#when i was in my high school tech club i told some kids my name and one of them looked at me and said I know what you are. and he was right

[teslacarbombz]

im done hearing about trans men who choose the most amazing name like achilles or romeo or maximilian. not too much cuz my friends name is maximilian no clue if thats how u spell it and i love him known the mf since junior year. like everyone has cool names except for me. even bug n rock is cool like fuck man. what am i supposed to do

[aita-blorbos]

AITA for abandoning my homecoming date (who is a senior) and putting her dad in jail?

I (15M) know this sounds bad, and I definitely feel like TA here, but my friend doesn't think so, so I decided to come on here and see what other people think.

So I've had this crush on this girl for a while who I'll call L (17F). We have some classes together and are both a part of the Academic Decathlon Team so I guess you could call us school friends? I mean she isn't really my friend but she knows me—or well she knew me. I'm getting off track here.

I had some after school activities that included this internship with a really big name company, meaning I had to quit all my clubs for it. Now, I've been trying to prove myself to the person who hired me for the internship, T (Adult M). I found something big that I brought to his attention. I saw some criminals doing criminal things but like with this crazy alien tech. So I told him and he ignored me because I'm just a kid and it wasn't that important.

I decided to re join the Decathlon Team as they went on a trip for a tournament so I could spy on the criminals. L was happy I was there. Which already made me feel really bad because I ended up ditching her and everyone else on the team at the last minute.

I managed to find out who the big leader of the criminals were and tried to confront him. Turns out that T had called the FBI on them and did listen to me after all. Whoops. The big boss dude got away and I got scolded... to the point where I lost my internship. I decided to move on and focus on school.

Homecoming arrived and I worked up the courage to ask L out and she said yes! Even after I ditched her earlier... She is honestly so nice and deserves better than me but thats what this is about I guess. I arrived at her house ready to take her to homecoming and met her dad. Who just so happened to be the leader of the criminals I let get away.

Long story short I couldn't just let him go, so when I walked her inside the school I told her I was sorry and immediately left to go arrest her dad.

It was her last year in high school and I ruined her senior homecoming, not to mention was a jerk during the Decathlon tourney. Aaaand put her dad in jail (she doesn't knoe about that though). My friend said I did what needed to be done but I still feel awful. AITA?

[dinosaurtsukki]

BSD x university au hc’s | pt. 1

hi i am an absolute slut for university au’s in case you couldn’t tell so i just had to write some for my first BSD post. also this is going to be slightly ooc because i am a crackhead

check out pt. 2 here

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Atsushi Nakajima:

he’s definitely the kind of guy who still had no idea what he’d take up in university even after he was accepted 

either wants to not major in anything at all or just major in everything because he’s also scared that he’ll eventually not like what he’s majoring in

so for his first two years you’d probably find him jumping around different classes 

also he still calls the professors ‘teacher ____’ like a high school student and everyone laughs but thinks its cute

eventually, because of his *cough cough* traumatic childhood he decided he wanted to help children by becoming a guidance counselor

he ends up taking Child Psychology and bOY does he love it so much

well he actually just loves all of his classes because Learning is Fun

although because of his *cough cough* traumatic childhood he’s the one in class that people are all like 👀👀

atsushi: *talking about children’s responses to fear and emotional abuse by talking about his own emotional abuse*

the professor, under their breath: wait, do you need help?? 

i can definitely see atsushi as a Roommate of the Year kind of guy. he’s just so polite and tidy with his room. also he’d definitely be the type to take care of plants inside the dorm room and put them on the windowsill

in terms of extracurricular activities, he’s definitely a sporty type of person so i can see him joining a varsity (something like Frisbee because he likes things that go whoooosh) but he’d probably join a student org that does stuff like community outreach

because of all this, he is a Very Busy Boy but his friends do manage to drag him out to parties once in a while

although atsushi would probably sit in a corner and drink only one beer for the entire night 

he’s notorious for helping drunk people though. most of the time he’ll be putting blankets on people and making them drink water

if he knew how to drive he’d definitely be the designated driver

Akiko Yosano:

omg i’m so excited for this i love yosano so much 

she’s the friend who’s just effortlessly awesome all around and a fricking MED STUDENT to top it all off

she gets a bit too excited when it’s dissection time but it’s alright she has good intentions 

probably the only one in your class who doesn’t go and throw up whenever a cadaver is being used (actually do they still use cadavers i have absolutely no idea)

she also interns at the local hospital as part of her degree program but OMG yosano will not stop telling disgusting stories about the patients she’s had

everyone: *eating lunch peacefully in the dining hall*

yosano: so i pulled a guy’s toe out of a meat grinder this morning

everyone: sHUT UP

for some reason she still has a social life despite being a med student and it’s one of the mysteries of life i guess

yosano LOVES going out clubbing on friday nights. if you have the fortune of being her roommate, be prepared for make-overs and being dragged with her out to the city

she’s such a social butterfly like at every bar you go to, the bartender knows her name and her regular order. she’d probably end the night befriending a couple more people

also she’s amazing at karaoke i kid you not

as for extracurricular life, i don’t think yosano’s the type to join an org that’s related to her major cause like ‘what’s the point?’

instead, she’d probably go wherever her friends are because to her, she’ll enjoy any activity as long as she’s with people she loves

but when it comes to her own interests, i can definitely see yosano as someone who loves the outdoors, especially hiking after having to be cooped up inside clinics

it just makes her love and appreciate the value of life more

Kunikida Doppo:

ok, i KNOW he was a math teacher before he joined the ADA bUT i can’t help but think of him as a political science major ??

i can definitely imagine kunikida as someone who’d want to become a lawyer someday and would take political science as a pre-law

he does like the idea of following in the footsteps of great men but omg kunikida would absolutely hate the exclusivity of white, male political theorists

he is such a good student except for when his professor has some sketchy values then kunikida will !! fight him !! every !! chance !! he gets !!

raises his hand constantly to contradict his professor if they even tRY to defend thomas hobbes and authoritarianism

but other than that he’s probably the most diligent student out there. kunikida genuinely enjoys doing the readings for class and writing essays

also has such a balanced schedule that he can make time for anything and everything

except for when his friends dazai drag him out to parties and get a social life

despite how rigid he is, kunikida has absolutely no problem helping out others with learning. he often holds study sessions in his dorm room or in the library before exams

he also likes to volunteer in tutorial centers because he’s just like that

OH OH some of his ‘students’ suggested that he make crash-course type videos for political science and it took some convincing but eventually kunikida decided to go for it

he’s not the most tech savvy or photogenic person so it took some time for him to get used to things but after seeing all the comments from people who benefited from it, he decided to continue with his crash course videos

whether or not he’s the best or worst roommate is completely up to you. if you like someone who’ll basically micromanage your life from your daily schedule to your study habits, you’ll absolutely love him

he doesn’t like to go out for parties that much but he will if his friends convince him enough (kunikida’s an utter lightweight when it comes to drinking though)

Osamu Dazai: 

i genuinely have a hard time thinking about what this guy’s major would be and tbh even his friends have been wondering what dazai’s major was for TWO YEARS

that’s because he keeps taking the most random ass classes like Basic Pottery or Intro to Molecular Biology in the same semester

idk how he even plans to graduate at this point

although to be honest, i can definitely see him as a philosophy major despite the fact that i LOATHE every male classmate i’ve had who’s a philosophy major (idk they’re always so condescending)

i feel like dazai’s just taking that because it’s somewhat challenging for him but to him, university life is just more of crazy experiences rather than learning

and oh my god has he gotten up to the weirdest shit

the number of times he had to climb gates or sleep on benches at three a.m. is too many to count

dazai also loves volunteering for random things like people’s thesis projects (once, he offered to be a snake venom tester to a bio student and they told him that was illegal) or even being the school’s mascot in games

also he and kunikida probably met each other in freshman year at an intro to philosophy class and oh my god did dazai get on his nerves

what’s worse was that they had to work on a group project together and dazai was MIA most of the time and it drove kunikida crazy

that is until dazai showed up last minute to pull an all-nighter with him for their paper and kunikida just couldn’t help but be impressed by dazai’s ~~intellect~~

they don’t exactly get along but they do have some mutual respect for each other enough to work on projects well

omg if dazai ends up being your roommate I WISH YOU LUCK 

the first time you walked into your room dazai was microwaving a metal bowl and you had to run to stop it in time

also he has a tendency to wear his headphones and sing his favorite double suicide song out loud 

kunikida please come pick him up

Edogawa Ranpo:

i love this one man so much i swear to god 

ranpo is definitely the kind of person who just didn’t like school so when college applications came around he was just like ‘why bother though ???’

his friends did convince him by saying that he wouldn’t have to do subjects he wouldn’t like and just focus on his major (this is a lie btw)

is it a surprise that ranpo would choose forensic science ?? NO

he thinks its cool that he can learn about something he’s already super good at and it just gets him really pumped up to show off how good he is

LOVES getting praised by his classmates and professors

ranpo probably thinks lectures are boring as hell so sometimes he just,,, doesn’t,,, come,,, to class

if attendance IS required you can bet he’s bringing snacks and game consoles with him and sitting WAAAAY in the back of the room

Mukbang at a Lecture Hall with Edogawa Ranpo

his classmates think its cute that he puts on glasses before doing exams or answering his prof’s questions as a way to hype himself up

everyone calls him ‘The Greatest Detective’ and ranpo LOVES IT

despite that, he’s not too overly social he just likes being with his close group of friends UwU

he’s also someone you can drag around to places like the fair or an aquarium, but he’s not into clubbing or drinking for that matter

he DOES enjoy seeing his friends get drunk and mess with them though

ranpo isn’t into joining student organizations BUT he gets scouted a lot by detective agencies and he likes interning for them

i’m saying detective agencies because police are gross

ranpo did end up joining a baking club with the assumption that he would just be EATING the cake and not BAKING the cake

yeah he was just there for less than half a semester

***********************************************

taglist (check out my post for details on being part of my taglist): @waitforitillwritemywayout @tpwkatsumu @laure-chan​

[wtnrscap]

Cursed Words- Homecoming

Pairings- Bucky Barnes x Reader, Natasha Romanoff x Bruce Banner, mentions of past Natasha Romanoff x Clint Barton.

Summary- The treatment has started... The compound doesn’t know silence... It’s got to get worse before it gets better.

Warnings- (18+) Mentions of blood, death, injury detail, PTSD, panic and anxiety attacks. Swearing, fluff. Dirty talk, dirty fantasies. Eventual smut.

A/N- This chapter is depressing and fluffy. I mean, the treatment’s started, that’s warning in itself. Also, it’s kinda just a filler chapter so it’s probably gonna be a bit boring. Taglist is open. Prompts list is here.

Cursed Words Masterlist

The screams echo through the halls. They bounce off the walls and reach every nook and cranny. They are loud and blood-chilling and they don’t stop. The electricity around the compound hums and flickers with every scream and Vision glance upwards, looking around the living room. Wanda has cushions over her ears, Nat wears headphones, Clint is raising the soundbar. Sam growls, “When will it end?”

As if on cue, the screaming stops and the silence sound strange.

-

“Again... Let’s go again!” pants Bucky, sweat dripping through his hair. You bite your thumb anxiously before glancing at Bruce who shakes his head. Steve steps forward, talking into the microphone as Tony opens the door, “No. I think that’s enough for today. I’ve read these words 12 times, you deserve a rest.”

A cell built by Shuri made entirely out of vibranium. There were cameras on the inside and Bucky was strapped into a chair with an automatic headset. It had pained you not to go in there with him but after turning into the soldier 6 times on the first run, you were glad you weren’t.

This was the 3rd week of constant treatment and tempers were running high. Bruce and Tony were stressed with the science and Steve and you hated seeing Bucky in pain. Bucky was insistent that they should keep going until the words were gone but you and Steve had forced him to take breaks. His mental health was in tatters.

Your brow furrows as Steve helps Bucky into the lab. He can barely walk for himself, has huge marks across his head and is mumbling, “My name is James Buchanan Barnes. My best friend is Steve Rogers. My girlfriend is Y/N L/N. Tony Stark and Bruce Banner are helping me to get better...”

You’d had to partially wipe his memory with some very complicated Wakandan tech, and you knew this was just his way of reminding himself that he was safe and at the compound. 

You busy yourself with your crutches, not looking at Bucky as Steve takes him back to his bedroom. It’s not that you don’t want to face him, you’re just not sure you can. You hate seeing him like this, and he knows it.

-

“How is he?” you ask as Steve comes out of Bucky’s room. Steve shrugs with annoyance, “Wants to go back down there and continue. I’ve told him to stay put. Need any help?”

“Nope,” you smile and hobble into Bucky’s room, landing heavily on his bed. The sound of the toilet flushing makes you jump and Bucky comes out of the bathroom with a strangely energetic grin. He’s in between your legs in an instant, hand over your eyes, “What colour?”

“Red.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Please don’t write anything silly.”

“Can’t promise you anything, doll...” his voice peters out in concentration and you feel a slight pressure on your right leg. Several seconds later the hand is removed and you look down, groaning when you see what he’s written on the cast.

Why did the cow cross the road?

To go to the moovies!

“You picked the worst joke in the history of jokes!” you mumble and lean back, your head resting on his mattress. Bucky crawls over you, being mindful of your leg, and rests his head on your shoulder, metal tracing over your cheek. You smirk, “Do you like it?”

“What?”

“The arm. Wakandan designed, Tony Stark fitted.”

He shrugs and smirks, “Do you?”

“Haven’t had the chance to test it out yet, Mr Barnes. I’m waiting till I’m out the cast. I want full use of all my remaining limbs.”

“Ouch...”

You smirk again and shift so you’re now lying on his chest. He strokes your hair absentmindedly and hums, “Do you wanna stay the night?”

“Obviously.”

“Wanna stay like this?”

“Yep.”

He pulls the duvet over and you bury your head into his side with a smile.

-

You don’t know what time it is when you wake, just that it’s dark and there’s something wet on your leg. You can’t tell if it’s that or the movement next to you that wakes you. Then you hear the moan.

Goosebumps spring up across your skin and you can’t breathe, your face flushing. You roll over carefully, hoping, for once, that it’s nightmare. Please, God, let it be a nightmare.

“Y/N... Y/N... Please...” Bucky murmurs, his hips snapping up quickly and you groan. If your leg wasn’t broken you’d have just walked away or maybe even got involved but right now? You were useless.

“Bucky... Wake up... It’s a dream...”

At the sound of your voice, he moves faster and the wet patch on your leg grows as he moans. Just when you think you’re gonna have to hit him, he stops and opens one bleary eye, “Y/N? Did... Did you say something?”

“Look at my leg and clean yourself up. I won’t mention if you don’t...” you hiss and Bucky flushes, “Shit... Y/N... I didn’t mean to... Shit...”

“I know, I know. I’ll take it as a compliment. What did it for ya?”

Bucky blushes even more, “You said wanted to test my arm out...”

You nod your head and crawl over to the pillows, “I’ll be here when you come back. I promise.”

Bucky shrugs, “It’s not like you’re gonna go anywhere.”

“Hey!”

-

The next morning, you and Bucky sit by his huge bedroom window overlooking the grounds. He’d brought you breakfast and written another stupid joke on your leg. So far, neither of you had mentioned the incident, but you knew things weren’t gonna stay that way.

“Bucky, I can feed myself!” you giggle as he pushes chocolate toast against your lips, “Stop! Please!”

“You have broken fingers, Y/N, you need my help!” he responds seriously and continues to try and feed you. You shake your head, “I will throw bread at you again, be warned.”

He smirks and stops, his face paling. You know he’s probably just nervous about the treatment, it starts again an hour. His voice juts you, “Talk to me.”

“About?”

