Pretty Woman

For  @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan ‘s  Body Positivity Challenge.

Pairing:  Plus size reader x Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Setting: Post Infinity War, the world has magically gone back to normal…

Rating: T

For the gorgeous @winters-beauty because she really likes this type of challenge.

 With a prompt like “your body is not ruined”  I know most folks are thinking of post-pregnancy or something but I’ve gone a different way, based on my own recent experiences.  This is post major illness where reader has to adjust to change. Hence some of her reactions here are based on loss of health of course, and control, and having to adjust to a new reality.  

 Fortunately her two guys have some experience with that.  

--------------------------

“Help!!”

The panicked cry that suddenly tumbles from your mouth brings your boyfriends running from the living room.

“Y/N?! Jarvis!?”  Steve is the first to skid to a halt at the bedroom door, blond brows creasing in anxiety and hands glued to the frame, ready to propel himself against whatever threat lurks inside.  His frown and tanned bulk take up all the open space, block the escape route as he quickly scans the room, reconning automatically for any one of several unpleasant situations.  

Intruder?  

Explosion? 

Lethal virus?

Nope.  

Nothing quite so deserving of an American hero’s skills.

Just your dumb rotten luck.  

“All is secure, Captain Rogers,” intones Jarvis mildly from above the massive closet door and you almost, almost laugh, because-- secure.   Great choice of verb.   Thanks.  Thanks so very much.  Now the AI is making jokes..

Bucky arrives a heartbeat behind and elbows Steve aside, squeezing through to stand worriedly at the cream carpet’s edge.  “Baby, what’s wrong?”

What’s wrong?!!!

James Buchanan Barnes allegedly has super-vision.   How can he not fricken’ see?!  

“I’m stuck!!!”

You stand poised in the middle of your bright and airy Tower bedroom wondering how life came to this.  There’s a tankini top caught about your chest and upper arms that’s mashing tender skin. The matching boxer briefs are wedged halfway up your ample thighs, their blue elastic pinching so hard it just might bruise.  

Secure.  

Yup.  

Impossibly. Hopelessly. Secure.

The frustration of this new reality makes you want to howl but it is the humiliation of standing there, inextricably pinned by two small scraps of cloth, that sends the tears silently coursing down your cheeks.   It was hopeless from the start.  There is no way you will get your one and only (and favourite) bathing suit on.  

Now, or possibly forever.  

The realization is truly sinking in.

“My body is ruined!”

Your plaintive wail jerks Bucky into action.  He leaps forward, slips both arms around your shoulders, braces you upright, murmuring “No doll, your body is not ruined,” softly against your hair, stroking your shuddering back as the dam bursts wide and months of pent up hurt flow out in a hiccupping, sobbing mess.  Steve, as always hyper focused on the mission, has figured out that rescue and extraction are the first priority and so he bends down and stretches the suit’s leg holes wide with his two strong hands, taking care not to tear the fabric.  Gingerly he shimmies the blue-aqua ikat print farther down-- the tugging is uncomfortable but eventually he helps you lift one foot and then the other, sets the bottoms on the bed and turns his attention to the top.  

Push, pull, wiggle—swear--- somehow he manages to remove it without tearing skin.  

You’re finally, finally free and he’s holding you, a wet and snotty, naked bundle of anxiety against his massive chest, crooning softly, “Shhh, baby, it’s ok. It’s ok.”

It’s really not.

“Here, sweetheart.”   A damp facecloth is pressed into your hand.   “Better?” Bucky’s eyes are blue green wells of hopefulness as he passes extra Kleenex for you to blow your nose and oh so delicately dabs aloe from a bottle onto the pad of his metal index finger.  

Oh god, he’s already retreated to the bathroom for supplies.   Each ensuing whisper light, achingly considerate touch of cool against the red welts upon your skin makes you want to tear up again.  Inside the chill, implacable shell of the Winter Soldier there had been trapped the world’s sweetest, gentlest man.  One who has a need to help, cannot stand to see anyone even slightly hurt, and the thought that he’s so tenderly helping you just slays you.  

Sniffing loudly, you dab your eyes and try to smile a little brokenly because you are beyond grateful but also, this is all so wrong.  “Thank you.”

Bucky nods.  Dark and gold, your boys rotate around and now Steve is at your back.  He sits on the one free bit of bed and pulls you down onto his lap with Bucky crouching down beside.  

Both are tense—and worried.  You’ve all been so looking forward to this break—to the Memorial day getaway that Tony is throwing at his Hampton house.  Laid back, weathered wood and chicly elegant white and grey, it is a sprawling haven. Rattan loungers surround an endless pool.  Acres of green lawn will host hilariously drunk croquet.  The beachside fire will glow below a vault of coruscating stars.  

Perfect and all perfectly organized by your boss, Miss Potts.  

Wheels up is at six.  

The sun is climbing quickly to its zenith, baking New York’s already heated streets and anyone who can is trying to find relief.  Bucky’s got on a linen shirt and dark boardshorts.  Steve is as dressy as he ever is in grey t-shirt and zip-off cargos.  You would have donned your sundress by now but around the three of you lie scattered a flurry of discarded summer clothes—like so much sediment rained out of a clear blue sea 

Not a single item fits.  

You’ve been sick for months.   Actually a year.   Have lost the permanent lines of pain and the wan pale skin of too much time indoors but still you are not yourself.  Eight months of steroid treatment have left you drained.  Bloated.   Living in your housecoat and nightclothes on a bad day and in sweats when it’s good.  

The fact that this is the first big event since you’ve been somewhat well stares you in the face.  Online you’d bought needed winter things but no warm weather items yet.  You’d been holding off in the faint hope you’d lose a little more.  But summer is arrived—early and abruptly--quite rudely without consideration of your schedule.  A drizzly week ago the mercury had barely climbed to sixty.   Now it’s a sweltering 82 

“I can’t go.”  

You hate yourself for saying it out loud but a little tendril of relief coils up.  You literally can’t get your suit on.  What will you do?  Hide in the house in jeans and rolled up sleeves?  Flounder in one of Steve’s fabled smedium T-shirts?  Wear one of Bucky’s as a dress??

Cocooning the whole time in the air conditioning feels as if it is giving in to debility once again.

“Steve, will you tell Tony that I’m sick?”

You twist round to catch his gaze but immediately you hear Bucky’s snarking response beside.  “Oh yeah, ask him to fib.  The one with experience lying on his forms.”

“Punk.”  

“Jerk.”   

“Hey!  I’m not the one who has the world bamboozled into thinking that I’m squeaky clean.”

“Fuck off, Buck.”

“Bingo!”

They’re quite the team---put on the squabbling couple act to try to cheer you up and you can’t help it, you shake your head in fond exasperation.  The thoughtfulness is sweet, but still, there’s a little hollow in your stomach.  They’ve done this so very much in the past few months the routine is pitch perfect every time.  

“You are meatballs, the both of you.”  