“Anything. Distract me. Favourite film, highschool memory, anything.”

“Um... Okay... Well, my favourite high school memory is this dance, My best friend took me and we danced the night away. He was made King and fell over on stage.”

“What type of dance?”

“Homecoming. Happened at one of Stark’s clubs before he owned it. I had this cocktail dress, bright blue for some reason and-- Shit!”

You land on your bum as you fall off the alcove seat, covered in hot coffee. Bucky had jumped and upset the mug, resulting in now burning legs. Somehow, he’d missed the cast. 

He helps you and begins to laugh at the sight of your red legs. Bucky doesn’t look impressed, “It’s not funny! You said a word and you know what they are now! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine! Just... help me clean up and we’ll go downstairs. I think we need to start the treatment.”

-

Three hours and you’re on the breaking point. Bucky’s screams ring in your ears and Steve slaps his notebook on the table, “We should take a break. Start again after lunch.”

“Agreed. The equipment is draining a lot of the compound’s energy and Bucky needs time to calm down,” nods Bruce, “I’ll go and release him.”

You don’t move as Steve and Bucky trudge out of the cell followed by Bruce, leaving you with Tony. You sit in comfortable silence before clearing your throat. Tony looks up, “You still here, kid?”

“I wanted to ask you something.”

“Sure...” Tony sits next to you with a smile, “What’s wrong?”

“This is the start of the 4th week of treatment. It’s constant, painful and unrelenting. I think Bucky needs a holiday. Just me and him. Nowhere hot because of the cast. Just... away from all this.”

Tony hums thoughtfully, “I have a cabin up north... Very modern... You realise you’d only be able to spend a week away. Too long and he might regress.”

“I know. But a week is all we need. Just time away. Please, Tony...”

Tony looks into your eyes and sighs, “You have puppy-dogs eyes, you realise that? I’ll see what I can do...”

You squeal and hug Tony tightly as he laughs.

Taglist:

@indecisivedolly

[theunvanquishedzims]

Where is my fic of Steve Rogers, Matt Murdoch, and Kurt Wagner bonding over being bi Catholic superhero drama queens. Where do they talk about their personal struggles with sexuality and faith growing up in the 1940s, a Catholic orphanage, and a German circus run by witches. (Were they witches? I remember magic and a giant demon lady and it turned out to be his adopted mother and sister, who he was also dating because they weren’t THAT kind of brother and sister.)

I want Steve to run into Matt shortly after being defrosted, maybe at the gym Matt boxes at. Boxing was a national pastime and now it’s fallen by the wayside in favor of more glamorous fighting styles. It’s nice to just get in a ring and punch someone, and they’re surprisingly compatible fighters, both slightly too fast and hitting too hard, coming out the other side grinning bloody teeth at each other. Matt smoothly lying (telling the truth) about his blindness forcing him to focus on his opponent until he can almost predict their movements. Steve fumbling with the cover story SHIELD gave him about being a soldier recently returned from war, being slightly too honest about feeling out of touch and like he wouldn’t fit in normal life with everything he’s seen and done in the war.

I want Matt to show up at SHIELD next Sunday morning to pick Steve up for church completely unasked, Steve fumbling into the nicest clothes he owns that isn’t a dress uniform, Matt loaning him a tie and whisking him across the city to Hell’s Kitchen. Matt whispering cues through the service, remembering John Mulaney at the last minute and hissing the correct words so Steve doesn’t say AND ALSO WITH YOU. Pointing out the priest he confesses to that can handle the mention of beating up bad guys without running screaming. Going out to lunch and discussing how Matt’s church is different from Steve’s old one, going back to Foggy’s to watch that John Mulaney show because he’s the only one they know with a tv, Foggy groaning over there being TWO of them.

Months or years later, running into Kurt at the Tower because Tony’s the one who developed the image inducer technology. Steve’s heightened vision being able to pick out the micro nuances where the hologram doesn’t quite keep up, most people would be able to shrug it off with a vague sense of unease, but they stand out to him like glowing red flags. Matt just feeling the buzzing and prickle of electricity all over his--skin? Fur? This man is very hairy and also has a tail. Why is no one saying anything about the tail. Steve almost citizen/Avenger-arrests him but Tony comes to vouch for him and they have their little Mutants Among Us revelation in the private upper floors. Steve apologizes very sincerely and they chat about Germany and circuses, another nearly-bygone relic that Steve misses. Matt is feeling left out, but jumps in when Kurt mentions being Catholic.

After that they’ve got weekly mass and lunches, and hey friendship is weird but wonderful. They give each other fashion tips! Kurt is European and flamboyant, Steve is solidly insisting that the only improvement on slacks and a button-up is a leather jacket, and Matt is literally blind. They get by. Matt introduces them to his tailor, after some private talks Kurt brings all his pants in and gets proper tail holes incorporated. Steve gets sticker shock every time he goes to a department store, but being able to buy at thrift stores and get them fitted is much more in line with his upbringing. Matt’s wardrobe gets some splashes of color that Kurt meticulously coordinates and bans him from freestyling with.

Weirdly enough it takes a really long time for the superhero thing to come up. Like a reeeeaaaaaally long time. Like shading into identity porn amounts of time. Not on purpose. Steve Rogers is a popular name in the US and doubly so in military families, nobody connects Steve the Army vet with Captain America unless they’re majorly into WWII military history, and the kind of guy who’s majorly into WWII military history is the kind of guy Steve tends to avoid outside of bar fights and university lectures. Everyone thinks the new Captain America guy is an Army recruitment stunt anyway.

Matt is blind, has had several high-profile cases against mob families, and lives in a dangerous part of town, nobody is surprised when he shows up places looking a little roughed up and growling about the darkness in mankind’s souls. Concerned, yes, ready to take on the mob, yes, surprised, no. He likes punching things though, so they leave it when he says he’s got it handled. A lot of debate stems from Matt’s growling, they all have strong opinions about morality and crime and institutional oppression. They have varying degrees of optimism/pessimism about God’s judgement and forgiveness, and wildly different ideas about the criminal justice system. (Again: 1940s soldier, US lawyer, and minority immigrant whose typical response to legal authorities is: *smashes a 40 on the ground* SCATTER!)

Tony introduced Kurt and told them he was engineering him the image inducer, but neglected to mention that it was part of his deal with the X-Men to field test his tech*. Nobody knows what he does for a living. Performer? Translator? Model? Escort? He knows a lot of rich people, like the Starks and Worthingtons and Frosts. He travels pretty frequently and brings them back souvenirs. Foggy is just happy that there is someone cheerful and level-headed in Matt and Steve’s Fight Club of a friendship, until Kurt backflips into the boxing ring with a fencing sword and shouts HAVE AT THEE, and oh no there’s THREE of them now.

(Tony is one of the silent investors in the X-Men. It started as just donating an old mansion the Stark family had to house at-risk “genetic minority” youth, then he wanted to help with the renovations to make it suitable for young mutants to practice controlling their powers, and then everyone got a little carried away and suddenly there were some extra basement floors. A few super computers. Something called a Danger Room, which is a misnomer because it’s totally safe, Tony promises. Possibly a donated jet or two, though they shot down his idea of painting it school bus yellow and claiming it as a school fleet vehicle on their taxes. He thinks the whole “X-MEN” thing the media came up with is hilarious, they’re just a bunch of persecuted minorities trying to rescue and educate kids, occasionally scuffling with another group doing the same thing on the other side of the moral line. He stays in his lane and looks forward to their tech challenges as a fun side project. “Full-body hologram” was a winner, even if it took a few tries to get the tail right.)

Just. More interaction between people who can conceivably interact on the regular, not just meet once in a big showdown based on mistaken identity, realizing We’re All Good Guys Here, shaking hands and then never seeing each other until the big world-ending team-up episode. Give me that sweet sweet bonding. We’re fanficcers, we don’t have to worry about coordinating between movies and shows and who’s going to space in their comic this week. We can just say “hey these guys have a lot in common, how about they get lunch sometime.”

[slushyseals]

https://sportsmascots.fandom.com/wiki/Lou_Seal_(San_Francisco_Giants)

Lou Seal is the official mascot of the San Francisco Giants. "Born" on July 25, 1996, Luigi Francisco Seal has been a regular part of the Giants baseball home games and events around San Francisco, and the United States. The name is a play on the name "Lucille." The Giants held a contest in which fans submitted name ideas. Six people submitted the name "Lou Seal" and they were all invited to a game that season to watch from a luxury box. All of them got to meet the newly named Lou Seal and one of these lucky fans was randomly chosen to throw out the first pitch at that game. The name also refers to the San Francisco Seals, the baseball club that was a mainstay of the Pacific Coast League from 1903 until 1957. Although the mascot's name is a bit ambiguous, Lou Seal is indeed "officially" male (and the person inside the costume is a man). In 2008, Forbes named Lou Seal the best mascot in sports.

The character has had 1,150 consecutive home-game appearances, and is one of the four subjects followed in the second season of the Hulu series Behind the Mask.

He even has PARENTS! (Pictured above in the second row)

The Interview

Full Name: Luigi Francisco Seal

Position: Left Out (Team Mascot) Born: July 25, 1996 Bats: Right flipper Throws: Right flipper Height: Taller than the average seal Weight: He could use a diet Hair: Battleship grey

CAREER Like a fish out of water, Lou's flip-flopping mystique and crazy sense of humor contribute high-powered enthusiasm to Felipe's roster. Known for his "Let's see what I can get away with next" philosophy, Lou has accomplished many daring feats ... 25 attempts of unsuccessfully kicking the umpire in the seat of his pants ... actually stole home plate five times ... 19 headstands behind home plate ... placed 2.5 banana peels in the path of the opposing team ... Five-time champion of "Act Crazy Behind The Fox Newscaster Without Getting Caught!" ... has given 2,562 nuggies, polished 843 bald heads, directed more than 12 major name pregame music bands ... won the 1998 Easter Seal Mascot Baseball Game as a member of S.J. Sharkie's Heroes ... caught 13 "fowl" balls with his mouth.

GIANT IN THE COMMUNITY Participates in visiting hospitals, youth organization and civic groups throughout Northern California and San Francisco.

PERSONAL Graduated from Pier 39 Flipper Academy, majoring in Beach Ball Balancing and Shark Avoidance ... started own crab-leg restaurant at Fisherman's Wharf, where he invented Clam Chowder in a Bread Bowl ... won the San Francisco Tuna Eating Contest flippers-down from 1997-98 ... once grew his whiskers so long, he was mistaken for an octopus ... someday aspires to be a special guest on "Baywatch."

HOW OBTAINED Spotted by Dusty Baker at Pier 39. Turned down offers from other teams to sign with the Giants.

INTERESTS Enjoys going to the movies, eating dinner (lots of it), dancing (all the time), swimming, playing baseball and many other sports, and likes to watch ESPN when at home.

Q: Hey, Lou Seal. Everyone has been wondering where you are from. LOU SEAL: I was born on the Farallon Islands just west of the Golden Gate Bridge and I grew up right here in San Francisco. Currently I live under the Lefty O'Doul Bridge in the China Basin district of San Francisco. I love this spot since I'm swimming distance from the team's home, Oracle Park. Being so close gives me more time to do what I do best - root for the greatest team of all time: the Giants!

Q: Do you come from a large family? LOU SEAL: Yeah, I come from a very large family. Us seals mature pretty quickly so I have a lot of relatives that I've never met -- until I became the Giants' team mascot! Now I have uncles, aunts, cousins and nephews coming out of the woodwork asking me for tickets and stuff.

Q: Are your parents proud of you? LOU SEAL: My parents are extremely proud of me! I am the first one in my family to earn a paycheck that isn't paid in smelt or other small fish. My family is so happy the new ballpark has opened up. Now they can watch me perform from the Bay.

The ballpark is pretty high-tech. I have suggested to the Giants to put some underwater television monitors below the waterfront so my folks can watch me on television.

Q: Sounds like you have quite a sweet tooth! LOU SEAL: Yes I do! Yet I always make sure I brush my teeth three times a day. My whiskers make great dental floss!

Q: How did you become such a huge Giants fan? LOU SEAL: I'm a San Francisco native and the Giants are in my blood! My dad was a big-time Giants fan and so was my grandpa! How can anyone not be a Giants fan!?! We've had so many great players over the last 40 years like Mays, McCovey, Marichal and Bonds -- you just gotta love the Giants!

I love cheering with the fans and helping to keep our team morale up and positive!

Q: Sounds like your family has quite a baseball history. LOU SEAL: Oh yeah! Because of my great-grandfather, the original San Francisco minor league baseball team was named the San Francisco Seals. As Grandpa told it, the original owner was walking along Pier 23 trying to think of a name for his team. A burst of wind came and blew his cap off his head and into the Bay. My great-grandfather retrieved it with his nose and gave it back to the man. From that moment on, they were called the San Francisco Seals!

At least that's what my grandpa tells me. It may be just a marine legend.

Q: So you must love your job. LOU SEAL: It is a dream job! I love cheering with the fans and helping to keep our team up and positive! It is no small coincidence that we have done so well since my first year on the job. It was not just Brian Sabean who helped turn this team around, the Big Lou had something to do with it too, you know.

Q: Besides going to baseball games, what else do you enjoy doing? LOU SEAL: I love making public appearances. It is great getting out and meeting Giants fans. I enjoy going to community and charity events, schools, birthday parties. I especially love attending corporate get-togethers.

I've done some appearances at some of the Dugout stores. It was great fun. When I'm not at a game or making an appearance, you might find me relaxing at Pier 39, chasing mermaids or fishin' for mackerel.

Q: What is your advice to kids on how they should enjoy a Giants game? LOU SEAL: They should wear a Giants cap, bring their glove to the game and root, root, root for the Giants! And don't be afraid to join Lou in the conga line!

(https://www.mlb.com/giants/fans/mascot)

Follow Lou Seal @LouSeal01

Lou Seal's Profile

[xialing-gf]

what a beautiful place! (and an equally beautiful girl)

Summary: mj shows you, the new kid, around midtown and you can’t help but start falling for her

Wc: 1004

Junior year was supposedly one of the worst years in high school and that meant that moving to a new place junior year wasn’t the best idea but you did it anyway. Your mother got a new job at a fancy tech start-up company in New York so your family moved to New York over the summer. Even though you started moving at the beginning of the summer, your family barely finished moving in just as the school year started. Some of your belongings still hadn’t shipped from your old home when school started.

The high school you were going to was called Midtown and you were excited to start school. Your old high school wasn’t as new as Midtown and apparently, Midtown’s science and math department was amazing and had tons of resources so you were extremely excited to see what was in store for you at school. On the first day of school, instead of going to your classes first, you went to the school’s main office since the principal had insisted that a student show you around the school so you wouldn’t get lost. You waited in the office, glancing out the window to see the clumps of students standing around in the school’s quad.

You felt a tap around your shoulder and turned around, meeting a girl’s eyes. Your breath instantly left your lungs when you saw how beautiful she was. She had warm brown eyes that reminded you of chocolates mixed with almonds melted into a sugary sweet concoction. Her lips were parted half-way and reminded you of strawberries neatly sliced in half. Her curly hair looked softer than the feathers in your pillowcase and for a moment, you almost forgot that you were at school.

“Hi, are you Y/n? I’m Michelle Jones and I’m taking you on a tour around the school,” Michelle smiled and the sun shone a thousand times brighter. You managed to get your thoughts together and smiled back, trying to ignore the heat rising up your cheeks as you replied.

“That’s me! I’m Y/n, nice to meet you,” You shook her hand, noting how sleek her fingers were and how even her hands were beautiful (no, you didn’t have a hand fetish). “This school is really beautiful!”

“Midtown is a really nice school. You can call me MJ by the way,” Michelle- MJ- smiled again and your thoughts scrambled, again. MJ took you on a tour around the school and you saw her smiling at your curiosity out of the corner of your eye. The classrooms and hallways were large and the lockers were in great condition. Halfway through the tour, you asked, “What clubs are there here?”

MJ’s eyes flickered over the little pride pin on your jacket that you forgot you had on and replied, “We have a Gay-Straight Alliance Club, a debate team, and basically a club for anything. If you don’t see a club you like, you can start your own club!”

“Wow! That’s so cool. We barely had any clubs at my old high school,” You mused and MJ continued on with the tour. She was able to explain what each room was for and answered all your questions effortlessly. You had a sneaking suspicion that every time she answered your question or gave you new information, your love for her doubled. MJ finished the tour by walking you to your third-period classroom (since it took the first two periods for the tour) and you worked up the nerve to ask, “Hey, can I have your number? I have a feeling I’m going to get lost pretty often.”

“Sure!” MJ enthusiastically replied and you handed her your phone. She put in her number and contact name as MJ with a small heart emoji next to it. As MJ walked away to get to her third-period class, you stared after her for a moment, absolutely lovestruck.

During lunch, MJ sat down next to Ned and Peter like she usually did but she spent a good chunk of the first five minutes of lunch dreamily staring over at you. You were sitting alone at a lunch table near a giant window, looking out the glass and seeming fascinated by this new environment. Ned noticed MJ’s dreamy look and joked, “Looks like MJ got eyes for somebody.”

“Hey! She’s a new kid and I gave her a tour this morning. She’s pretty nice and really pretty,” MJ defensively replied before going back to staring at you from afar again. Peter and Ned followed her gaze and saw you. Ned’s eyes lit up as an idea popped into his head.

“You should go over to her! She’s sitting alone and I’m sure she wouldn’t mind your company,” Ned suggested, taking a bite out of his burrito. Peter nodded in agreement and MJ sighed as she looked over at you. MJ was normally not shy but now her nerves were hindering her ability to socialize. She glanced over at her friends to see their encouraging glances and decided to stand up, taking her lunch with her as she walked over to you.

When you saw her coming, your eyes lit up and she took a seat across from you. She had planned to ask if it was okay for her to sit with you but you clearly seemed eager to have her sit with you. MJ initiated the conversation by asking you about your classes and you told her about how amazing your AP Biology class was. Your old school didn’t offer many AP courses so you never got to challenge yourself a ton and now that you were at Midtown, you were excited to take challenging courses and learn new things.

MJ asked you questions about your old school and learned more about you. As you explained differences between your old school and Midtown, you noticed she was gazing at you with a look of wonderment. MJ knew Peter and Ned were watching her but she fell in love with you anyways.

~

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[mystery-deer]

Kids (Wip)

Jake was great at looking after kids. Or, he assumed he was. People told him he was basically a kid so he imagined that babysitting would just be him and however many kids jumping around a bounce house and eating two types of cereal until their parents got back.

Which is why when Terry asked if there was anyone free to help babysit he volunteered immediately. 

“So what’s up with Cagney and Lace?” He asked, spinning around in his chair. “Don’t shorten my daughters’ names.” “What’s up with cags and the lace case?” He sang. “Cagney and lacey, braids of steel! Their big dad cooks their favorite meals and they go go go go go go to school and get good grades!” Terry looked upset at the butchering of his children’s names but very proud at how accomplished they were in his song. “It’s not them you’re going to be babysitting.” He explained, looking at a clipboard. “A lawyer, Laverne Holt is here and she-” There was a sudden clatter as Santiago rushed to their side, breathing heavily. “Damn Santiago!” Terry exclaimed. “Sir! I request to be allowed to help!” She demanded, slowly straightening out to her full (tiny) height. “Um.” “Sir, do you really trust Jake alone? To take care of such an important mission?” Jake held out his arms in disbelief. “Important? It’s just taking care of some lawyer’s kid! How hard is taking care of kids right Sarge?” “Yeah go with him.” Terry said immediately. “What!?” Cried Jake at the same time Amy started her speech with, “Laverene Holt is not just SOME lawyer!” It turned out that Laverene Holt was indeed not just some lawyer. She was also the most serious woman on the planet. She sat in the break room with her legs together, hands in her lap, face grave. Her son sat next to her in much the same position except he was sipping on what looked to be boxed water. Her daughter sat beside him, attempting to get off the couch every few seconds only to be gently pushed back in place by her brother. “Deborah, please stay seated.” He requested softly. Jake knew immediately he’d made a horrible mistake. Amy smiled and rushed to the Lawyer’s side, holding her hand out and gasping when it was taken. “Hello, I am Laverne Holt and I am relinquishing my children into your care for the better part of two hours while I take care of an urgent matter.” Jake scoffed, lawyers. “What is it? Lying to get some jerk back out onto the streets?” “Jake!” Amy cried, swinging her head back from him to the woman. “I’m so sorry about him, he’ll die if he isn’t given enough attention.” “I see.” Holt stared into his eyes, searching, prodding. “I wonder if your disdain of a fair trial implies something about your work.” She mused.  Jake looked away, feeling very uncomfortable with the too-much eye contact. Amy leaped in to defend him. “Oh, no Jake is- Detective Peralta isn’t-” “Well that doesn’t matter- right now. Right now I have other matters to attend to and so I will have to be off.” She bent down to be at eye level with her son, who had finished his water and been watching the conversation with the same silent intensity that his mother had. “Raymond, please look after your sister as you are the oldest. And please listen to Detective Santiago.” “I will.” “I will be back soon.” She repeated the same instructions to her daughter who smiled and babbled at her. “Aren’t you cute.” She said flatly before giving them both a hug. “I will be back soon.” And with that she was gone. Jake and Amy stared at the two children who looked back at them expectantly. “Uh..so..what are your names?” Amy started cheerfully. “My name is Raymond Jacob Holt.” He stated and then turned to his sister, lifting her up into his lap to keep her from falling off the couch. “And this is my younger sister, Deborah Rosa Holt.” “Oh hey, we have a Rosa! And my name’s Jacob!” “My sister’s middle name is from the civil rights hero Rosa Parks.” Raymond offered, Jake was unsure if this was just a fact or a reproach. “Cool!” He tried. “My middle name came from the fact that my father liked the name.” “Oh! That’s cool, it’s a cool name.” He grinned. “My father died a few months ago.” Raymond offered. “...........greeeeat.” “Not! That your father died!” Amy jumped in, glaring at Jake. “That’s very sad!” “Yes.” Raymond nodded, seemingly satisfied. “It is very sad. I am very sad about it.” He paused thoughtfully. “I would like to play.” Jake perked up, now THIS he could do. “Sure! What do you wanna play? Tag? Your sister might be a bit too young for that one...hide and seek? We might have a bouncy castle in storage somewhere-” “I would like to play with my trains.” Raymond interrupted, seeming perturbed by Jake’s suggestions. “And Deborah would like to chew on something.” He added, allowing her to chew on his empty box of water. “Is she teething?” Asked Amy. “No. She just enjoys it.” _________ Jake and Amy closed the door quietly to the playroom as Raymond marveled at the honestly very sad looking model train set. They had snuck out as he was telling his sister (who was chewing the leg of a barbie doll) about all the different parts of the train and its station. “Isn’t he the cutest?” Asked Amy at the same time Jake asked, “Isn’t that kid so weird!?” “What!? Amy, he’s like a little robot! Don’t tell me you didn’t see him drinking boxed water. What? Would Apple Juice ruin his circuitry?” “Maybe he likes water and is allergic to fruit like lots of people are!” Amy asserted defensively. “Either way you have to admit, at least he’s easy to take care of.” At that moment Jake felt something tiny kick him in the back of the knee and he went down like a sack of potatoes. “Ow! What the -!?” A demonic yet oddly cultured laugh filled the corridor and he looked up to see a small redheaded boy about Raymond’s age doing his best to loom over him. He was dressed even more properly than Raymond, wearing a button up shirt, dress pants, and suspenders. He looked like he had gotten lost on his way to a country club. “Can I help you?” Asked Amy. “No.” Said the boy, turning and walking down the hall. At that moment Terry appeared at the other end, out of breath and pointing dramatically past the detectives. “Stop that kid!” He screamed at the same moment the boy began to run. After ten minutes of chasing and hiding and finding him only for him to give them the slip they finally caught his ankle as he was attempting to crawl into a vent and brought him back to the bullpen. “We...we ...got’m sir….” Jake panted, falling into his chair as Amy handed him over to the Sarge. “Safe...and sound!” She wheezed, falling into her own. “Kevin!” Barked a man who must have been his father. “You had your mother worried sick you know that?” Kevin didn’t seem too bothered by this and stuck his tongue out at the detectives rather than listen to his father. Jake stuck his tongue right back out at him. “Kevin, did you hear me? Apologize right this instant.” Kevin’s entire demeanor sagged into sorrow as he walked over to his mother (who seemed like the kind of woman who was always worried about something, eyes wide and mouth set into a thin frown) “My deepest apologies mother.” He recited without emotion. “I simply wanted to see if there were other children I could play with.” His mother melted at his words and hugged him fiercely. His father looked unimpressed. “Oh of course!” She glanced around at the detectives. “I’m so sorry about him causing a bit of mischief but you know how it is, boys will be boys!” “Boys will be brats more like.” Jake muttered. Amy nodded slightly. “If you’re that eager to play go play with Martin.” The boy’s father demanded, pointing to the boy sitting next to Kevin’s mother. He had been being so quiet that no one had noticed him and he seemed none too pleased to be noticed now. “Martin’s boring.” Kevin murmured and this indictment seemed to make his brother curl up even further into himself. “We have a playroom!” Terry interceded before anyone started shouting. “And my detectives would be happy to supervise them in there. Right detectives?” “Uh we-” “Well Sarge I think-” “RIGHT. DETECTIVES?” “....Yeah I-” “Sure yeah we’d love to…” Terry escorted the two boys there with them (he didn’t trust Santiago or Peralta to be able to wrangle them if they weren’t confined to a single room). Raymond barely looked up when they entered. He was staring at a train which was in the station. “Hello.” He said. “Hey there!” Terry called happily, letting go of Kevin and his brother. “Whatcha doing there?” “Playing with my train.” “Oh? Is it supposed to be moving?” Raymond looked up, annoyed for the first time. “No. It can’t move for two minutes or else people will not be able to get on in time and there will be congestion in the tunnels.” “I seee…” Terry said, smiling though he was obviously confused. “Well, I think you’re being a very good train conductor!” “I am a station manager.” He said. “But thank you.” “Bah!” Terry looked down in surprise as Debbie grabbed at his ankle and stood, smiling and bobbing. “Hello there little cutie!” He cried happily, lifting her up and smiling as she giggled. “That’s Deborah, she’s my sister.” Raymond said, finally moving his train and stating a few train announcements clearly. “Please do not lean against the doors…” “Aww, she’s a little cutie pie...and she was left all ALONE in a room for god knows HOW long~??” He asked cheerfully, eyes squarely on his detectives. “We didn’t know we’d have to chase after Dennis the Menace over here!” Jake insisted, pointing at Kevin who had been whispering something to his brother and was now smiling politely. “We were going to get some snacks for them!” Amy cried, opening the door. “I’ll go get them now! What do you guys want? Not you Jake.” She said, seeing him open his mouth. “I would like some fruit, an apple is preferable.” Raymond said. “Baahhh….choochoo!” Debbie exclaimed, pointing at Raymond’s train which launched him into an explanation that it was NOT a steam engine Deborah this was a much more high tech model, you see- “I’d like chips please.” Kevin asked, swinging his legs. “Finally, someone normal-” Jake sighed. “But none with flavor. If you only have those disgusting red hot or barbeque chips then please don’t get me any.” “You’re all wastes of youth…” Jake groaned. “I..I want um..” Martin piped up, looking nervous in the same way his mother did. Perpetually. “Uh…” “He wants a lollipop.” Kevin said, annoyed by his brother’s hesitance. Martin nodded, relieved to not have to talk anymore. “Okay, I’ll be right back!” Amy said, repeating the orders as she walked back down the hall.

[prorevenge]

Don't like the person I picked to take my place once I graduate? Say goodbye to your funding too, then.

This story is from a while ago but the final part of the revenge just took place last week, so I thought I'd post. TLDR at the bottom.

So back when I was in highschool, I was not really a kid who participated in a lot of extracurricular activities. Most sports and clubs in my school didn't interest me, but during my sophomore year, an older friend of mine created a club called the Literature Magazine Club. It wasn't very complex, just a magazine we'd publish every year with a lot of poems, stories, and sometimes artwork, and I was a part of it. I'm not much of a writer, so I wasn't super involved until the club rolled out something completely new; a "Food and a Show" event for the students.

Essentially, on the last Friday of every month, the club would reserve a big empty study room for a few hours or so and set up a place for students to come during their studyhalls. Inside would be food, refreshments, and student performers. For only three dollars, students could eat some sugary food and watch other students sing or recite (usually bad) poetry. It wasn't grand or anything, but it was a better place to be than in a silent studyhall, trust me.

From the start, my club organizer (lets call her Mrs.F) made me in charge of a lot of different things, mainly because I was the one if the few in the club willing to talk in front of large crowds and to people I didn't know. I was the one who got in touch with performers who signed up, organized meetings before the actual event, ran the twitter page, created flyers, tickets, you name it. But the most important thing I did was set up all the tech stuff and be the MC. No body else wanted to go up and introduce people, so I did! For two more years up until my senior year, when the chaos started.

In that time, I became very good at running the entire thing by myself. However, as a senior, I now had to train someone else to take my spot. At the next meeting I was approached by a junior who showed a lot of passion about the position, so I picked her. I figured that since she was the only one that had the guts to actually talk to me about it in person when I put out a call for try-outs, she'd do well! That month, I began to teach her what I did. By the next show, she was MC while I just ran the tech stuff, and things seemed to be going well. Seemed.

Apparently, Mrs.F was NOT happy with my choice. Everyone knew Mrs.F had a thing about picking favorites, and often enough positions in the clubs she ran were promised to people before try-outs were even available. (She ran the newspaper club the same way.) I didn't think this would effect me since Mrs.F really didn't involve herself in the event unless she needed to, but I was wrong.

It wasn't until near the end of the year that she broke the news that my chosen back-up would not be the MC after I left, but instead this sophomore who she apparently recruited from one of her classes. She was a very nice girl, but she could barely speak above a whisper, wasn't very good at confrontation (something you need to work with performers). Most importantly, SHE WASN'T EVEN IN THE CLUB UNTIL THAT POINT. Mrs.F though it would be a great idea to give her this major position because she wrote great poetry in her English class. I totally understood where Mrs.F was coming from, but my replacement was already trained at this point, and there was no way I was going to have her pick trained by the time I graduated. When I brought that up, Mrs.F got angry at me. She told me she ran this club, and that means she runs the event too.

So, I took her word for it. If she want's her and her charge to run the place, so be it.

Being a senior, I was 100% ready to just fling myself from the hell that was my high-school, so I didn't care too much about staying on good terms with teachers, but around this time I also ran into a bunch of medical and mental health issues as well. I had a thousand different medical professionals telling me to chill out and start doing less until I could (both physically and emotionally) take on more stress. I emailed teachers telling them what was going on, had to resign from my job, etc. But the one person I did not tell was Mrs.F. I dropped out of the club with NO warning whatsoever, and while I felt kind of bad for leaving my friends in such a way, the reward was so much more satisfying.

A week away from the last Food and Show event of the year, I had performers emailing me asking to be in it, parents offering donations of food for the students, etc. I simply gave them a copy-paste email saying "I don't run this, please contact Mrs.F for details."