Bucky shrugs and gives a wry half smirk but Steve sighs heavily, running a soothing hand across your neck where the nerve pain has been worst.  “Your meatballs, Y/N.  But Baby, why?  You’re not hurting badly are you?”

Oh god.   Of course Steve’s going to worry about your symptoms.  Checking in, adjusting to their ups and downs, has become automatic.  You remember for a moment that first night of terror: the sudden jolt as if you’d been hit by a cattle prod, the fuzzy return to consciousness, speech slurred, left arm dead, a raging headache piercing through your skull and radiating down your neck.  Steve yelling at Jarvis to get the EMTs, all but certain it was a stroke. The week in hospital and months horizontal after that.  One night of terror turns into every night.  The seizures hit like clockwork.  Make you afraid to fall asleep because you’re going to get that same electrical shock to brain and the spreading flush of pain.   Every damn night.   Your arm, thankfully, comes back but that doesn’t stop it’s throbbing for a moment.  You feel guilty all the time because they are doing everything. Making meals. Cleaning.  Laundry.  Shopping. Shuttling you to doctors.  One of them insists on staying back from missions because you need so much help.  Neither will let anyone else but them take care of you most days, and so the Avengers do their best.  Run errands and make meals.  Read to you when the headache makes words slide across the page.  Distract Steve and Bucky with needed sparring bouts when all you can do is be still and quiet in a darkened room.  

While the medical team tries cocktails of different things, you all wait and hope.  Hoo boy is that fun.  There’s the one that makes you stoned.   The one that doesn’t work at all but gives you vertigo.  The one that works too well and makes you sleep twenty hours out of twenty-four.  The big gun intravenous med has Shield Medical quickly flushing you with ice water as you break out in hives and wheezing.   It’s supposed to slow the reaction down and so the intern stands frowning at the ensuing full body shaking, wondering if it’s progressed to an anaphylactic phase.

Buck speaks up right away when you can’t answer through chattering teeth. “It’s hypothermia.  You’ve cooled her down too fast.”

“Hypothermia?!”

“Trust me. I’ve seen it.”  

You’d all laughed grimly about that one afterward.  Finally, finally there came the med that worked.   The one that you’ll take forever.  It’s literally saved your life but this miraculous godsend is not without its downside.  

It’s number one side effect is weight gain.

Your gaze falls on the forlorn heap of lycra.  Pretty. Flattering to your curvy figure that both guys love.  It shows off your assets perfectly.  

But is now probably four sizes smaller than you need.

Would it be too much for life to not pile this on you too???   You take a deep breath and try to regain some equilibrium.  You don’t want either Steve or Buck to worry—to think that you aren’t well—but this particular problem isn’t one they’ll have not thought much on before.  “No,” you answer slowly. “It’s not that, I feel ok.” Two sets of shoulders droop, relieved. “But I can’t go in winter clothes. And I have nothing that will fit.”    

This not the cry of a spoiled pampered thing who just wants something new. Literally nothing fits.  Not shorts or skirts. Your favourite capris won’t go past your hips.  The dresses don’t do up.  Even the light evening sweater that doesn’t need to meet in front has arms so tight you’d had to peal it off inside out.  

Utterly humiliating.  

And absolutely a real and present problem.  The East coast has its first summer heat wave early.  When you asked Jarvis that morning what the temperature was outside he’d responded,  “Sir says it’s not fit for man or dog.”  

“I have to cancel going.”

Steve rises and sets you lightly on your feet.  His jaw is set, face intense and determined, and you know he’s thinking ‘no’.  That you shouldn’t give in to this disease.  Let it get in the way of life unless it’s really necessary.  

“I can’t.”   You’re pleading.  Still smarting from the too-tight straps and feeling totally demoralized. Bucky reaches out to grasp your hand while Steve pads silently over to the giant walk-in closet, rummages for the lightest weight sweats you own, holding them out hopefully. You know Tony will be so bummed. He’ll mope.  And pout.  But you can’t face it.  Hiding inside or broiling outside alongside everyone in bathing suits will only make you feel more pathetic than you already do 

You shake your head at the fuzzy mass of grey.  “You go. They’re used to me missing things.  What’s one more weekend?”

Steve sees the certainty in your eyes and does not try to argue on that point but neither does he back down.  

“We’ve just got you back.  Are so, so grateful you are ok.   We just want to see you enjoying yourself again.”  

His eyes are dark like a midnight sea.  Bucky is nodding, setting the sweats aside and handing you your undies and loose shirt and generous jeans from where they were flung across a chair.   When you take them and slowly begin to dress he crosses his arms, a shaft of sun winking off the metal.  

“Not without you, doll.”  

Not fair.  Those are words he knows will work, go straight to the heart of the little triad you have built, and then Steve of course piles it on.   “That’s right.  You don’t go, we don’t go.  We are a team.”  

Amazing, remarkable, wondrous stubborn idiots.  They are awfully hard to cross when they gang up.  

Nervously, you smooth down your dark ponytail and take a steadying breath. “I know.  It’s just…”  

What?   Too hard?

You look at the two gorgeous and true men you are all but married to. Never in your wildest dreams had you imagined you’d wind up here.   Assisting (and being a good friend to) Pepper Potts while she assists the world.  Living in Avengers Tower.   Smoothing out the rough between two lovers who have dared time and space to be together.   They need you so very much that they’ve taken a risk on something quite unorthodox, and though sometimes it makes you want to pinch yourself, lately you’ve just wanted wake up out of the nightmare.  Focusing on yourself.  And forgetting how much they sacrifice.  

Every day.  For everyone.

You swallow hard, trying to gather the shreds of your confidence and explain the lump that sits brooding on your chest.  “I didn’t anticipate this would happen.  Didn’t think ahead.”  

Steve smiles sadly, and you let him take you in his arms, kiss the top of your head and pull back to look sombrely down again.   “Y/N, you’ve been so strong.  So incredible.  And Buck and I have watched you wrestle with this thing, amazed.  Proud of your will to find a way.  It should have made you crazy long ago and I get it.  I do.  This feels like too much.  This one extra thing.”  

Your nodding, realizing that if anyone does understand it’s him. Steve lived with chronic illness.  Several of them in fact.  Asthma. Heart arrhythmia. Scoliosis. Anaemia.  Ulcers.  All of them had plagued him for most of the twenty-five years before the serum.

You’ve been in the fight for not even two.  

“But what am I going do?” you whisper a little mournfully.   If you have to you’ll wear your sweatpants.  Maybe you can cut them off?  Maybe you can cut the arms off your tops?  They’ll look hideous but you won’t broil like a lobster in a pot.  “Can we butcher something that already fits?”

“No, Y/N, not necessary.”  Steve checks his watch and glances to the lightweight packs stacked neatly by the door. “T minus six hours.  There’s lots of time.  I’m packed and so is Buck.  Betcha we can get you stuff and be back by two.”

“Stuff?”  Does he realize what he’s saying?  Four days worth of clothes?  When you need every little thing?

Bucky, curls in behind, chuckling at the incredulity in your tone. “We all can do it baby.  In record time.  And the one of us with taste will even help you pick outfits.”