Oh, the email I got just two days from the last event was gold. I no longer have it since my highschool gmail account has since been shut down, but it was something like this:

"Hi Skyoctorock. I haven't seen you at mandatory meetings recently and we've been having a hard time getting in contact with the tech people to deliver the necessary equipment, collecting performers, and printing tickets. Can you do this? Thanks."

I didn't reply. The day of the event, I stayed home from school to avoid being roped in last minute (because I knew Mrs.F can and would call me down from my study hall to chew me out.) When I came in the next day, a friend of mine who was also involved in the event came to me and asked me where I had been. I told her I was sick, and she said:

"The whole thing bombed! We couldn't get the music running and had to end the show early!"

The satisfaction was AMAZING knowing it had gone up in flames. Apparently, my backup wasn't there to help (since she thought she didn't need to be there) and Mrs.F chosen MC knew fuck-all about running the set (I taught her how to pick performers and how to advertise, but I never got the chance to teach her about the tech stuff involved.) The show ran very badly, so a lot of people took the food offered to them and left halfway through. I did get chewed out later in the day in front of Mrs.F's class, but I didn't get punished any further, thankfully. I think she may have been trying to publicly embarrass me in front of her students, but it didn't work. I could care less about looking like an embarrassment, I was never going to see these kids again after I graduated.

However, that's not where this revenge ends. It had unknown consequences that I just found out about.

The money made from the event was apparently one of the two main sources of funding. After I graduated, the whole "Food and A Show" thing had a really hard time continuing. A friend who hasn't graduated yet told me they eventually had to stop the event (Mrs.F says temporarily, but we all know she's probably not gonna bring that shit back) because they didn't know how to/no one was willing to find a workaround. The club itself still runs, but the quality of the magazine they produce has gone down considerably. They're running out of other sources of income fast, and I got to see the call for donations for the club made by the local newspaper in my area earlier this month.

TLDR: Teacher tries to replace my already-trained replacement with her own near the end of the school year, refuses to compromise, and ends up losing a portion of funding as a result.

(source) story by (/u/skyoctorock)

[parabellum-rpg-archive]

Congratulations, Joss! You’ve been accepted to play Aaron Murphy (previously Aaron Khan, last name changed to fit the new FC’s ethnicity). Your request to change his FC to Bob Morley has also been approved. Please make your page and send it in within 24 hours.

Admin note: Joss, you’re absolutely flawless. You make it very easy to fall in love with your writing, and you’ve given Aaron so much depth! I can’t wait to see him on the dash! - Admin V

IC INFORMATION —

CHARACTER DESIRED Aaron Khan DESCRIBE THE CHARACTER IN YOUR OWN WORDS If you told Aaron to turn out his pockets and show what he’s accomplished in life, you might see it as just empty hands, but to him, being a dealer is the only thing he’s ever been really good at. He’s got learning disabilities, dyslexia and ADHD, that prevented him from ever really settling into a normal life or doing well in school, but when it comes to weed, he’s a fucking prodigy. He can tell the weight of a bag just by looking at it or holding it, he can tell from the smell if product is good or not, and he knows how to spot an undercover cop at 100 yards. His greatest skill is in being able to read his customers. He can tell from the moment you approach him what strain you’re going to need, how much, and what you’re willing to pay. He’s friendly, never tries to force you to be his friend, and always stands by his product. If weed were legal, he might be paying taxes and living the good life at a cannabis dispensary. As it is, he’s the guy on everyone’s cell phone under “Aaron Green”. People usually assume when you say your home life was bad that someone was smacking you around or there was no food, maybe your parents were junkies or crackheads. But it doesn’t have to be that dramatic to be bad. Sometimes your family can just forget you exist. Aaron was one of eight kids and none of them ever really had a chance. He disappeared in among his siblings so that no one ever noticed when he never came home at night. His home was loud, but there was never any real love in it. His parents were immigrants who’d come to America as children and never gotten out of the ghetto neighbourhoods of Detroit. They never had enough money and worked all the time, and when they came home, they would just stare blankly at their children, as if to say, “are you still here?” Aaron doesn’t think they were ever even in love; certainly the photographs never show people who looked happy to be together. Sometimes he lets himself wonder if they were like him, with dreams that they could never achieve and a burning need to do something, and if they just got beaten down by life, but it’s not like he can ask anymore. Chicago was the farthest Aaron could get from Detroit on the money he’d saved up, and it seemed like a town that still had hope, while Detroit was just dying slowly around him. He had a cousin there whose couch he crashed on (Aaron has cousins everywhere, they come out of the woodwork whenever one of them needs somewhere to crash), and a few job possibilities lined up, but he’d get itchy if he got stuck working behind a counter or washing dishes or shifting mail around, needing more stimulation than entry-level jobs provided. If he’d had the money to do training in a trade or something, maybe he could’ve done something with his hands that kept him occupied, or trained to be a tech expert, since he loves video games and can play them for hours if need be. Instead, he asked his dealer if the guy could hook him up with a gig, and one thing led to another. Working for the Costellos is mildly terrifying at times, but it feeds that part of him that needs to move and stay active. He doesn’t deal anything too hard, just weed and some party drugs, and he’s a favourite of club kids and college students for the quality of his product and his innovations when it comes to packaging and branding. He’ll wake up in the middle of the night with a brilliant idea about a new line of edibles like peppermint chocolates for the on-the-go buyer who doesn’t want to overindulge, or flavoured strains of CBD oil laced with hash to give a smooth high without any paranoia, or making their own line of e-liquids for vapes (something he’s very into, do not get him started on the unfair legislation around vaping rights), and spend the next three days making it happen only to crash once his latest masterpiece is complete. He could probably survive without a roommate at this point (though he’d have to live somewhere shady to do so and he’s become a little too comfortable to move back to the hood), but he used the excuse of needing one to let Corinna into his life. She’s the first person he’s lived with that he doesn’t feel anything but uncomplicated affection for, and the idea of having friends that you’re not either also selling to or working for is new and interesting for him. He’s a genuinely nice person (more so when baked but also overall), and he’s always happy to share his groceries or just sit up with her and listen to her talk. He may even someday tell her about his family, though that remains a subject he doesn’t address.   WRITING SAMPLE “Hey, man-bun!” Aaron turned around by reflex, even though someone yelling anything at you out of the blue was, at best, 50/50 gonna be a shitty situation. “That’s what your mom called me last night. At least I think that’s what she was saying, there was a lotta moaning going o-” Aaron didn’t get to finish his sentence, the punch catching him straight in the jaw. He looked like he could handle himself in a fight, but his muscles were all for show. Staggering back, he checked to see if all his teeth were still there. That was one thing that hadn’t gone wrong yet. “You sold me bad shit, motherfucker! Gimme my money back, or I’m gonna end you!” If this had been back in Detroit, Aaron might have taken this conversation more seriously, especially because he’d just gotten punched in the face, but this was Chicago, and he worked for the Costellos. Some little trust fund baby wasn’t gonna roll up on him and try and get a fucking refund. “That’s a shame. You still got the stuff? I’ll trade it in for new shit.” They were outside a bar in Costello territory, and the guy squaring up at him looked like he rowed every day and ate ivy for a living. Sure, he was dressed like he was living that thug life, but c'mon, no one’s teeth were that straight in Chiraq. That was the problem with cities like this, everyone thought they could front. Nobody in the suburbs would’ve even bothered, they’d have probably said please and thank you, but out here, people watched too many movies and thought you had to act like an OG. His friend, cuz of course he had a friend, punks like this never tried anything when it was a fair fight, just stood slightly off to the side and switched between grinning and sneering. “Are you fucking stupid? Did you hear me? Gimme my fucking money now! You’re lucky I don’t call my boys down and fuck your shit up for giving me lousy stuff!” It had gotten to the point where Aaron wasn’t really a street dealer primarily anymore, he was the guy you called when you needed something. He did deliveries and hung out at parties and clubs. When you were selling a product people wanted, you didn’t have to pound the pavement to sell it. But he was doing another favour for Holden. Aaron always did favours for Holden, no matter how many times the other man asked. He couldn’t help it. And normally he could spot an asshole a mile off and choose to refuse service, but Holden needed his quota to stay up, so Aaron had been a little too liberal with his sales tonight. Figures he’d get punched on his night off. “Like I said, I can do a trade if you’re unhappy with the product, but this isn’t a Target, man. We don’t do refunds. So hand over the shit, and I’ll give you some primo Afghani Kush. I’ll even top up the bag free of charge, cuz I wanna preserve our relationship.” The kid wasn’t having any of it. “I already smoked it and it did jackshit! I’m not even high! We even mixed it with some coke and it did fucking nothing!” Oh boy. So on top of assholes, they were idiots too. “You can’t mix it with coke, man. That just ruins both highs. If you’d said you’d wanted something to blend with uppers, I coulda-” Aaron was prevented in continuing with his sales pitch when the kid pulled out a gun. The fucking sikik seemed to think he could draw down in public. Granted, it was a shit neighbourhood, but it was still a Neighbourhood. “C'mon guy, this is a bad move. You really wanna think this one through, you know?” This whole evening was really turning into a bummer. If he got shot by this at hırsızı, he’d never live it down. And he didn’t have health insurance. The kid’s gun didn’t waver, and his friend had pulled a piece too. Awesome. “You coulda just given me the money, now I’m gonna take everything, and I’m gonna kick your ass too, you piece of shit fag-” The conversation ended abruptly with a squealing of tires and bright lights. Aaron jumped out of the way, rolling across the sidewalk and dragging himself up when there wasn’t immediate gunfire. The kid and his friend were now lying in the road groaning in front of a red Ford pickup. The door opened and Holden got out, looking at Aaron with bewilderment. “What the hell happened?” Stumbling forward, Aaron had the sense to kick the guns away from the two kids as he limped over to the truck’s passenger side. “Just a difference of opinion, don’t worry about it. But I’m thinking we talk about moving you to somewhere a little more high-class. This neighbourhood is going to shit.” As Holden slammed into the car and peeled away, the neighbourhood returned to normal, like it had never happened. It was Chicago, weirder things happened every day. Aaron leaned his head against the glass and dug a joint out of his pocket, inserting it between his lips and expertly lighting it with his lucky Zippo. “Don’t smoke that in the car, you’ll make it reek in here.” Laughing, Aaron rolled down the window. “You’re the weirdest dealer I know, man. C'mon, night’s still young, let’s hit Lake Forest and make some money off the preps out there.” Holden, shaking his head, took the turnoff and headed for the suburb. “You ever take anything seriously, cabron?” Aaron winked. “Not unless I can’t avoid it, kaşar.”

[thetreecorner]

You Can’t Run From This (Logan Sanders x FTM!Reader)

Request?: Yep!

Requested by who?: @infinityonthot

AU: Human/High School AU

Characters: Logan, Roman, Patton, and Virgil Sanders, FtM!Reader

Warnings: lots and lots of angst, cursing, mentions of a mini panic attack, NOT A HAPPY ENDING, a flashback in which the birth name of the reader is used. Also, kind of unedited?

Words: 2,871

A/N: I listened to “Runaway” by Against the Current while writing this. It doesn't fit the story 100% but it's pretty close. Give it a quick listen!

(Also, fun fact, but my HS did Almost, Maine (which I mention in this story) my Junior year and I played Marci)

---

Logan Sanders was the smartest dumb ass you'd ever met, and he was your best friend. Logan had always been good with numbers, and with science, and with his writing, but when it came to social interactions the boy was a dud. Maybe that was what attracted you to him. You'd always been attracted to the awkward, nerdy type. Logan fit that perfectly.

You'd met Logan back in elementary school along with his twin brothers, Patton, Roman, and Virgil (you'd never meet quadruplets before so your head spun the first time you saw the four of them together in the same room).

Roman had always been too loud for your taste. You enjoyed his enthusiasm to a certain extent, but the boy never ran out of energy. It was as if he siphoned it out of you and into himself, because the tireder you got the more energy he had for himself.

Patton was an absolute sweetheart, so much so that he seemed to give you cavities every time you talked. And as much as you enjoyed his company, the two of you were never close. Patton was stuck to Roman's side like glue. The two would come up with the most imaginative stories. The kind that only had happy endings, which you weren't too fond of. You'd tried to tell them that not every story has a happy ending, but the puppy dog eyes Patton gave you (and the smug one from Roman) stopped you.

Virgil was a mystery for many years. In elementary school he never spoke to anyone except his siblings, and it was always in a quiet, secretive tone. Even after you'd been friends with his brothers for three years he hadn't said more than a handful of words to you (most of those words being “sorry” or “hi”). You didn't have your first real conversation with the introvert until your freshman year, where the two of you had been put into the same PE class. You had to talk him through a mini attack when he realized he'd have to wear shorts and no sleeves in front of the whole class. The two of you got pretty close after that, and more often than not Virgil was stuck to your side as if you were one of his brothers.

But of the four brothers, you had always been the closest to Logan. Patton, Roman, and Virgil always stuck together, but you noticed early on that Logan kept to himself. Instead of getting up to play with the others during recess, he sat up against the wall of the classroom to read or do homework. The books he read intrigues you - The Invisible Man, Murder on the Orient Express, Sherlock Holmes. He almost never read the same book for more than a couple of days.

You had approached him one time during recess and plopped on the ground next to him, leaning on his shoulder to get a look at the book.

��What are you-”

“What's an ‘evil eye’?” You'd cut him of, scanning the page he was on.

“What?” He sounded annoyed, and confused, but you were determined.

“It says right here ‘his evil eye’. What about the man's eye is evil?” You frowned.

“Have you never read Edgar Allan Poe?” You shook your head, pigtails flying. You hated when your mom put your hair up. She never did a simple ponytail, she always insisted on pigtails.

“Mommy won't let me. She says they're not for kids my age. But you're reading it. Is it scary?” You kept your eyes on the page.

“No, (birth name).” His short answers frustrated you.

“Can you read it to me?” You sat back, finally looking him in the eyes.

“What?” He was frowning. You didn't like the way he looked when he frowned. You wished he would just smile for once.

“I'm kind of a slow reader. If I try to read it over your shoulder, I won't be able to keep up. But if you read it out loud I'll be at the same part you're at no matter what.”

“Shouldn't you be playing? Like the other kids?” He'd turned back to his book, but you knew he wasn't reading because you. Could see he was looking at you out of the corner of his eye.

“Why? You're not.”

After that day, whenever you got bored of playing with the others, you'd sit with Logan and he would begrudgingly read to you. Your parents were impressed with the way your reading level went from that of a first grader to that of a fifth, but you never told them about the stories Logan read to you, because a lot of them were books your mom told you that you'd have to wait to read until you were older.

Like Frankenstein. You and Logan had constant arguments about who was at fault in the book.

By Sophomore year, the two of you were having reading competitions to see who could finish their book first. More often than not Logan won (though, admittedly, you let him win sometimes).

You enjoyed Logan's company. Even if he had been rather cold when you first met him, Logan had become your most trusted friend. He was the first person you'd told about being transgender, and you were the first person he had told about being gay. You'd assisted him in coming out to his family, and he had comforted you when your mother took the news of your identity as if you'd told her you had stage four cancer.

Your father, on the other hand, had taken you directly to the barber when it was his weekend (your parents divorced when you were young, and your father got the weekends) to get your long hair chopped off. Your mother had been furious.

That was Freshman year, and though she didn't like it, your mother eventually “came to terms”, as she called it, with you being a boy. She tried, albeit not very hard, to remember to call you by (name), though the slip ups she made were frequent.

You couldn't wait to move out to live with your dad.

Or with Logan.

The two of you had discussed moving in together for a while, maybe inviting Virgil to join you. Logan had mapped it all out, and the idea excited you. As much as you loved your father, you wanted the kind of freedom that came from living away from your parents. Not to mention you had a major crush on the nerdy boy, and living with him would bring you happiness you'd never had at home.

From what you could tell, Logan liked you too. Despite his usual distaste for human contact he had no problem with you leaning on him while the two of you read in silence, or when you held his hand when at the mall so you wouldn't get lost in the large crowds. He didn't yell at you when you mused his hair or when you jokingly pinched his cheeks. He would always tell you if you were about to go to far, or if he wasn't in the mood for contact, and you respected that.

It was Junior year the first time someone asked if the two of you were dating. You were having lunch with Patton and his small group of friends because Logan had decided to have lunch with his Science teacher, and Virgil was home sick with the flu. June, a small brunette with big green eyes whom exclusively wore pastel sweaters and ripped blue jeans had been the one to ask.

“Excuse me?”

“You and Logan! You two are adorable together, I was wondering if you were dating.”

“June,” Patton has begun to warn her when you just shook your head, cheeks dusted a light pink as you scooped some leftovers from home into your mouth.

“No,” you told her. “We're not.”

“That's a shame! You two would make, like, the perfect couple.”

“Uh, thanks?”

That wasn't the last time someone asked you.

You'd joined tech crew for the school's production of Almost, Maine, and while you and Chase Kent had been messing with the lights he too asked if you were dating Logan. Apparently he'd seen the way you two looked at each other and “how could you two not be together?”

Another time, it was a girl you barely knew, and then someone you had never even met, but apparently knew Logan from Chess Club. The more people who asked you, the more you realized you wish you could say yes.

There was only a couple problems:

One, even if everyone told you, even if for a while you believed it yourself, you would never be 100% confident that he liked you the way you liked him.

Two, in all the years you'd known him Logan had never once went after someone he was even slightly interested in. At first you thought of it as a blessing, but now it was a curse.

This left you with two options. Tell one of your friends your situation and force them to force you into asking him, or wait a million years to see if Logan would take the first step, both of which you were not keen to try.

Patton had been your biggest supporter in your endeavor to get together with your nerdy best friend. He always encouraged you to “take the leap”.

“I know my brother,” He would say. “And he definitely like-likes you.”

No matter how many times he told you this, you couldn’t bring yourself to fully believe it. You were positive that neither of you were going to make a move.

That was, until that night.

You and Logan had been working over the phone on some math homework you’d been having trouble with, when you had cracked a stupid math-related joke and he drowned in a wave of laughter.

Hearing him laugh caused your heart to swell. At school, hanging out with friends, he was so calm and collected and the most you’d ever get out of him was a small chuckle, a slight smile - but this. This laugh could have brightened up even the darkest of your days.

Then, you felt something you hadn’t felt for a very long time. You felt the pull, the need for him to be yours. A wave of confidence you’d only felt when standing up for your friends against those who threatened them, or when you’d agreed to join the Improv club with Roman.

It was now or never, you told yourself. You’d never be this confident again, not in a million years and a lot of wasted birthday wishes.

“Hey, Logan?” You said, cautious and unsure.

“Yeah?” He’s said as he came off his high.

“You remember that one time, when Patton explained happiness like a puzzle with a million pieces?” You asked him. You remembered it clear as day. You could never get the comparison out of your head.

“I believe so. One of his more poetic moments.”

“You remember how he said that, even if it took someone a long time to find their edge piece, finding it makes life a little more bearable?” You asked.

“Yes, I believe that’s what he said?” Logan sounded confused, and for a moment you were tempted to just say ‘never mind’ and drop the topic.

But not this time.

No.

This time, you took in a deep breath and let your next words spill out.

“Well, I think I found mine.” There was a moment of silence.

“Did you?” He still sounded confused, and panicked wracked your body.

He’s going to reject me.

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god-

“You.” Silence. A long silence.

“Me?” He finally said, and you couldn’t read anything in his voice.

“Yeah. I, uh… I guess I’ve been trying to tell you this for a while, Lo… I really, uh… I really care about you.”

“I care about you to.” He said, but you could hear the uncertainty in his voice. He didn’t understand. Or maybe he did and he wasn’t going to admit it.

“No, Lo… I... “ You pinched the bridge of your nose.

Just drop it, please just drop it-

“I like you, Lo.” More silence.

“Oh.” Was all he was able to muster out.

“Yeah…”

“I have to go.” He said suddenly, and before you could get another work out he hung up.

That night had been one of the hardest in your life. You spent the majority of the next couple hours crying, and texting Logan with no replies. You texted Patton, who said that Logan hadn’t come out of his room. You texted Virgil, who said he wasn’t opening the door. You even texted Roman, who was apparently out and had no clue about the situation at hand.

When you went to school the next day, you didn’t see Logan. You didn’t have any classes together, but you didn’t see him in the halls or at lunch, and all of his brothers said he was at school.

Every text was ignored, his brothers could never get a word out of him concerning you.

You felt broken.

The longer this went on, the further into depression you fell.

One week became two. You stopped texting him.

Two became three. You stopped asking his brothers about him.

Three became four, and you found comfort in Virgil, Patton, and Roman’s company. They would eat lunch with you, and hang out after school. They filled in the hole Logan had left in your heart friend-wise, but still you continued to hurt. Your dad was worried - hell, your mom was worried. But you would tell them nothing was wrong. Lying about how you felt became second nature.

Then, one day after school you found yourself sitting outside, waiting for your dad to pick you up for your weekend fun, when you heard him.

“(Name)?” You tensed up, the sadness and the anger you’d repressed throughout the day returning. You said nothing. “You okay?” He said, his voice quiet. You nodded slowly.

“I’m fine.” You grumbled, an obvious lie. As he sat beside you, you found yourself scooting away.

“How’d your science project go?” He asked casually. You tugged at the drawstring of your hoodie, eyes searching the road frantically for your dad’s car. Why couldn’t he arrive sooner?

“Fine.” You said, hands finally folding in your lap.

“That’s good. You had a brilliant idea. If you got anything less than an A then your teacher is-” You’re so frustrated you can’t stop yourself from cutting him off.

“Stop.” You tell him.

“What?” You scoff at his confusion, and finally lift your gaze to meet his.

“Just stop. What are you trying to do?” You ask him, biting back your anger.

“I was… I was just trying to have a conversation, (Name).” He said, his tone a mixture of confusion and hurt. But you didn’t feel bad - no, nowhere near. You were livid.

“No, Logan. You’ve been ignoring me for weeks - you don’t just ignore your best friend for weeks and then just start up a casual conversation. Especially not after what I told you.” You tell him, grabbing your bag and standing up. You check your phone, and see a text from your dad that tells you he’s only a couple blocks away.

“(Name), I’m sorry.” Logan said, his voice soft.

“That’s not enough.” You snap, shoving your phone in your pocket. “I’m sorry doesn’t fix what you did.”

“Can’t we just drop it?” He sighs, and it’s like he pokes your anger with a stick. You want to scream at him, so that’s what you do, and you can tell it catches him by surprise.

“No! No, Logan, we can’t! This is not something we can just save for a later date! You can’t run from this!” You tell him, and he stands up too, taken aback.

“I’m not running from anything!” He argues.

“You’re running away from me! I like you, Logan! I have for a very long time, and you have no clue what it took for me to tell you!” You take a moment to breath. “You hurt me, Logan.” You tell him, your voice barely above a whisper. You can see your dad’s car pulling up.

“I never meant to.” He tells you meekly.

“Well you did.” You say, moving away from him. He goes to take your hand, but you pull it away. “Don’t. Please don’t.”

“(Name), I-” He starts, but you can’t bring yourself to listen to him.

“My dad is here. I gotta go.” You tell him, your feet rushing you towards the familiar red truck.

“I’ll text you!” He calls out, but you’re already hauling yourself into the passenger's seat.

“Drive.” You tell your dad. He gives you a worried look, and you know he probably sees Logan standing helpless outside.

“Is everything alright?” You shake your head vigorously, holding back your tears as best ad you could.

“Please, just drive.” You say again. There’s a moment before you feel the car begin to move, and you watch as your best friend fades in the rear view mirror.

It was your turn to run.

[sheeparecutest]

An open letter to my high school Theatre teacher. (With names changed)

Dear Mr. P,

You hurt me. You hurt me in ways you could never imagine during the time in my life when I was most vulnerable. It is only through my family’s support and my utter stubbornness that I am still acting today, but there are many people who can’t say the same.

You are a teacher, a leader, a creator of a program, and a role model. But your behavior towards so many of the people in your program left you with a weak group and problems you created that you, at some point, will need to face. You might think that you are just doing what is best for your program, your students, and your career, but in reality what you are doing is hurting everyone. You did damage to some people that will never allow them to view theatre in the same way. Something that used to be a source of comfort and fun became something they regret even being a part of, something they need to stay away from. What you did is unforgivable. It caused a young man to give up on his acting dreams, it caused a young woman to hate her body, it was likely a contributor to a beautiful lady’s suicide attempt. What you did is, I know, all to common, and therefore people think that makes it excusable, but it is not.

Despite what I have said so far, you likely have no idea what you have done, and if no one ever tells you the mistakes you have made, you never will. Though I wish there was a simple explanation for what you have done, there never is. In the most basic terms you are failing at everything you should be as a high school drama teacher, a supporter of dreams, a string of reality, a teacher of life skills, and an adult in any situation. You have failed at giving people chances to learn, at treating kids like they are kids, at using your resources, and at using your power to influence your program for the better.

The last day of my last show at High School I told the cast of the short play festival something I had never admitted to anyone, really, not even myself. All of the seniors were doing their tradition of saying how much they loved the program and you, and giving their funny parting words of advice to the underclassmen. It got around the circle to me, and I could:n’t find it in myself to lie like I had for the past two years. I couldn’t find the strength to tell everyone that I had loved all of them and that I would come back the next year and would be cheering for them. Instead I did what is really acting, I took a deep breath and I expressed my emotions, my self in the truest way I could. I told everyone in that room that I had had a bad experience in the program, that I never felt included or liked. I told everyone what no one had told them about their program before, that it was the most exclusive group of people I had ever talked to. As much as I am sure you would like to blame that on the students and their “gossiping” and their “bad words” etc. It was not really their fault. The people you blamed for setting your program, your classes on a bad track, were not the problem. The problem was the people you loved, but their behavior was not really their fault either. It was learned, and I’ll give you 2 guesses on who I believe the fault lies.

I was the makeup artist for our theatre program for a year: I did makeup design for a total of 7 plays. I tried to do things that other people wouldn’t have thought of, and I tried to make sure that my ideas would work before I presented them to you. But every time I came up with something fun, new, or interesting, you “heard” that I was working behind your back, that I was trying to do the costume designers job, that I was hurting your program by giving you something people hadn’t seen before. You were told one thing by one person who had heard about one bit of research I was doing and you made assumption upon assumption upon assumption, and never once stopped to think that maybe you were in the wrong, even after my dad yelled at you for not even listening to what I was trying to do. You didn’t think you were in the wrong, even after the vice principle got involved with that girl because she was going through extreme body struggles, because of you. You didn’t think it might be your fault when you lied to the entire school about what you were going to do for the one act. IT WAS NEVER YOUR FAULT.

I can remember every single time you told me I wasn’t good enough, or as you put it “didn’t have enough experience”. The first was, maybe, excusable: you were telling a Junior in her first ever drama class that she might not be able to advance to Theatre 2 without Theatre 1. What you seem to have forgotten about this conversation was the rest of it, the part where I told you about the plays I had written, directed and acted in with my cousins. Maybe they weren’t “real” plays, but they felt real enough for a shy introverted girl who didn’t believe she could act. I told you that I was willing to work hard to catch up, do private lessons with you, work outside of class for hours, what ever I needed to get to the point where I had the “experience” you needed. Because how was I supposed to get experience if I could not get any role because I didn’t have experience? I had tried for the Shakespeare play the year before, but didn’t get in, possibly because of my commitment to cello, but likely because of that same “lack of experience”. I transferred into the Theatre 2 class, despite it being directly contrary to what my therapist had recommended the previous year for my mental health. Not only that, but from November all the way to May, I sat in your advanced class and watched, participated in the exercises when I could, tried to learn. I made it into the musical, as ensemble but that was better than nothing. I finagled my way into Midsummer, managed to convince you to let me stage manage the one act, and just decided I was backstage for the last show of the year. I worked as hard as I knew how, given that you never really taught us how to learn. I poured my heart and my soul into the program, I learned bass, I let someone else use my makeup, I watched as my friend repeatedly was cast in smaller parts than anyone else, including your 10 year old daughter you kept bringing in to play roles.

The next time was toward the end of that year, after the auditions for the advanced class, auditions that I worked hard on and delivered what I still believe to be some of my best, most passionate work. As I offered to be on Theatre council, a job I later learned I did not want, again you told me I wasn’t experienced enough to learn more. I recall exactly what you said, but to paraphrase, “I wouldn’t let you into this class if you weren’t a senior next year. You just don’t have enough experience.” There it was again, and then a last time as I was enthralled with the idea of directing a short play. “We need people with more experience”.

You told me time and time again, not always as directly, but always just as clearly that because I hadn’t been acting since I was 5 that I could not be part of your program. I tried to find every way to be part, I tried acting, I tried doing makeup, I tried costuming, I tried tech, I tried directing, I tried stage managing and every time you had a different reason why I could not be part of it. “She’s bossy” “She doesn’t understand my vision” “She’s overworked” “She needs a break”. And every time you told something like that to anyone I knew I heard about it and it broke my heart. You made no secret of who were your favorites, they always got the leads, Joseph and the narrator in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, Titania, the main character, villain, and narrator in the one act, the spy, villain, sheriff, and others in the 39 steps, the witch and baker’s wife in Into the Woods, the villain/love interest in Coriolanus, the Assistant director for that same play, one of the 4 directors for your student directed short play festival. And all of these roles were played by a total of 2 people in the span of 2 years, that is not even including Charpae, and a soloist in Mary Poppins as a freshman. The list could go on. One of these people was a senior like me last year, President of the drama club, and the other was a Sophomore when she became the narrator in Joseph, Titania, and the villain in the 39 steps, and is going on to be drama club president this year.

I want you to take a second and try to put yourself in my shoes, a sweet girl who was trying something that she thought would finally allow her to express her true self and cope with the depression she was just figuring out she was struggling with, and then an all too aware part of your program who got to see every way you hurt any person in the program as she wonders if theatre is really where she belongs. I want you to pretend that you are me and then tell me that you would not have given that shy scared girl her time to shine, her time to learn, the encouragement she needed, even if it meant a dip in your program’s success.

That is all I needed from you, a line in a play before you were forced to give me one due to the suicide attempt of my dear friend, a part like you promised that you would try to give all seniors in the musical, an official understudy of a part, anything besides annoyance and invisibility. 

All you saw from me, from your stage manager, from the young man, from the young woman, from the girl who had survived suicide, from the girl you blamed entirely for a fight she was only part of, from the girl who had one line in Christmas Carol while others had many parts and hundreds of lines was that we were in the wrong, that we had somehow made a mistake that you had to fix, when all too often we had no guidance and were stumbling around in the darkness trying to find a light switch so that we could help ourselves and often even more, others. And when often you had told us all to close our eyes and spin around while you turned out the lights and left the room.

Your problem is that you cannot bear to be an adult, your problem is that you should not be leading any group of people, especially people as fragile and suggestible, and inexperienced as high school students.

You hurt me so much, and I don’t think I was ever forgive you, but I guess I can thank you, because your awfulness is what has inspired me, inspired me to be someone I never thought I could, and you didn’t either.