“Hey!”  Steve, mock-affronted, swats him on the rear.  

From your safe spot in the middle of the sandwich you heave a sigh. Perhaps just a suit and top and shorts would be enough.  The weekend’s casual.  You can get away without a dress.  Survive being seen in the same clothes for days.  The guys do it on missions all the time and heck, Clint lives in black and purple. And Thor in red and silver.

Bucking up your courage, you scrub the wet from your cheeks and are about to acquiesce when something Steve said pings.  

It’s Bucky who is the clothes horse.  Knows his style.  Enjoys taking risks.  Steve is simpler.  He gravitates to clean lines, simple shirts and slacks.  Nothing flashy but he appreciates well made.

He’ll accept finer things that you bring him home but if it’s left to him—it’s online all the way.  

He loathes shopping.  

With the fiery passion of a hundred suns.  

“All?” you ask, incredulous.    

“Yup.  We are team. All three of us will help.”  Steve cocks his head and stares up to the ceiling. “Jarvis can you patch me through to Tony?”

“Right away Captain.”

From above, you catch Pepper’s clear, ringing tones behind Tony’s rapid-fire, just slightly high and excited baritone “Stark’s house of mojitos and margaritas. What’s up Rogers?  We’re pre-drinking here. I’m collecting the eye-watering Hawaiian shirts and Pepper’s making me put the new toys back.”  

“Anthony!”  Pepper is mortified.  You’re blushing and Bucky barks out a laugh.  Steve’s shaking his head and grinning ear to ear, but truthfully the thought of Tony Stark tinkering with items from Frisky Friday?  

Should make all of you a little scared.

“Tony do you still have that limo?”

“Of course I do, Captain Obvious.  Bentley’s Mulsanne for eight.  Tan leather.  Naim audio and bluetooth headphones.  Retrofitted with Stark screens of course.  Whhhyyyyyy?”  

The insatiably curious head of your group absolutely has to know.

Steve grins and pops a quick kiss on your nose.  “We need it.  We’re going on an emergency shopping trip.

The reaction from two floors up is immediate.  

“Holy shit!”

------------------------

Of course Tony calls ahead.  

You stand in the bright but not too intimidating plus size boutique attended by the solicitous and friendly owner.  She is very nice. You force yourself not to apologize, to not make excuses for your size.  It’s ridiculous.  Being not thin is not a crime.  Or a tragedy. Or even actually a choice but it is so hard to go against the conditioning of thirty years.  

Why are you letting all that crap get inside your head? Ridiculous.  Time to be positive and so you force yourself to relax and let yourself be waited on.    

The owner brings armloads of practical and pretty and flattering styles that mix and match—can be a basis to add to later.  For two hours Steve and Bucky sit in the ‘boyfriend chairs’ and help.. Steve has a black-one sugar coffee, Bucky has a latte and his phone is in his hand. He’s helpfully checking for the latest styles..offering opinions as you come out and model each new thing.   They’re both laughing and joking, trash talking each other’s sense of style and seemingly enjoying the experience as you try on an entire wardrobe.  Two bathing suits, two shorts, navy capris, four tops, one light coverup and two sundresses.   In basic colours that all go together and will get you at least through a week with washing once.

“That’s enough,” you insist, feeling a bit tired and hot from all the changing, wondering what the damage to your credit card will be.  You haven’t worked since all this landed down.  And though Stark Industries has great disability insurance, you feel like you shouldn’t go too nuts.

“But you should have one tank, I think” the owner adds, frowning thoughtfully at all the cap-sleeved tees.  “In case there is a day that is very hot.”

Hmm. She has a point.  The weekend is slated to go from broiling to thermonuclear, but you’d steered away from thinner straps, a little worried at how they’d look.

“Go for it, Y/N!”  Bucky enthuses and Steve nods encouragingly and so you warily take a few wider banded versions into the dressing room.  Tug them down over your head, prepared for a pair of hastily stifled frowns.  

The reaction you get is not what you expect.    

Steve’s frowning, concentrating seriously like you’ve never seen, asessing the three different combinations like the fate of the world is riding on this choice. Finally he speaks up.  “I really like that one.”

You turn to give yourself a better view in the three way mirror.  The actually super comfortable white shorts have a broad waistband that flexes gently and doesn’t bind.  They’re topped by a just slightly flared, surprisingly flattering tank in black with grey overstitching.   Modern and sleek, it moves with you–and as you move Steve’s nodding.  

You glance back at Buck.  His head is tilted, long hair falling across his face as he peruses the combo with as much consideration as he gives a gun.  Which means serious consideration.  “The shape is great, Y/N, but the colour isn’t right.”  He rises up and heads unerringly for the rack it came from, picking out the same top in pale shell pink and walking back, holding it up against your shoulder.  “I think this is better against your colouring.“

You’re amazed.  Now that is getting into the spirit of the thing but still you bite your lip, thinking black is more neutral, but what do you have to lose? Why not try?

When you return and show it off, Steve smiles and the owner looks admiringly at Bucky and nods her head. “You are exactly right Mr. Barnes and pink is this summer’s colour.”

He is right, it’s a warmer tone and makes your skin look less sallow.  You feel better in it.  Surprisingly.  The top goes into the keep pile and Bucky grins, sitting down and stretching out, lacing his hands behind his head and making a face at Steve as if to say ‘I’m not the one to steer you wrong.’  

The gesture gets Steve’s dander up.  The game is on, and no one, no one, gets more competitive then Steve Rogers when he is the mood.  

“Try this…”  

Oh my god he’s actually picked up a sheerly pretty, ice blue strappy top from a rack, the dainty hanger looking hilariously tiny in his massive hands.   Can you wear something that—delicate?   Your brain had been kind of thinking of a heavier cover up….  

“Try it baby.”  He looks so sure of himself and Bucky’s nodding encouragingly and the owner is saying how the only rule is ‘do you like it?” and so you put it on.  The slightly ruffled asymmetric edges look sexy and cool against jean shorts and all of you agree---- it and the shorts are perfect.  

Both are to be kept but then Bucky will not be outdone.  He stalks around the shop, metal fingers quickly riffling through the wares, obviously searching for something exactly right.  

The owner hovers politely just behind.  “Mr. Barnes? Can I help.”

“Bucky,” he answers automatically.  “Nope. I will know it when I see it. 

Finally he pulls out a complicated looking fall of pale leaf green and holds it up.   It’s gorgeous.  And absolutely sexy.  A halter top that falls softly to a just slightly fuller base.   With an oval opening in the back and cut-out, slightly gathered sleeves that will leave your shoulders and upper arms quite spectacularly bare.  

You shake your head.  “I can’t.”  

“It will be perfect with your eyes.”  He’s right on that—it will bring the green highlights in your hazel eyes to life, but it’s seems waaay too revealing.  Your upper arms aren’t toned.  Your collarbones don’t show.  Your…

“Y/N?”  Steve rises and slides over to give your shoulders a quick reassuring squeeze.   His ocean eyes are pleading like a puppy dog’s.  “Please?  I’d love to see you in it.”