Sincerely,

Someone who really truly hates you

[batwake]

Come in From the Cold - chapter one

I realized today that I never posted the full first chapter on here so I figured while I work on chapter two I might as well post it! You can read it here on ao3.

pairing: Clint Barton/Bucky Barnes

tags: fight club au, canon typical violence, deaf clint barton

description: Years ago, the United States government passed a law banning enhanced people, mutants, and superheroes, forcing them into prisons and graves. Newly reformed and no-longer brainwashed Bucky Barnes heads underground, into a fighting ring called The Avengers Initiative, and learns to make a living there using his specialized skills. Clint Barton isn't an enhanced person, per se, but hung up his bow and arrow for good with the passing of the accords. It’s only when his best friend introduces him to the world of The Avengers Initiative does he start to get sucked back in.

“We are not special.

We are not crap or trash, either.

We just are.

We just are, and what happens just happens.”

—Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

Dodge. Dodge. Punch, miss. Dive, go for the legs. Go for my legs , he said. Jump back up, punch when he isn’t expecting-

Clang!

Metal fist connects with shield. Backpedal, recalibrate. Push the shield away, kick at the chest. He throws the shield— dumb move — catch it. Throw it, don’t bother looking as it cracks the closest wall and stays there.

Punch, punch, punch.

He goes down, does not get back up.

The lights go up, people cheering, some booing, but hardly audible over the clear and crisp announcement:

“The Winter Soldier wins!”

-

Clint doesn’t remember when the news broke.

Lots of people will tell you that they remember exactly where they were: drinking coffee on their balcony, listening to the radio. Or in the waiting room of a hospital, nervously watching the tv while their wife gives birth. A high school soccer game, where the announcer told everyone during halftime. Kate swears up and down that she heard it from a random twitter account before the story had even broke.

All Clint knows is that one day, enhanced individuals were outlawed, and he put he and Kate’s bows and arrows in the back of his closet, hidden behind boxes of Christmas decorations and clothes he refused to get rid of. It must’ve started as a normal day; put hearing aids in, drink an entire pot of coffee, take Lucky for a walk, go to the roof and shoot some arrows. Text Katie funny pictures of pigeons on the street and maybe call his therapist, if he’s feeling up to it. But by the end of the day, the world had practically ascended into chaos. People arrested, some killed in their homes, or in the street. Kate said that two kids at school were picked up and never seen again.

The accords, they’re called. Clint didn’t, and doesn’t, keep up with politics. But even he understands just what they meant. No mutants, enhanced persons, superheroes . At best, you’re put on a watchlist and have to swear to never use your powers. At worst, jailed or sentenced to death, if you’re considered especially dangerous.

And as for why these accords were introduced?

No one really knows.

But Clint often wonders.

~

“If you were really my friend you’d go with me,” Kate is saying. Clint is busy pretending he’s busy, the most of his torso hidden underneath his sink. It’s been leaking for months now. Today seemed like as good a day as any to fix it. She continues, “Darcy’s taken me a few times.”

“How did Darcy know how to get in?” The pipe is giving Clint just as hard of a time as Katie is. It won’t go any tighter, but maybe if he had a different tool…

“Someone she knows, knows someone, I guess. I don’t know.” He can practically hear the shrug and eye roll in her voice. “Can’t we just go together, this once? If you hate it you never have to go again.”

Clint hauls himself out from underneath the sink, starting to dig through drawers in pursuit of something he can better fix his sink with. He spares Kate a look, which is returned by an expression Clint can only describe as cross . “Why can’t you just go with your friends again if you’re so eager?”

The smile that Kate probably uses on her father to get more money is slapped onto her face. “Because you, Clint Barton, are my best friend. The peanut butter to my jelly, the apple to my eye. The Romeo to my Juliet, but without the romance and the death-”

“I think I get your point.”

Kate circles around the counter that had been separating them and steps in front of him. “Come on, Clint. We have fun, they get paid. It’s a win-win for everyone.”

Sure, Clint thinks, these people get the shit kicked outta them every night and we get to sit back and watch, hell of a lot of fun . He buries his face into his hands and leans against the counter, momentarily forgetting about his shitty sink. “Fine.”

Kate thumps her fist gently against his face, nudging his hands away until they’re resting at his sides. The expression on her face is telling, her eyebrows raised and lips pressed firmly together. Clint can see his reflection in the purple sunglasses that sit on the top of her head, so he pushes them down and over her eyes. Her stony expression doesn’t falter, even as Clint feels Lucky forcing his way between their legs as if sensing trouble. Kate’s hand moves from his face to his bicep. “You worry me sometimes, Barton.”

Clint rolls his eyes and moves away, pulling a wrench out of the drawer he was digging through and getting back onto the floor, rubbing Lucky behind the ear as he makes his way back under the sink. “Changing the subject won’t get you anywhere.”

The last thing Clint sees of Kate before he’s back under the sink is her arms thrown up exasperatedly. “I’ll be back at ten, bring cash.”

He barely gets the word “okay” out before the sound of the front door opening and closing echoes through his apartment.

~

Once the accords were put in place, enhanced people were out of jobs and essentially forced into hiding, assuming you hadn’t been arrested or killed. Some went to trial, but they were fruitless efforts. You stopped seeing the announcements of verdicts, always guilty , on the news after a couple months.

Around this time, a wise guy named Nick Fury had the brilliant idea to put these enhanced people to work, with the help of genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist Tony Stark, allowing them to use their powers, let off some steam, and get paid while they’re at it. This was the birth of an underground fighting ring called The Avengers Initiative . Stark buys the building, and all surrounding ones, builds a pseudo-arena in the basement and keeps them out of the eye of the public. Fury finds the people; fighters and workers and people in police forces and governments with grey morals. Together they built what has essentially become an empire , with fans and gamblers keeping the place in business.

Clint’s never been, but it’s been sitting in the back of his mind for months, ever since Kate first mentioned that she knew someone who knew someone who knows a place— whatever that really means. But now that he’s really going , he realizes that he’s never really considered what it all meant. They’re betting on real people .

Kate tells him not to think too hard about it.

They enter a tall building, clearly abandoned with the windows boarded up, grimy furniture left behind to rot. It looks like it was once a hotel, with a front desk sitting in front of little compartments which may have once held room keys. A large mouse-bitten rug covers most of the floor, swirls of deep red and gold starting to fade as dust gathers. Directly across from the door is an elevator, covered in graffiti. As they get closer, Kate leading the way, Clint can get a better look at the actual art, things like a spray-painted red spider outlined by a circle, red and white O ’s with a star in the middle like a target, a bright purple A with an arrow through the middle, among others. Clint says nothing as Kate steps up to the elevator and holds down the up arrow.

A few moments pass, and nothing happens. Clint opens his mouth to say something like seems like no one is home when there is a light-heartedping! and the elevator doors open to a high-tech, seemingly new elevator, the bright lights making Clint squint for a second. Kate steps in without a second thought, turning and crossing her arms, a smirk on her lips. “You coming or what?”

Clint promptly snaps his mouth shut, scrambling to get into the elevator before it closes.

The doors shut behind him, but it doesn’t move yet. On the wall are upwards of fifty buttons, all with various symbols and numbers that don’t appear to have any meaning.

To Kate they apparently do, reaching forward and pressing a series of buttons in a particular order, the buttons lighting up after each press. Clint counts thirteen buttons pressed when she finally stops, stepping back and standing next to him. He gives her a long look, only met with a half-hearted shrug as the elevator finally starts to move.

Clint stares at their reflections as the elevator descends. They tend to match, most of the time on accident , and tonight is no exception. Their purples stand out in the stark grey elevator, like Kate’s headband and pants, or Clint’s shoes and hearing-aids. It had always been their color.

His pointer finger twitches at his side. He balls his hand into a fist, trying to push that thought away. They know better.

The elevator stops, another lighthearted noise announcing their arrival. A few seconds pass and then the door opens, revealing them to the underground world of The Avengers Initiative .

The first thing Clint notices as they step out of the elevator is the giant hole in the floor.

It’s surrounded by bleachers filled with people, yelling at the fighters below. They’re too far away to be able to see down into the ring, but whatever is happening is clearly causing an upset. Clint takes a step forward to get a closer look but is stopped by Katie grabbing his arm. “Easy tiger, we gotta go over here first.”

They move towards a booth of sorts, where a man sits behind a counter covered in various papers and underneath a giant screen that almost resembles a chalkboard, titled “BETTING POOL”, listing names and figures in neat penmanship that Clint can’t make sense of. The man is busy counting something that Clint and Kate can’t see, and doesn’t look up when they approach. Behind him are several safes, whatever they’re holding is anybody’s guess.

“Hi,” Katie announces, slapping a hand onto the table, “We’d like two please.”

Two pamphlets are slid towards them. Clint takes the one Kate hands him, glancing down at it, then back at her. “What is this?”

Kate is too busy opening the trifold to answer. The cover reads The Avengers Initiative in big font, followed by the same purple A that is graffitied on the elevator. Clint cautiously opens it all the way, glancing between the new information that each page has to offer.

The first page appears to be a schedule of the night, starting with Black Widow vs. Madame Mask and ending with Thor vs The Hulk , listing fifteen fights in total. The middle is a description of the rules of the fights and how the betting works, and the third is the top ten fighters, reading:

Winter Soldier

Captain America

Thor

Scarlet Witch

Captain Marvel

Black Widow

Miss America

Ms. Marvel

Quicksilver

Black Panther

Clint reads through the rules a few times, glancing up at Kate every few seconds as she talks to the guy running the thing, counting her cash. The names are a bit ridiculous, he thinks, then remembers that he and Katie didn’t exactly have the best “code names” either. He flips to the back, frowning at the large black text.

BURN WHEN DONE.

Kate, pausing to turn and look at him expectantly. “You gonna bet anything?”

Clint glances at the list of names and the upcoming fights. Winter Soldier vs. Captain America is set for tonight, the top two names on the leaderboard. “Sure,” Clint decides in a split second decision, “why not.”

He fills out a sheet of paper while Kate finishes hers, filling in the blanks, such as the date of the fight, how much he’s betting, his contact information. (Kate says this is so if any info leaks they know who was betting that night)

Who are you betting on? asks the paper. Clint writes, The Winter Soldier.

“Good choice,” comments the man as he takes Clint’s papers and money, writing on something and putting the money somewhere they can’t see it. He does the same for Kate. “ Safe choice.”

Clint wonders if that’s an insult.

They move away from the booth after that, towards the bleachers at last.

They’re not completely full, people scattered among the three structures, some in groups and some by themselves. They sit at the bottom of the second bleacher, directly across from the elevator they came from, able to overlook the fighting ring below without anyone blocking their view. The ring is about two stories below them, and there’s a huge gap between the ring and the walls. “They can expand the ring for bigger, more powerful fighters,” Kate explains, pointing to the empty space between the walls and the ring. “They don’t have too many, but if you get a fight like…” she glances at her pamphlet as she crosses one leg over the other, “Thor versus Hulk, they’re gonna need a big space.”

Clint nods, glancing over her shoulder at her open trifold. No one is fighting currently, and there was a fight that was going on when they came in. “How many d’ya think we’ve missed?”

“That upset we heard coming in was probably Scarlet Witch related. From what Darcy told me, magic users don’t get a lot of respect from the crowd. Well, her type of magic, anyway. Telekinesis.”

“Ah.”

Kate nods, running her finger down the list. “Scarlet Witch versus Shocker is tricky because he would usually be a pretty good match for, like, Black Panther or someone, because they’re combat fighters. She can just pick you up and throw you somewhere.”

“There’s a reason she’s ranked number four.”

She throws her hands up. “I know right!”

Clint leans back and surveys the people around them, who are either talking amongst themselves, digging through their wallets, or furiously making notes in their pamphlets. “So, Katie-Kate, who’d you bet on?”

He almost misses it, as she covers her mouth with her hand. Kate is blushing . Clint stares at her, then prods at her shoulder. “What have you been hiding from me!”

Kate covers her face with her hands, uncrossing her legs and leaning on on his shoulder. “Miss America.”

“And?”

“She’s so fucking hot, Clint.”

The gears turn in Clint’s head. “Katie, you’ve only seen this girl fight in a fight club .”

“She’s still hot!”

She’s about to say something else, but the lights dim and a voice cuts her off, loud and booming throughout the makeshift arena, but oddly robotic and calm, and British?

“Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen. The eighth fight of the night is one of the most anticipated ones of the week, with our top two seeds, The Winter Soldier versus Captain America.” Two people enter the ring from the entrance, walking up the steps to the slightly elevated ring. One is clad in red, white, and blue, Captain America , Clint thinks, and carrying a shield. The other, the Winter Soldier, is dressed head to toe in black except for his left arm, which is entirely silver, and his dark brown hair is long. It’s hard to make out any more features than that. “As always, the rules of the ring are as follows: No leaving the ring, no guns or knives, and finally, the fight continues until one person says the codeword or is knocked unconscious.”

Captain America and the Winter Soldier walk to opposite sides of the ring and step into what can best be described as a battle stance , staring each other down. The Soldier’s left side is facing them, and only then does Clint realize that the silver is his arm .

“You may begin,” chimes the voice, followed by a buzzer sound, signalling the beginning of the fight. Immediately the two fighters are lunging at each other, Captain America punching with the shield, the Winter Soldier blocking with that metal arm, occasionally managing to get a punch or a dodge in.

People are yelling, no surprise there really, mostly encouragement to their preferred fighter or anger about a missed punch or failed dodge. The guy a few seats above them is up on his feet and gesturing wildly, screaming something about his kids’ lunch money and grandmas.

They’re nearly an even match for each other, Clint thinks as another punch is blocked. They carry on for a few minutes like this. It’s an entertaining fight, he must admit. Clint is nearly on the edge of his seat, and Kate is biting her thumbnail. The Winter Soldier dives to the side to avoid a shot with the shield, and punches, his metal fist colliding with the shield and producing a clang! noise so loud that some people cover their ears. Clint isdeaf and he almost felt the reverb.

“Jesus,” Kate mutters. Clint is inclined to agree.

There’s some distance between them, now. Captain America throws the shield, bad move , Clint thinks as the Soldier catches it and throws it, almost recklessly . It connects with the wall across from where Kate and Clint are sitting, and stays there, cracks webbing from the incision.

They’re at it hand-to-hand now, and it’s clear who’s winning. The audience grows even louder as the Soldier lays down relentless punches, to the stomach and to the face.

Clint’s stomach twists.

Captain America falls to the ground after one final punch, and does not get back up.

The lights go up, people cheering, some booing, so Clint can hardly hear the announcement:

“The Winter Soldier wins!”

-

“I told you to go for my legs,” Steve is saying.

Bucky wants to bash Steve’s face in for a second time that night. He won’t stop talking, even after Dr. Cho asked him to while she gave him stitches on his lower lip. She pokes his forehead to shut him up again, gently applying some sort of ointment to his shoulder. Bucky’s already gotten the Doc’s five star treatment, now trying to fix one of the plates on his hand by himself. He’d rather not visit Stark this week, not after last time when he had all but removed the damn thing after an interesting fight with Scarlet Witch when she had fucked up all of his inner wirings.

“Too easy,” Bucky says around the flashlight he’s holding in his mouth, “if I wanted the fight to end in a minute and successfully half our pay, thenI’d go for your legs.”

Cho gives Steve the go-ahead to jump off her table, moving back to her equipment and beginning to sterilize, getting ready for whoever will come after their fight next. He approaches Bucky, taking the flashlight from his mouth so he can dig into his hand with the screwdriver more easily. It doesn’t seem to be doing much. “Besides,” Bucky continues, refusing to look up at his best friend, who is surely smirking despite that fat lip, “maybe you oughta learn not to throw that shield at me. You know what I’m gonna do with it.”

“Too easy,” is all Steve has to say on that particular matter.

They walk through the winding halls of the Facility together until they get to the locker room, where only Black Widow remains from the previous fights. A few others preparing for their upcoming fights linger. She greets them with just a raise of her eyebrows, likely because of the cut on her lip.

“We’re matching,” Steve fumbles. Bucky tries to hide his snort in the sound of the locker opening, but probably fails. The Widow doesn’t point it out, but Steve is already turning pink. Flirting has never been his forte.

“So we are,” she says. “How was the fight?”

“Good,” Bucky shrugs at the same time Steve says, “he won.”

“What about you?”

Black Widow waves a hand in a so-so motion. “I won. I don’t think that Madame Mask will be around for much longer.”

“That was what, her third fight?”

“Something like that.” She stands and pulls on the sweatshirt that had been sitting on her lap, covering the bruises and cuts that are exposed in the tank-top. The hood covers her red hair, and her hands are shoved into the pockets. “See ya around, boys.”

Bucky waves without looking as Steve stammers his way through a goodbye.

“You gotta get better at that, man. It’s been years.” Bucky shrugs on a t-shirt, then a sweatshirt. He digs around in his backpack for a few seconds before he can find what he’s looking for, a glove that looks like a hand, nearly identical to his right one. You can’t tell its fake, unless you’re actively looking at it like it is. He slips it on as Steve sits down to start putting shoes on, wincing as it nudges the plate he just fixed.

“She’s just so…” Steve trails off.

The hand settles into place as he wiggles his fingers. “Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “She is.”

They say hello to a few others as they leave, to Ms. Marvel braiding Miss America’s hair, and to Thor swinging his hammer in the hallway, and to Bruce, carrying a huge stack of papers into Fury’s office.

Hugging each other tightly despite the injuries they themselves caused, they split and go down different hallways, towards different exits. Bucky knows Steve will go home and nurse his injuries some more and drink tea and maybe sketch something, whatever it is Steve does when Bucky isn’t around.

Bucky leaves and takes the long way home, down streets he doesn’t have to and on subways he wouldn’t normally, losing the tail he is always worried will some day follow him home. It’s unlikely, Stark and Fury have a pretty foolproof security system, but…

He locks the door behind him, and begins the long and complicated process of checking every door and window, all the light fixtures, underneath cushions and inside cupboards. He finally collapses onto his uncomfortable mattress and sleeps a light and unsound sleep, the sun only just beginning to rise.

~

If Bucky could go back and do one thing in his life differently, he never would’ve joined the army.

It was the catalyst for what would become his life. Join the army, get captured by some Nazis, pumped full of steroids, get rescued by your best friend, coincidentally also pumped full of steroids but by some secret branch of government rather than Nazis, join his band of merry men, fall off a train, become a brainwashed assassin with a metal arm, get saved by your best friend, again. All in the span of a few years.

Then the accords happened and SHIELD got shut down, leaving Bucky in a state of limbo.

James Buchanan Barnes was legally dead to most people. So Bucky holed up in a shitty apartment in Brooklyn, near where he and Steve grew up, with a fake name and a new backstory, effectively going under the radar of the government. Steve wasn’t so lucky, having been SHIELD’s golden boy for years before the accords. He was arrested but released soon after, having been deemed unlethal and his name added to the watchlist.

They managed fine by themselves for a few weeks. Bucky did things for money that he’s not exactly proud of, but that’s not new. Steve tried to remain God’s righteous man, attempting to speak out against the accords but just getting himself into more trouble.

And then Nicky Fury showed up at Bucky’s door.

No one except for Steve knew where Bucky lived— yet there he was, with his dumbass eye patch and a job offer.

So now Bucky and Steve get beat up four out of seven days of the week, earning barely enough money to cover the bills and working the only job that people of their kind could ever hope to get in this political climate.

Bucky’s had worse jobs, he supposes.

~

It’s a rough few weeks, after the fight with Steve.

The decline starts with a match against Quicksilver, who he barely beats, managing to trip him as he passes. Captain Marvel catches one of his punches and essentially melts the metal of his left arm, calling for the end of the fight and a trip to Stark’s workshop. Scarlet Witch destroys him in an embarrassing fight, twisting his arms until he can’t move and essentially forcing him to call uncle.

He doesn’t bother going to see Dr. Cho or Stark, grabbing his bag and leaving behind a confused Steve and Black Widow in the hallway.

The exit that leads to the alley behind the building is the one Bucky chooses that night, climbing up the ladder and exiting through a small panel in the floor, closing it behind him and walking onto the alley as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

He shoulder checks someone and winces as his left shoulder lets out a mechanical whine. The guy stops and turns to stare at him, frowning. “What was that?”

Bucky protectively holds his left arm against his chest, and clears his throat. “Bad cough.”

The guy steps forward. “That sounded like-”

Bucky turns and sprints in the other direction, not listening to whatever the guy is yelling after him, or looking back to see if anyone is following.

It’s nearly three am by the time he gets into his apartment, having crossed more streets than usual and ridden more buses and subways than he can count on both hands. A paper is taped to his front door, asking for rent ASAP. Crumpling it up in his hand, Bucky slips inside.

He locks his door with a shaking hand, his metal one still tucked close to his chest. The series of locks all click into place with a finalizing snap . Bucky leans against the door, allowing himself to loosen his shoulders and breathe for a moment. Maybe he overreacted— but getting arrested wouldn’t have been a good end to what has already been a shitty few weeks. He checks the windows and the cupboards like he usually does, and only then does he let himself completely calm down, collapsing onto the dingy old mattress that sits in the corner of the room. On the floor next to it is a record player and a cardboard box full of miscellaneous tools, which Bucky stares at, then reluctantly sits up. He puts a record on first, grabbing one from the stack at the foot of the bed at random, then sheds his shirt and sets to work at his arm.

The Andrews Sisters sing cheerily about a famous musician going to war. Bucky’s head already hurts from the Witch’s magic, but he rolls his eyes and almost makes it worse.

“But then his number came up and he was gone with the draft, he's in the army now blowing reveille.”

The music is turned up as loud as the old record player will go in an attempt to force Bucky to listen to it instead of his own thoughts, whether or not it really works is to be decided.

Bucky flips open a few panels on his bicep, shining a flashlight on the inner wires and craning his neck so he can get a good look inside. A few are disconnected and tangled, explaining the pain, but others are completely fried. Which means Bucky has to see Stark, again .

“Dammit,” he mutters, snapping the panel shut and tossing the flashlight and screwdriver back into the box. No other fighter saw Tony Stark as much as Bucky did— in the few years he’d been fighting, Bucky was getting tired of the guy.

The bathroom is the only part of the apartment that is in a seperate room from the rest, but is barely big enough to fit a shower, sink, and toilet. Bucky showers in the cold water, letting blood and grime wash away from his skin. With only one arm, the shower lasts longer than it needs to, but he relishes in it, for the time being.

The bed isn’t comfortable by any means, nothing more than a lumpy mattress with some threadbare blankets thrown on top, but to Bucky’s tired and worn body, it feels like the softest bed in the world.

-

There are three hundred and twenty-seven arrow holes in Clint’s apartment.

A hundred and two are in Clint’s bedroom, sixteen of those are on the ceiling, seventy-five are in the kitchen, one hundred and thirty-nine are scattered around the living room walls, ten are in the various furniture around the house, and one is in the bathroom. (that one had been an accident)

None had been added to the collection since the accords broke the news.

Clint stands in front of his closet, hands on his hips. Lucky sits next to him, head cocked to the side and tongue hanging out, his tail thumping happily on the floor. Clint doesn’t dare open the closet, has barely touched it in years, but now feels strangely drawn to it. He’s been frequenting the Facility , as Kate calls it, over the last few weeks. He doesn’t have a ton of money to gamble, but he’s fascinated by the process, and knows that it helps the fighters get paid. It’s a whole new world, seeing these people in action. Magic users, and super soldiers, and demigods . Kate’s still obsessed with that girl, bets all of her money away no matter the odds.

And of course, there’s the Winter Soldier.

Dressed in black, with that lethal silver arm. He seems to be wearing thin, is what Kate had said, the more fights they watched of his. He went from the top seed to barely staying in the top ten, now ranked number nine.

The bow and arrow in the closet feel like they’re yelling his name. Take us to the roof, Clint. No one can see you from up there.

Instead, he leaves his apartment and makes his way to the abandoned building by himself, punching in the code to the elevator and entering the code he now knows. He descends into the facility, his heart hammering loudly in his chest.

Coulson is running the info booth like he usually is, typing something on a laptop. There are a few people lined up, so Clint grabs a pamphlet and waits in the queue, scanning the lineups for the night.

The eighth fight of the night. Iron Fist vs. Winter Soldier.

Clint steps up in front of Coulson when it’s his turn. He passes over the papers without a word, which Clint fills out quickly. He’s starting to have the pages memorized, able to fill them out without much thought.

Who are you betting on? asks the paper. Clint writes, The Winter Soldier, and hands the paper back over to Coulson. His eyes skim it, then his eyebrows raise.

“That’s a lot of money. You’re betting on losing dogs, Barton.”

“Just take the damn money.”

Coulson does without another word, letting Clint walk to his normal spot on the bleachers.

There’s a fight already in progress. Black Widow has her thighs locked around Captain America’s head, and sends both them topping to the ground. The shield rolls sideways and lands a few feet away. Captain America shoves Black Widow off of him roughly, diving after the shield and attaching it to his arm, jumping towards the Widow once more to knock her down.

He misses, the shield cracking the floor of the ring. Black Widow kicks at Captain America’s legs, sending him to the floor on his back. She straddles his chest, lifting a fist to punch—

Something must happen, because her hand lowers and she crawls off him, that British voice coming over the speakers to announce:

“The Black Widow wins!”

She holds out a hand to help him up, which he accepts. The man next to Clint isn’t yelling very nice things, but Clint refrains himself from saying anything. The dude looks like he could hold his own in the ring.

Several fights go by after that, Clint unable to pay much attention to them, his mind elsewhere. Miss America wins her fight against Black Panther, Clint tells himself that he’ll have to tell Kate about it later.

Finally the voice announces that it’s time for Winter Soldier versus Iron Fist, the two fighters stepping out of the entryway and into the ring. The Soldier is dressed in his usual getup, all black with the arm exposed, while the Iron Fist stands out in greens and yellows. While the announcer drones through his usual speech, the Winter Soldier spins his metal arm to stretch it a few times, then flexes his metal fingers, as if unsure of himself.

There’s the buzzer, and the two men go for each other—

It’s a brutal loss, for the Winter Soldier.

Clint has to give him credit, the guy didn’t tap out even when people were yelling at him to. He goes down and stays down with a final glowing fist, hitting the ground with the painful sound of his metal arm hitting the floor.

“The Iron Fist wins!”

A few people come out of the doors as the Iron fist exits, laying the Soldier on a stretcher and exiting unceremoniously.

Clint stands just as the same guy says to his friend, “what a pussy. Can’t even handle Iron Fist .”

Turning away from him, Clint balls his hands into fists, the temptation to punch the guy getting stronger the more he hears. Still, he forces himself to step away, moving towards the elevator and waving at Coulson as he passes. He doesn’t get any response except for a look that feels something like I told you so .

Once on the ground floor, Clint glances around the sparse room. The fighters must exit from somewhere, right? Kate had mentioned that Stark owns this building and all surrounding ones…

The street outside is mostly empty, no one to watch as Clint slips into an alleyway next to one of the buildings. There isn’t much— a few trash cans, a pile of blankets and clothes that Clint figures is from a homeless person, and a doorway to the adjacent building. First Clint moves to the door, prodding it, then moving to the handle. It doesn’t budge.

No surprise there— Clint moves to the trash cans, lifting the lids and finding nothing but garbage, rotting food and wrappers and probably drugs, knowing New York. Nothing there.

He moves to the blankets, toeing them away with his foot to avoid touching them. Clint frowns, crouching down and running his fingers along the crack in the ground, a faint light coming from beneath the surface.

“What are you doing?”

Clint spins around, half expecting to see a police officer. Then he’d be really and truly screwed . But it’s just a guy, with a grey sweatshirt and a backpack and long hair and holy shit .

It’s him.

Clint splutters, which seems to annoy the Winter Soldier. He takes a step forward, clearly threatening. Clint finally gets a good look at his face, which is battered and bruised from his fight twenty minutes previous. Stony grey-blue eyes, a cleft chin covered with stubble. Both cheekbones bruised, and a split lip. Clint witnessed the fight— it doesn’t take a genius to picture what the rest of his body must look like.

Thinking quickly, Clint throws his hands up in surrender. “It’s not what it looks like.”

The Soldier glances between Clint and the pile of dirty fabric behind him, unwavering.

“Okay, maybe it’s exactly what it looks like.” The Winter Soldier takes another step forward. “But I can explain!”

“You should probably start.” His voice is low and gravelly, but Clint wonders if that’s circumstantial.

Clint isn’t sure what to say for a moment. “I’m a big fan of your work,” is what comes out of his mouth when his mouth catches up with his brain.Jesus Christ , Clint can practically hear Katie saying.

“You’re what? ” The Soldier is suddenly in Clint’s space with his fist in his shirt, lifting Clint up until they’re nearly nose to nose, even though Clint is taller than the other man. Clint blinks rapidly, his hands going to the Soldier’s wrists. Right hand, he notes.

“I should’ve worded that differently,” he manages. “I’ve seen you fight. I’m into it.” Clint winces and wonders if he imagined the Soldier’s grip loosening. “I mean— I want to buy you a drink, or something.”

Jesus Christ, what is he doing? Kate’s gonna kill him.

Clint stumbles as the Winter Soldier drops him and steps back. He keeps talking, even as the Soldier walks to the edge of the alley and looks out, left and right, as if about to cross the street, but doesn’t leave yet. “I know that’s weird but…” You fascinate me, is what he wants to say. Instead, he whispers, “you seem like you need one.”

The Soldier slowly turns back towards Clint, holding his gaze. Something passes between them, Clint can’t quite say what, but it breaks when the Soldier looks away again. “No,” he mutters, then repeats it again, louder. “No.”

Then, he steps into the street, leaving Clint in the dust, left to wonder what just happened.

-

Bucky thinks of the guy who confronted him in the alleyway three nights previous.

He thinks of his shaggy blonde hair, and the silly purple hearing-aids. The purple band-aid that was on his nose, and the feeling of his hands on Bucky’s arm as he said I’m into it .

Bucky lands another punch to Drax’s face, but is roughly shoved to the ground again. The shouting of the crowd rings loudly in Bucky’s ears as Drax kicks his stomach. And then the man’s voice again, offering to buy him a drink. He forces himself up, can feel the metal creak of his arm throughout his body, and grabs at Drax’s body, slamming his head down onto his knee. Drax’s body crashes to the ground, as Bucky’s had done just seconds ago.

The man in the alley’s face sticks in Bucky’s mind as he punches one last time, and stays there as JARVIS announces:

“The Winter Soldier wins!”

Remorsefully, Bucky thinks it feels good to win again.

~

It doesn’t surprise Bucky when he goes back to that alley and find the man crouched over one of the facility exits. He’s feeling better than he has in weeks, even fresh out of a brutal fight. He needed the win, and the cash.

“Thats a bad idea,” calls Bucky, causing the man to spin around and stand abruptly. He’s disheveled, his blonde hair flying in every direction and shirt wrinkled. “It can only be exited from. Try to enter and you’ll get yourself killed.”

The guy’s eyes flick around Bucky’s person, from his hood, to his hands, to the backpack, and to his face again. “Noted,” he says cautiously.

Bucky shifts from foot to foot, and sniffs awkwardly. “I’ll take you up on that drink.”

-

The Winter Soldier is… odd.