How can you resist both of them?

Cautiously you come back out and give a little twirl.  It’s flirty and sexy and both guys’ eyes light up right away.  

“Wow.”  

Their comment is in unison.  It is really, really nice, flirty and soft and it makes you even feel a little sexy.  Steve says he also loves the blocky heeled, buff sandals the owner has paired it with.  Bucky is raving about the stretch skinny jeans.  You frown at the size of the ‘keep’ pile.  

It’s growing.  The owner has suggested a really workable set of combinations and there is even a silky printed scarf to give one dress a little bling for evening.  

The thought of the bill is a little daunting but you do need longer pants if one evening turns out cool…

Bucky leans back in the chair and confidently crosses his arms across his chest.  “Buy it all, Y/N.”   Steve nods and gives you one of his precious sunrise smiles.   “We’re a team.  We’ll divide the bill up equally.  Don’t stint yourself.”  

That is so considerate and so very generous.  “You don’t need to…” you begin, but Steve cuts you off.   “We do.  We want you to feel comfortable and relaxed in what you wear, too feel confident.   We can afford it,” he adds and Bucky laughs. 

“Easily.  All he ever buys is paint and vinyl records.”

Steve rolls his eyes.  “And all he ever buys is knives and books.”  

True.  But not necessarily a reason for them to spoil you.  

Bucky turns and takes your hand in his metal one, raises it to his lips and plants a kiss, cementing the argument with one last, cajoling grin.  “After all you’ve been through don’t you think you deserve a treat?”  

Your heart melts a little bit.  Well. Then.  

The loot is packaged up and rung through while you change into a sundress and leave the baggy sweats behind.

Outside the limousine driver nods appreciatively when you climb into the butter soft back seats with what feels like a mountain of tissue-covered packages.  It’s Barry. The soft spoken, grey bearded gentleman who had taken you to the rare doctor visits neither Steve or Buck could attend.  

“Miss Y/N, you look lovely. So nice to see you looking well.”  

Wow.

“Did you pay him?” you hiss to Bucky as you follow a laden Steve up into to the steel cocoon of the private elevator.

“Nope, doll, I sure didn’t.”

-------

Once you are ensconced back in your room again, the guys go off to see if Pepper needs any help while you take another run at packing.  There’s no time to triage.  All the small things that don’t fit are unceremoniously bundled by the armload and stuffed into bags to store.  You set the small suitcase on the bed and start to transfer the new items in.  Dresses and pants on the bottom.  Tops and shorts and smalls rolled up to make up space.  Your toiletries go next.  And then your meds.  Six pills a day on top of the injection.  It comes with its own travel pack—freezer bag to keep it cool, mini disposal for the cartridges.  You tuck in your flip flops and eye the new sandals that Steve liked so much.  Should you bring them?  Will there be a chance to wear them?  Can you walk in heels for long after a year of bunny slippers 

Will anyone notice with Nat’s and Maria’s killer bodies in swimsuits?  

With Pepper in her perfect three inch heels?  

Who are you kidding?  They are all so gorgeous and thin and fit and you are white like a beluga whale. Of course all of them will be so nice, will go out of their way to make positive, encouraging remarks.  Of course Thor, oblivious, will make booming allusions to some obscure ancient goddess of fertility. Of course Tony, overcompensating, will ridiculously call you Marilyn, and Raquel and.. and…

Your courage throws a wobbly.  

You are wearing the new sundress with the yellow print.  It’s presentable and even pretty but turning now in front of the long length mirror that you’ve avoided looking in for months, you see it.  

The rolls that dip and dive along your back.  The bow outward of the bodice where your stomach sags.  Even with this being size XL. 

Dissolving onto the nearby bench, you place your hands across your face and struggle not to cry.  You love the Stark Beach House.  It was actually the place you first realized the months long flirtation with the Avengers’ supersoldiers was more than a bit of harmless fun.  Under hazy stars and moon, the softest of night breezes, you’d raised your cocktail to your lips and caught their eyes meet in glance.  Accept the truth.  Find the courage to admit.

They’d fallen.  For you, just as you had for them, and no matter how complicated, how messy it is to be three they wanted this.  The whole world knew Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes are an item.  Indivisible and forged like steel by the vicissitudes of life. It just didn’t know they felt incomplete without a third.  Someone softer.   Who could fill in the chips and hollows, let them focus on something other than themselves. 

One different man came out of Greenland’s ice.  

One different man came out of Siberia’s wastes.  

Both of them understand in their DNA how hard it is to start again. That you are mourning.  For a life that is irrevocably changed.   No one’s breathed a word of you returning to work as yet but you know it will be hard.  Some mornings you’ve staggered into the common room, dopey from the night time meds and poured coffee into your orange juice.   Some weeks doctor visits and movies dates are equally lost in fog.  

Steve says not to worry, take baby steps, understand that pain builds fatigue and fatigue leads to forgetfulness but then you think of the insanely together, curvy woman with the photographic memory and talent for keeping track of every tiny detail.

Gone.  

You will never be that woman again..

You hang your head and cry.

-------------

  “Y/N?!”  

It’s Bucky.  He’s walking in, probably coming to see how soon you will be done and it doesn’t help. “I’m sorry. Sorry..I just…”  

He’s leaning over your half-zipped bag, biting his lip, one tendril of sable hair sweeping across his cheek.  Perfect dimple and chiselled jaw darkened by just a day or so of stubble.  

The sight catches at your breath.  

How?  How could so gorgeous, sexy a man want me??   How could Steve?  Painted golden as a perfect sunrise.  Inside and out.

The tears leak out again.  

Confused, surprised, you think, at the waterworks. Bucky straightens up.  “Baby what’s wrong?”  

You wave your hands at your body.  “You can’t find me attractive like this!   You both are so perfect and I look so…“  

Fat.  

The word is clinically quite simple but in practise it is so complicated. All too often meant to demean.  Trolls on the internet toss it negligently when they want to put someone down. ‘Fat slob.’ “Cow.’  ‘Porky’ may be gentler but the message is the same.  Appearance is all.    As if weight happens because you’re slovenly.  Or stupid.  Or worth less than someone else.  

It is so wrong but thinking judgementally is very so hard to banish when you’ve been bombarded by it for almost thirty years 

“Different..?”   Bucky’s eyebrows crash together into a familiar line of hurt.  “Y/N is that what you think our love is about?”  

“No. No!!’ you exclaim, mortified.  “I know you love me. I just..”  A little voice inside your head says ‘be honest. It’s the only way this will work.’

“I don’t want you to want me any less.”  

There.  You’ve said it.  In a whisper because it feels so unworthy.  Insignificant, when they’ve fought so hard to be together.  

But this worry has been clawing like a rat at your brain since the day you stopped being in so much pain.

Before nothing mattered but relief.  Now you feel better.  Mostly. You should want your guys, and the days you don’t feel so crap you sort of do.  

But there has been no sign of anything other than care and concern from them.  

Bucky’s face is a kaleidoscope of emotions.  Unsure of what he’ll do, you hold your breath, watch him sigh and cross over to the door. “Stevie, pal, can you come here?”  

He walks back to you with the saddest smile.  Warm and cool fingers hold your cheeks as he leans down to place a kiss upon your brow.   Hands glide down to rest upon your shoulders--the metal one, thanks to Shuri’s tech, barely heavier than the right.  

“Nothing.  Nothing could ever make me love you or want you any less.  Nothing.”  Bucky punctuates each word with a little shake.  “Wasn’t I the one who first noticed that exuberant, sexy smile?  Convinced Steve to take a chance?”  

You nod hesitantly.  He had been, and flirted too.  Hilariously. Brazenly.  You’d been so shocked.  It wasn’t until Steve ‘my tongue ties when I have to talk to women’ Rogers was enthralled, quizzing you about your peripatetic upbringing as unofficial assistant to globe-trotting famous scientist parents that you accepted it might be real.  He had touched your arm so casually and easily, fingers brushing lingeringly as he passed over a new drink, smile quirking just a touch seductively.

Magic.  And utterly irresistible.

It felt a lifetime between then and now, but in truth it was just three years.  

Steve arrives, exchanges an almost telepathic glance with Buck and quickly picks up the gist, reads the situation like a book as only he can do.  He leans in to hold his hand against your cheek, while the other cradles loosely at Bucky’s waist.  “You look beautiful.  And edible…” The feather touch wills a little of his certainty to seep in.  “Y/N, what makes you think that only one size is sexy?”  The genuinely bewildered tone usually reserved for odd parts of disco culture comes out.  This is one of the things that gets Steve’s dander up.  Disappoints him that it hasn’t progressed after seventy years of nap.  “That is flat out wrong.   Bigger or smaller, anything outside the ‘norm’ is bad. It’s crap.”

“Girls don’t get criticized for being skinny,” you blurt, not quick enough to block it in.  You flush, but in your defense.. it is true.  “There is no such thing as too thin for the magazines.”

“Screw the magazines,” Mr. ‘fight me’ growls.  “No one should be criticized for their body shape.”  

Bucky’s nodding.  “It is so demeaning.  In our time girls were made to feel inadequate for not being built like Rita Hayworth.  Flat chested was considered a disaster.  Guys were ragged on if they weren’t built like George Atlas.”  His gaze turns serious and he pulls you little circle closer, prosthetic hand tight on Steve’s shoulder, hair swaying back and forth as he vigorously shakes his head.  “That just isn’t how attraction works.  I have loved and wanted Steve since he was tiny as a matchstick.  So emaciated his hip bones fucking hurt when we were fucking.”

You gasp at the explicitness of the imagery.  Oh lord.  Yes that paints a picture.  Bucky grins and looks adoringly up at his boyfriend.  “I wanted him anyway.”

Steve drops a searingly hot kiss onto Buck’s lips before tearing his own away.  “You did.   Every day and twice on Sundays.”

This is not an earth-shattering revelation.  Bucky is the one with the raging libido.  ‘Hair trigger’ describes pretty much every part of him and honestly, you’d been too.   Before.  It was Steve who sometimes had too much in his head to play. Could not let the day’s anxieties quite go.  Wound himself in strategy until it took two to pull him down—a lion and lioness on their prey.  

The pair of them sexy snarking once again feels so good.  It’s been on hard mute of late.  

Steve runs a thumb thoughtfully across your lower lip.   “He loved and wanted me.  As I was..  Just like I love him for him.  And love you for you.”  The thumb trails down and deliberately runs along your collarbone, leaving precious, welcome little shivers in its wake.  “Y/N you are so sexy.  In every way. Every bit of you.  There is nothing to be unsure about.  You— curvy as you are,   you are perfect.   If we’ve held back from showing you, it’s because we didn’t want to pressure you into something if you weren’t ready.”  

Of course he has it exactly right.  Before, the constant pain and migraines had demolished your libido.  Constant worrying about you had killed theirs.  Bucky takes a deeper breath, leans in to leave a trail of butterfly kisses on your shoulder.  “I’m sorry we didn’t speak up sooner.  There is no way that you could look that would stop us wanting you.”    

He is reading your mind again—seeing that you worry your condition will change with time.  Relapse. It’s hard to entirely banish that fear.   “I’m not gonna go back the way I was,” you say forlornly.  

Steve hums and buzzes a sympathetic kiss upon your neck.  “Mhmmm.  The drug’s changed your metabolism… My serum won’t change either. Or Buck’s.”

“Don’t be so sure with Hydra tech,” Bucky mutters below his breath and Steve rolls his eyes expressively.   “The point is our change is permanent too.”

“But that’s not the same!”  You’re trying to not let your mouth hang wide open.  “You are both perfect since your change.  You’re gorgeous!”  

“So are you.”  Steve punctuates each word with a kiss.  “I get it, sweetheart, I really do. I don’t always love this body either.  Sometimes it just feels like a freak show, but I’ve learned to accept it’s me.”  

Steve? A freak?  This is not an adjective you associate him with.  He’s gorgeous.  Stunning. A perfect specimen of masculinity and that he wouldn’t be utterly thrilled to step into a machine and come out magically a new man has never occurred to you.  You know it hurt.  That he suffered for it.  But the change was absolutely for the better.

“But you’re strong?  And healthy now?!” you exclaim.

“Yes, and god knows it’s better than being sick all of the damn time but it isn’t me. In my head I’m still the matchstick.  There are days when I get caught off guard.  Feel big and clumsy.  And it’s not always such a thrill.”  He pulls a pouty face.  “Can’t turn off the heat that makes you two cuddle on the other side of the bed without me.”  

Bucky bumps him in the hip.  “Awww.  Rogers, you are such a sap.”  

“Unh hunh, well I’m your sap, pal. Forever.”  Steve reaches across your shoulder to kiss Buck’s cheek but then his eyes darken seriously.  “I am hungry all the goddamn time.  And it’s a crazy waste of money to buy custom everything.  Even T-shirts for crissake.”

That makes you smile.  It’s hard to take the frugal Irish boy of the Depression out of the modern man. “I kinda like it when you don’t and wear them a little tight.”  

Bucky grins and nods.  “And your pants.”   It is Steve’s turn to bump playfully at his boyfriend’s hip. “What?” Bucky’s eyes are wide and innocent.  He turns to you and becomes more serious, letting go Steve’s waist, turning his metal hand and flexing the matt black plates.  “I get it, too.  It is not easy to become used to looking different.  Took me ages to accept my arm.”   You nod a little hesitantly. You were not there when he first came back, broke his conditioning to seek out the man he loved, beyond time and all the cycles of the world. “I wanted to hack this thing right off.  Felt as if it wasn’t me.  I still catch myself in the mirror, seeing that, despite Shuri’s good work, I’m half a cyborg with a mass of scars.”  His tone turns low and serious.  “Do you find my naked body unattractive?”  

You gasp, appalled, reaching to catch his hand.  “No! Oh god, Buck no! It’s sexy as hell.  And your scars, they’re badges of bravery!”  

His eyebrow quirks.  “Yeah, love you babe for saying so but let’s be real.  I am a mass of metal and red keloid scar tissue.  Lots of it.  It’s not exactly conventional beauty pitched in the papers or TV.”  His flesh fingers dig into the junction of the prosthesis with his pec. “The internal struts at one time went in here.  The Wakandan version is far lighter and easier but I feel it still.“  

“Buck.”   Steve’s reaches to squeeze his left bicep as Bucky sighs and then his eyes drop to catch your gaze. “It’s taken a lot of time for me to feel it’s a part of me. Accept that I am sexy with it.  Give yourself time.  You will feel it too.  There is no one size or shape for sexy.”

Steve is nodding.  “There sure isn’t.  You both look beautiful.  And I love you beyond reasoning.”  He holds your hand but leans toward Bucky, wanting to support him too.   There’s just a hint of mischevious glitter in blue eyes and his voice is rough with sudden desire. ’I remember the feel of your left arm.  But I love the one that is here right now. ”  

You watch them kiss.  Soft lips meet at first gently and then hungrily, deepening the kiss until it is a barely reigned flame of need.  So enticing. And arousing.  As always the sight leaves you breathless.  The black and gold of the prosthesis is cool below your fingertips and little arcs of light sparkle in the pale gold of Steve’s soft hair.    

They were first.  The foundation.  But you are here now, a solid point of the triangle, and you know it, yet sometimes, as now, you feel the need to let them be.   They’ve been holding off because of you, and you’re uncertain you feel ready for attention yet.  

As you start to slip below the circle of their arms, a hand snakes out.

“No, no, no. Don’t you go anywhere, Y/N.”  Bucky has broken off their kiss, moved lightening quick to cut you off.  He turns your shoulders to face Steve, runs a hand encouragingly along your arm, lacing your fingers in his own.  Steve is smiling, slow and sultry, right at you, a wall of blast-furnace warm and sexy muscle, wedged almost touching right in front.  

Your body sings.  It remembers this, being caught between dark fire and golden glow.  Celebrated.  Revered. Taken to dizzying heights and a now melting grows in your core that you haven’t felt for months.

Perhaps it is that they are right.  You can, in time, adjust.  

And they will show you every hour of every day how much they love all of the woman that you are.

You let yourself fall back upon the bed when a hand with freckled pushes gently on your chest.  So many hands.  Pale. Black-gold.  Irish fair and English tawny warm.  Somehow Bucky has caught you as you fall.  Your head is in his lap.  His blue-green eyes are sparkling just above and one hand is palming, lightly, gently, at the nipple peaked below your dress.  It feels right.  And good. Home, after too long away, and then Steve crawls up the bed, lays himself warm and pliant between your legs. Grinning broadly, excitement glowing in his gaze.  His hands lift the cotton of the hem, ruch the pale yellow flowers up to see a view of your new lemon thong.  

A blond eyebrow raises. “T-2 hours before we go.  Time enough to change into another pretty dress?”

Oh god.  

“Yes.”  

So yes.  

----------------

tags: @winters-beauty @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan  @theycallmebecca @mewsiex@emilyevanston @mycapt-ohcapt  @pegasusdragontiger  @badassbaker @heather-lynn @saffreelove @loricameback @nomadicpixel@missfirstavenger @prplprincez @marvel-lucy

[dweemeister]

Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets (2017)

In modern movie industry parlance, the summer of 2017 has been noted as a rejection of more reboots and sequels than usual, at least if you only consider North America. Baywatch, the fifth Pirates of the Caribbean movie, The Mummy (supposedly the rebooted universe of the Universal Monsters films), Cars 3, and Transformers: The Last Knight all struggled at the North American box office. So, the reasoning went, audiences must be thirsting for newer faces, ideas, and worlds instead. Luc Besson’s Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets fits that facile argument, but will be destined to lose tens of millions of dollars for the French, American, Chinese, Emirati, and German production companies that financed the most expensive European film ever. Beyond those figures, Valerian is not a great movie – its lead actors are dreadful, Besson’s screenplay is unorganized, and the movie itself is, to put things charitably, like falling from a fifty-foot stupid tree and smashing into every branch on the way down. And yet, I must admit I enjoyed this hot mess of sci-fi.

Orbiting the Earth, the International Space Station (ISS) has evolved into a multispecies settlement named “Alpha” over centuries. How lucky humans have been to encounter so many peaceful aliens. By the twenty-eighth century for safety reasons, Alpha has broken free of Earth’s orbit. Two of its human special police officers are smooth-talking, shoot-first-ask-questions-later Major Valerian (Dane DeHaan) and his partner – professional and romantic – Sergeant Laureline (Cara Delevingne), who usually doesn’t tolerate Valerian’s nonsense. One day while traveling to recover an illicit device from a black marketer, Valerian has a vivid dream where a peaceful, humanoid race sees their idyllic planet destroyed. Brushing it off for now, Valerian performs his duties with the confidence of a younger Han Solo, but with greater purpose and arrogance towards his targets. Back on Alpha, Valerian and Laureline’s superior, Commander Arün Filitt (Clive Owen) commends his two most accomplished subordinates. Yet other machinations are in the offing, and it is up to our two young protagonists to investigate after an attack on Alpha’s governing council.

Other characters of note are Bubble (Rihanna), a shapeshifting performer located in a red-light district, Bubble’s pimp Jolly (Ethan Hawke), and the Defense Minister (Herbie Hancock).

Adapted from the comic book series Valérian and Laureline by Jean-Claude Mézières (as with many comic books, I haven’t read the source material), Besson’s screenplay is a structural and philosophical wreck. For every scene such as when Valerian and Laureline are retrieving the aforementioned illicit device in a tense, complex operation, there are two other juvenile moments that steer the film off a tonal cliff. Don’t be surprised if there is a Very Serious Top Secret Conversation one moment and then, a few minutes later, Valerian is dishing off about ridiculous wedding plans or the names of his and Laureline’s babies or Laureline has her head stuck up a gelatinous creature’s asshole upon the advice of three insistent, eavesdropping busybodies. There is a balance that can be struck between world-building – which Valerian pulls off spectacularly, with the immense amount of alien species onboard Alpha and the details of the station itself – and depicting a coherent storyline that challenges the audience’s intelligence. Valerian fails to meet the latter, which is its fatal flaw.

Science fiction in its most enduring iterations – in literature, film, and television – poses questions about humanity’s character, whether exemplified through humans themselves or other life-forms. What drives a person to perform an altruistic act at any given time, any given context? How does one respond to an injustice, and at what point in a narrative are they able to recognize that injustice’s effects? Why would an individual attempt to alleviate that injustice, or perhaps exploit it? The comic book series has been heralded for its space opera intermingled with its fierce, leftist (it’s French, what did you expect, Laureline pressuring the governing council to institute the gold standard in space?) humanism. If that is what Jean-Claude Mézières wished might be the bedrock of his creation, then the film adaptation dispenses such ideologies only until the closing half-hour.

Skip this rest of this paragraph if you don’t want even the slightest spoilers, Besson’s Valerian is looking to make an emphatic statement about genocide, cultural imperialism, and the politics of apologism and reparation – interesting, given that Besson produced and wrote Taken (2008; with the Muslim characters catering to European xenophobia) as well as his role as writer/director of Lucy (2014; a product of guns-blazing white feminism at the expense of anonymous Asian villains). With Besson’s best intentions written into his adaptation, I didn’t think that Valerian and Laureline’s eventual decision to openly defy the governmental-military apparatus felt organic – this is given how the two characters are developed in all prior events that are depicted. Though the two possess the occasional maverick tendencies, raining down force on others is their trade, and their ultimate decisions – though, in my opinion, the morally correct one – comes from almost nothing.

So Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets is a clusterfuck based on the writing alone. But I think those who know me can attest to the fact I can turn off my brain sometimes for a half-baked movie like this – probably. And by a certain point, I just surrendered to the terrible writing and soaked all the visuals in. 

Oh yes, I’m not quite done with bashing Valerian yet.

Dane DeHaan and Cara Delevingne have two of the worst performances I’ve seen in any movie – this blog concentrates on pre-1980s releases, but I consume plenty of newer releases – that I have seen this year. DeHaan’s Valerian is masculinity breaking the douchebaggery meter – it is monotonous to watch, and, at times, gratingly uninteresting. Also, I am now convinced model-turned-actress Cara Delevingne cannot act, as she never quite moves away from scowling disapproval or annoyed neutrality. After she starred as Enchantress in the useless Suicide Squad (2016), what the hell was anyone supposed to expect? Maybe this could have been remedied if they were fighting siblings or platonic friends instead, but alas. Put those two together alongside Besson’s writing, and they have as much chemistry as an Easy-Bake Oven – with apologies to Hasbro.

In an unexpected surprise, it is Rihanna – star of the classic nautical adventure Battleship (2012; Hasbro, what were you thinking?) – who steals this movie in the ten or so minutes that she appears as a shapeshifting Sally Bowles-like character. Well, a Sally Bowles-like character if Sally Bowles had a pole to dance with and was a slave. Rihanna might only be there to spout exposition but, would you believe it, she plays the only character I give a damn about.

What saves Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets are its technical strengths. That begins with the visual effects – all patched together by various effects companies worldwide. Sometimes grungy, other times as colorful as the likes of Life of Pi (2012) and Pacific Rim (2013), and showcasing a beautiful production design by Hugues Tissandier based off the illustrations by Mézières himself. Color injects personality into a movie, and – with the exception of any of the humans – there is plenty of personality to go around here. Olivier Bériot’s costume design and Thi Thanh Tu Nguyen’s makeup direction here are Star Trek-worthy in their variety (two hundred aliens appear in the movie – some CGI, some donning heavy makeup), invention, and unbridled experimentation. Very few contemporary movies are driven by their visuals as much as Valerian – a series of technical triumphs and a marvel of universe creation within a poor movie.

French composer Alexander Desplat (2007′s The Golden Compass, the last two Harry Potter movies) has been working in movies since 1992, and only since the mid-2000s has forged a named for himself as one of Hollywood’s most prominent, consistent composers. That admirable consistency has never resulted in an indisputably spellbinding masterpiece until now – despite the fact Desplat has never collaborated with Besson before. One of the opening cues, “Pearls on Mül”, is as warm and moving as any cue in contemporary cinema can be today – outfitted with a sparkling flute line and gravity-defying strings and chorus. But as the cue progresses, this musical bliss modulates the minor keys, and the paradise promised here might be more fragile than believed. In an environment where melody-less music is rampaging through Hollywood’s big-budget movies, this is a prime example of what movie music can do – complement and strengthen the emotions of a scene, whatever they might be. Valerian’s theme is the major motif in this film, with one of its first appearances in “Big Market” (five notes, beginning at 0:03 on piano), and it returns in distinct ways throughout the film. Less accessible is Laureline’s theme – underdeveloped like the character is – makes an appearance in “Shoot” as she recovers Valerian from danger as well as a meaningful, brief quotation in “Bubble” after a tragic moment.

Outside of Desplat’s score, David Bowie’s “Space Oddity” is an inspired song to lead off the opening expository montage. But for Desplat, his work for Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets contains depth in melody and harmony – utilizing every section of the orchestra as much and as appropriately as possible, while not having synthetic elements interfering or overshadowing the orchestra’s efforts.

There were times in Valerian where I wanted Besson to wait just a few seconds longer, to explore a place on Alpha with more detail. Curiosity – of others, other places – is crucial in science fiction. The concept behind Jean-Claude Mézières’ Valerian has much of this curiosity, but I’m afraid that the movie adaptation seems unsure too often how to express that and other questions it wants to ask. The movie seems to have reached its target audience – which includes yours truly, at least partially. For those who have not had the pleasure of seeing Valerian yet, my only advice to you is to leave your brain outside the door – the film, upon the slightest unpackaging, is as rickety as a Jenga tower. Once again, my apologies to Hasbro.

My rating: 4.5/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. Half-points are always rounded down. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found here.

[bobbystompy]

The Slim Shady 20

Eminem’s “The Slim Shady LP” came out, I’m told, 20 years ago. Though the album is, in many ways, dated, homophobic, problematic, sexist, and just as differently offensive now as it equally was originally, it’s still extremely excellent. Instead of going too think piece-y, I wanted to write about my favorite bars.

While Eminem’s career definitely hit higher highs with latter releases, this is my favorite album in his catalogue. He was just as angry, but it was channeled; not distorted by fame or worn down by addiction or jaded by lawsuits or persevering through death of loved ones. This was 26-year-old Marshall, getting his head above water in time to start machine gunning expletives at the world around him.

And please remember, in his words, “If I’m talking too fast, it just means you’re listening too slow.”

20.

I wanted an album so rugged, nobody could touch it Spent a million a track and went over my budget (Oh, shit) Now, how in the fuck am I supposed to get out of debt? I can't rap anymore, I just murdered the alphabet

Immediate thesis statement.

19.

If I had a magic wand I'd make the world suck my dick without a condom on while I'm on the john

Really dislike this lyric, but it’s unflinching grossness hits every time.

18. 

I met a s*** and said, "What up? It's nice to meet ya I'd like to treat you to a Faygo and a slice of pizza”

This lyric does not exist going forward because any success carries you beyond it. Shades of “Exhibit C’s” masterful “When I was sleepin' on the train / Sleepin' on Meserole Ave out in the rain / Without even a single slice of pizza to my name” exactly 10 years later.

17.

This guy at White Castle asked for my autograph So I signed it, "Dear Dave, thanks for the support, asshole"

Doesn’t even rhyme; he hated his fans from the very beginning.

16. 

‘Cause I'm the one they can relate to and look up to better Tonight, I think I'll write my biggest fan a "fuck you" letter

Gave you every, immediate chance to get away.

15.

I'm freestylin' every verse that I spit 'Cause I don't even remember the words to my shit

Nah --  you’re way too meticulous, Shady.

14.

I'm not a player, just a ill rhyme sayer That'll spray a aerosol can up at the ozone layer

I like when his evil imagery turns half-baked adolescent; might as well brag about melting ants with your magnifying glass.

13.

Tell her you need a place to stay You'll be safe for days if you shave your legs with Renee's razor blades

Some fun internals; plus the part right before taught me what “gaffle” meant.

12.

I just remembered that I'm absent-minded Wait, I mean I've lost my mind, I can't find it

+

I used to be a loudmouth, remember me? (“Uh-uh”) I'm the one who burned your house down (“Oh”) Well, I'm out now (“Shit”)

Two of my favorite circular lines.

11.

Some people only see that I'm white, ignorin' skill 'Cause I stand out like a green hat with a orange bill But I don't get pissed, y'all don't even see through the mist How the fuck can I be white? I don't even exist

Had to address the elephant in the room.

10.

You beef with me, I'ma even the score equally Take you on Jerry Springer and beat your ass legally

Man with a plan.

9.

These are the results of a thousand electric volts, a neck with bolts Nurse, we're losin' him, check the pulse

Always a lab-created monster.

8.

I want to make songs all the fellas dub And murder every rich rapper that I'm jealous of So just remember, when I bomb your set Yo, I only cuss to make your mom upset

Cracked the code for us.

7.

Got b****** on my jock out in East Detroit 'Cause they think that I'm a motherfuckin' Beastie Boy So I told 'em I was Mike D They was like, "Gee, I don't know, he might be" I told 'em, "Meet me at Kid Rock's next concert I'll be standin' by the Loch Ness Monster"

This one checks many boxes: The D, local-yet-hilariously-dated celeb name check, misogyny, mythical creatures.

6.

But they love it when you make your business public So fuck it, I've got herpes while we on the subject And if I told you I had AIDS, y'all would play it 'Cause you stupid mothafuckas think I'm playin' when I say it Well, I do take pills, don't do speed Don't do crack, don't do coke, I do smoke weed Don't do smack, I do do shrooms, do drink beer I just wanna make a few things clear My baby mama's not dead, she's still alive and bitching And I don't have herpes, my dick's just itchin' It's not syphilis, and as for being AIDS-infested I don't know yet, I'm too scared to get tested

One of the only times he breaks the fourth wall.

5.

I hang with a bunch of hippies and wacky tobacco planters Who swallow lit roaches and light up like jack-o-lanterns Outsidaz, baby, and we suin' the courts 'Cause we dope as fuck and only get a ‘2′ in The Source

This was soon corrected.

4.

That's what I did, be smart, don't be a r***** You gonna take advice from somebody who slapped Dee Barnes? “What you say?” What's wrong? Didn't think I'd remember? “I'ma kill you, motherfucker” Uh-uh, temper, temper Mr. Dre, Mr. N.W.A, Mr. AK Comin' straight outta Compton, y'all better make way

Distilling Dre’s career -- warts and all -- into a flurry of knockout punches.

3.

I'll listen to your demo tape and act like I don't like it Six months later, you'll hear your lyrics on my shit ("That's my shit"!) People don't buy shit no more, they just dub it That's why I'm still broke and had the number-one club hit

Everything we’ve ever learned about Eminem has taught us he’s a tortured obsessive... yet this stretch feels effortlessly perfect. Plus, it gives us a clairvoyant outlook on the perils of massive-success-without-actually-making-money in the YouTube/streaming era.

2.

Me and Marcus Allen went over to see Nicole When we heard a knock at the door, must've been Ron Gold Jumped behind the door, put the orgy on hold Killed them both, then smeared blood on the white Bronco (We did it)

So offensive it almost laps itself back into normalcy. The unflinching “We did it” at the end is psychotic, horrible, and confident.

1.

 Fuck rap, I'm givin' it up, y'all, I'm sorry (”But Eminem, this is your record release party!”)

Tried to get out the game on his debut; Jay Electronica would be proud.

Honorable mentions...

I lay awake and strap myself in the bed With a bulletproof vest on and shoot myself in the head (Bang) I'm steamin' mad (Grr) And by the way, when you see my dad (Yeah?) Tell him that I slit his throat in this dream I had

There’s something casual about his fantasy murder of his father that really made the end stretch of this hit home. This is the closing of his final verse in “My Name Is”; he was never playing.

Man, ain't you ever seen that one movie “Kids”? No, but I seen the porno with Sun Doobiest

Em’s devil to Dre’s angel.

My palms were sweaty, and I started to shake at first Somethin' told me, "Try to fake a stomach ache, it works" I screamed, "Ow, my appendix feel like they could burst Teacher, teacher, quick, I need a naked nurse" "What's the matter?" "I don't know, my leg, it hurts" "Leg? I thought you said it was your tummy" "Oh, I mean it is, but I also got a bum knee" "Mr. Mathers, the fun and games are over And just for that stunt, you're gonna get some extra homework" "But don't you wanna give me after school detention?" "Nah, that bully wants to beat your ass and I'ma let him"

Even the teacher wanted him to get his.

Tired of bein' stared at Tired of wearin' the same damn Nike Air hat

Never had to worry about that after this.

* * *

Death section:

- I tried suicide once and I'll try it again That's why I write songs where I die at the end 

- The disaster with dreads, I'm bad enough to commit suicide And survive long enough to kill my soul after I'm dead

- The ill type, I stab myself with a steel spike While I blow my brain out just to see what it feels like 'Cause this is how I am in real life I don't want to just die a normal death, I wanna be killed twice

- And if you ever see a video for this shit I'll probably be dressed up like a mummy with my wrists slit

- (I'm Slim Shady) So come and kill me while my name's hot And shoot me 25 times in the same spot

* * *

I got a wardrobe with an orange robe I'm in the fourth row, signin' autographs at your show

Tries to be unique and boastful... falls apart and gets self-deprecating.

I take a breather and sigh, either I'm high or I'm nuts 'Cause if you ain't tiltin' this room, neither am I

I mean, someone was... right?

We drive around in million-dollar sports cars While little kids hide this tape from their parents like bad report cards

Eh.

If I had a million bucks, it wouldn't be enough Because I'd still be out robbin' armored trucks

Unquenched desire for chaos.

A lyricist without a clue, what year is this? Fuck a needle, here's a sword, body pierce with this

Always able to make a risky situation dicier.

Wait, what if there's an explanation for this shit? What, she tripped, fell, landed on his dick?

Solid one liner.

Drug sickness got me doin' some bugged twitches I'm withdrawin' from crack so bad, my blood itches

/eyes pop out

I don't speak, I float in the air, wrapped in a sheet I'm not a real person, I'm a ghost trapped in a beat

Super fun hip-hop imagery.