He nurses cheap whiskey, and his eyes are constantly moving, sweeping around the bar, constantly on guard. His left hand, the one that Clint knows is metal but is currently masked with a glove that resembles a flesh hand, taps nervously on the table.

Clint stares at him, studying his features and trying to get a read on him. Tonight he sports a black eye with a heavy gash over the eyebrow, clean and stitched up already. The bruise from a few nights ago is almost faded on his cheekbone, and the gash that was on his lip is scabbed over. Every second that passes Clint thinks of another question— but keeps his mouth shut. He’s finally got the guy here, he doesn’t want to fuck it up.

Finally, half way through his own drink, he says, “I’m Clint Barton.”

The Soldier’s blank expression does not falter, but his eyes stop their sweep and land on Clint.

When he doesn’t say anything, Clint clears his throat. “This is when you tell me your name.”

The Soldier snorts as he lifts his drink to his mouth. There is a ghost of a smile on his features, and Clint realizes that he is handsome . The thought is gone before Clint can really focus on it, because the Soldier is talking.

“Not many people know my real name.”

“Awfully cryptic of you.”

He huffs something out that sounds close to a laugh, and moves to stand. “Thanks for the drink, but you’re going to have to try harder than that.”

“Wait!” Clint all but yells. The Soldier looks at him, tilting his head slightly. “Come on, man. I’ll do all the talking, how about that? I have nothing better to do.” The I’m sure you don’t, either is left unsaid.

The Soldier sits back down, raising his eyebrows and leaning back in his seat.

Clint takes that as the go ahead, and launches into the story of when he picked up Kate from school a few years ago and they ended up on a roadtrip to Orlando, Florida.

“You’re friends with a high schooler?”

“I used to be friends with a high schooler. Now she’s in college.” Clint wrinkles his nose. “Or so she claims.”

“How did that happen?”

Clint often wonders the same thing: how did he and Kate become friends? She was sixteen and good with a bow and arrow, Clint’s brother had just died and he was great with a bow and arrow. He had been in a bad place, Katie had been in a bad place, high school . They had just seemed to fit. The two of them and Lucky were their own little family.

“I crashed into her living room.” The sound of the Soldier putting his glass on the table signifies his surprise. “It’s kind of a long story.”

The story of running away from the mafia that killed your brother is a third or fourth date kind of story, anyway. It ends like how most of Clint’s stories end, with Kate saving his ass. The Soldier didn’t need to know that quite yet.

The front door of the bar opens and closes. Clint hears it rather than sees it, but the Winter Soldier tenses up, removing his arms from the table and shoving them into the pockets of his sweatshirt, forcing his shoulders down in a way that doesn’t look incredibly inconspicuous. Clint glances over his shoulder at whoever just walked in.

A police officer is moving to sit at the bar, holding a hand up to signal the bartender. Clint glances back to the Soldier, who looks two seconds from bolting out the door.

“Hey, my apartment isn’t too far from here.”

The Soldier is up and moving towards the door, apparently not needing any more convincing. Clint scrambles after him, leaving some bills on the table. The Soldier pushes the door open, Clint close behind him, sparing a glance at the cop. He’s watching them, but it’s not the kind of I know you’re secretly enhanced persons look, it’s more like, I sure hope these drunk idiots don’t become a problem. At least, Clint thinks it is. He’s never liked cops.

~

“Make yourself at home,” Clint announces. Lucky is happy to see them, his tongue rolling out of his mouth. The Soldier slips in and snaps the door shut quickly, as if afraid that the police officer had followed them to Bed Stuy and would be able to sneak in through the crack of the door. Lucky noses at the Soldier’s left hand.

“You didn’t mention a dog,” he says, pulling his hand away protectively, but allowing his right one to gently scratch Lucky behind the ear.

Clint shoves his shoes off and moves to the kitchen, putting on a pot of coffee. “What, you allergic?”

The Soldier follows, notably not removing his shoes (rude), trailed by Lucky. “No.” He glances around the kitchen, at the seventy-five arrow holes, frowning.

“Arrows,” explains Clint, hopping up onto the counter. He watches the Soldier poke at the holes with an odd feeling settling in his stomach.

“Arrows?”

Humming, Clint looks at the contents of the kitchen counter. He spots a bottle, grabs the cap, contemplates his surroundings for a moment, then flicks it. It bounces off the bubbling coffee pot, the fridge, and into the trash. The Soldier’s eyebrows shoot up in question. Clint shrugs. “Just can’t seem to miss.”

The Soldier leans back. “You’re enhanced?”

Clint waves his hand in a so-so gesture. “I’m deaf,” he taps his hearing-aids, “working theory is that my senses are heightened. But I like to think that I’m just really cool.” Kate’s aim is just as good as his and she’s not deaf.

“And that explains the arrow holes how?”

“Bow and arrow is kinda my thing. Was my thing.” Clint winces. “I’m not on an enhanced list, but…”

The Soldier sits down at the kitchen table, his shoulders loosening. “Better safe than sorry.”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees. “I don’t know if you can even call a deaf guy with a penchant for pointy sticks enhanced, but me and my sidekick hung up our bows for good when the accords happened anyway.”

“Sidekick?” The Soldier asks, the barest hint of a smirk in his voice. The corner of his mouth is slightly upturned, Clint notices. “You seem more like the sidekick-type than this Kate.”

Rolling his eyes, Clint hops off the counter to pour them two mugs of coffee. “Partners in heroism, whatever you want to call us.”

Two steaming cups of coffee are placed on the table. The Soldier drinks his quickly, while Clint nurses his own.

“So,” Clint starts after a few minutes of silence and coffee drinking, “if I can’t ask for your name, can I ask for your phone number?”

“Real smooth, Barton.”

Clint stands and digs through one of the drawers, pulling out a pen and notepad.

To his surprise, the Soldier takes it, and slides the notepad towards himself, looking contemplative. A brief moment passes, followed by the faint sound of pen on paper. “I don’t have a cell,” the Soldier explains, “so you’ll just have to stick with calling the landline that came with the apartment.”

Clint is tempted to make a joke about this being the 21st century, but refrains, just watches the Soldier’s neat numbers as they appear on the page.

The Soldier stands after leaving his final mark on the page. “Thanks for the drinks, Barton. And for paying me.”

Following him to the entryway, Clint watches the Soldier crouch and pet Lucky a few more times. “No problem man.” After a second, Clint adds, “I promise to call.”

The Soldier opens the door and looks at Clint with soft eyes. “Don’t bother,” he says, but it lacks venom, and comes across as a joke more than anything, promptly shutting the door.

When he returns to the kitchen, Clint picks up the notebook, running his fingers over the numbers, and the letters underneath them. My friends call me Bucky, is written in the neat handwriting.

Bucky.

Before he goes to bed that night, Clint programs the number into his phone under that name, and burns the trifold that had been folded and stuffed in his back pocket. He crawls into bed, running the events of the night through his mind. As he falls asleep, Lucky at his feet, Clint makes a mental note to call Kate in the morning. She’s going to hit him so hard.

-

Bucky feels like he’s about to fall over.

Tony Stark has him propped up on a table, left arm supported by some sort of stirrup, keeping it in place while Stark delicately takes it apart. Every panel is open, exposing the skeletal wires and inner workings. Bucky averts his eyes, not comforted by the fact that his left arm can so easily be taken apart and put back together again.

“This is what, the fourth time you’ve broken the thing this month?”

“ I didn’t break it.” Bucky shrugs his right shoulder, closing his eyes and trying to force the incoming headache away.

“Coulda fooled me,” remarks Stark, pulling out what looks like a fried microchip, connected to a coil of tangled wires. “How does this even happen?”

The fingers of the arm twitch violently as Stark disconnects the chip, letting out one sad whine before the arm totally loses power. Bucky can feel the weight sagging and pulling down the left side of his body. If he wasn’t already close to exhaustion, working to keep himself straight is going to become a chore. “Ask Thor,” he groans, digging his right hand into the edge of the table. “There isn’t a better way you can do this?”

“Unfortunately not. You ask Thor to stop frying all your systems.”

Bucky winces as he remembers the fight that occurred an hour ago. He won, of course, he was finally starting to get his mojo back, but his arm suffered a fatal thunderous blow, barely able to wiggle the fingers. So here Bucky sat, in the company of Tony Stark, for the last thirty minutes. His whole body was tingling from the lightning, and a cut that had only just begun to heal had been reopened on the side of his face.

Stark glances between whatever he’s doing and Bucky’s face. “You want someone to fix that?”

“No.”

He shrugs, going back to the arm. “Your loss.”

Bucky just closes his eyes and tries not to pass out, listening to the whirring of Stark’s machines and his occasional mumbling to himself. An indefinite amount of time passes until the door whirs open, making Bucky snap his eyes open. Stark is still sitting next to him, but now wears a mask over his face while he blow-torches something. Bucky tries to wiggle his fingers, feels nothing. So they’re not done yet.

Steve approaches, glancing between Stark and Bucky and Bucky’s arm, raising an eyebrow.

“Thor,” is all he can say. Stark flips his mask up and leans back, looking at him.

“He awakens!”

Ignoring him, Steve leans against a table nearby. There’s a freshly sewn gash that extends from the center of his forehead, moves over his eyebrow, and disappears into his hairline. Bucky reaches over to touch the dried blood where the cut stops. “Black Panther?”

Steve shrugs. “He’s got some mean claws.”

Bucky is well aware of how those claws feel on skin. He drops his hand back to the table, looking over at Stark. “How much longer?”

“Depends on if this works.” Stark lifts the chip that he had been working on with a pair of tweezers. “Hey, Cap, where’s the Widow? Aren’t you usually on her tail?”

The look on Steve’s face is funny enough to make Bucky huff a soft laugh. Stark isn’t exactly wrong— Steve’s been smitten with the woman since she first joined the Initiative. If he’s not with Bucky, he’s probably hanging around Black Widow. Their last fight ended with Steve tapping out and letting her win. Bucky can’t imagine she took that too well.

Steve chooses to ignore Stark’s comment. “How are you, Buck?”

“Peachy.” Stark places the new and improves chip wherever it’s supposed to go. It feels like a needle is poked into Bucky’s nonexistent skin, causing him to grit his teeth and inhale sharply. “Never been better.”

A hand is placed on Bucky’s right shoulder, a steadying force.

Stark finishes up, placing wires where they need to be and chips back into their panels. Bucky regains feeling in the arm slowly, like cold water trickling up the fingers, through the faux veins, and into the bicep until it feels like it’s a part of Bucky again. He can flex the fingers, and move the wrist, lift the arm out of the stirrup and stretch it, just as he had been able to do before Thor wrecked it. “Thanks, Stark,” Bucky says, as genuinely as he can as he jumps off the table.

He has already flipped the mask back down and has moved on to a different project, waving a hand absently. “Just tell Point-Break to be careful with my things, next time.”

When Bucky gets home nearly two hours later, his wallet barely any more full than it had been when he walked into the facility earlier in the night, he goes immediately to the phone on the wall after locking the door, instead of to the windows and cupboards like he usually would. Clint has left two more messages since Bucky checked that morning.

He holds the phone to his ear with his newly fixed hand, closing his eyes as he listens to the message.

“Hey, Bucky, it’s Clint. You probably knew that already. I just got home from lunch with Katie. She’s good, thank you for asking.” Bucky laughs. “I’ll tell her you say hello. I took Lucky to a dog park today but he refused to play with any of the other dogs, just laid at my feet and slept. Dumb dog, probably dreaming of pizza. It made me feel nice, though. Apparently he prefers my company to other dogs. What does that say about me? Anyway, I’m planning on going tonight. Just thought you’d like to know. Call me back whenever you feel like it— or not, if. You know. You don’t.”

The second one is shorter, and probably left not too long ago.

“Good job, tonight. Hope you get that checked out.” It takes Bucky a moment to realize that Clint is referencing the arm. “You should take a break. Seems like you need it.” There’s a pause so long that Bucky wonders if something is wrong with his phone. Then, Clint continues, “I’ll call you tomorrow. And the day after that. You can’t ignore me forever.” The line clicks when he hangs up.

Bucky doesn’t really know why he hasn’t called Clint back. Clint clearly seems interested in him. Every night he promises himself that he’ll call back, but he never does.

Pulling the phone away from his ear, Bucky realizes that half of it is covered in blood from the side of his face. “Shit,” he mutters, dropping it and letting it hang on the line. Bucky wanders to the bathroom to clean himself up, telling himself that he’ll call Clint back. As soon as he’s clean. Maybe.

-

Kate throws herself through the door, scaring Lucky out of the room and Clint off the couch he was peacefully asleep on.

He doesn’t have his hearing-aids in, but the sound of the door hitting the wall was just loud enough to startle him. Kate hovers over his body, saying something he can’t make out.

“I can’t hear you,” he says, groaning as he hauls himself from the floor back onto the couch. He keeps his eyes on her, even as she rolls her eyes and signs, get your aids then, this is too important.

Clint sighs. He forces his body off of the couch and into the bedroom, grabbing the hearing aids from the nightstand, putting them in his ears and turning them on. He walks back into the living area where Kate is now sitting on the couch with Lucky on the couch and half in her lap. “What could possibly be so important?” He glances at the time on his phone. “Don’t you have class?”

She waves a hand. “Not important.” Clint sits on the other side of the couch as Kate continues, “The Winter Soldier and Miss America are fighting tonight.”

Clint raises his eyebrows. “How do you know that?”

“Darcy told me.”

“How does Darcy know that?”

“Do you ever listen to me? Darcy has a friend who knows a fighter.” Kate kicks her feet up on the coffee table an throws her arms out. “We’re going tonight.”

Kate has been oddly fixated on Bucky ever since Clint told her about the evening they spent together. He left out most of the details, like his name and fascinating mannerisms. She had her crush on Miss America, too, and was adamant that Clint could hook them up somehow. Clint hasn’t even been able to talk to Bucky since that night. Still, Clint had promised that some day he’d mention it, just to make her feel better. He already talks endlessly about Katie in the messages he leaves. He would never tell her that, though.

She nudges his foot with her own. “My girl’s gonna destroy your guy.” She wiggles her eyebrows.

“Not a chance,” Clint says, his lips spreading into a smile and then a laugh. Kate laughs too, one of her hands falling on top of Lucky’s head and the other on Clint’s shoulder, a steadying force that reminds Clint why he loves her so much.

~

They place their bets with Coulson and make it into their seats just as the usual announcement is starting.

Bucky and Miss America walk out and go to opposite ends to the ring, which is pretty standard. Kate cheers as America steps to their side, Bucky across from her. The rules are announced, the buzzer plays, and the fighters go straight for each other.

Miss America hits the ground first, Bucky landing a solid push at her chest. She takes advantage of being on the ground to grab at Bucky’s legs, sending him toppling after her. His left hand grabs for her wrist but she gets to him first, grabbing ahold of it and twisting it behind his back.

America’s advantage doesn’t last too long as Bucky throws his head back, knocking their skulls together and pushing himself free from her grasp. He throws a punch that hits Miss America in the chin.

“Here we go,” mutters Kate from beside Clint, leaning forward in her seat.

Miss America gets some punches in as well, literal stars flying, like sparks from metal, as they connect with Bucky’s head and stomach. A glowing white star starts to appear around America’s head, resembling a halo. Clint’s seen the girl fight enough to know what’s about to happen.

Just as it seems like America’s going to deal the final blow of the fight with her star-power, Bucky grabs her roughly by the hair, the star fading away instantaneously as she hits the ground. Kate yells something, as do a number of other people in the crowd. Bucky plants his knee to her chest and punches straight across the face, lifting his fist once more, but going no further when America finally taps out.

“Dammit!” Kate shouts, shoving Clint’s shoulder.

“The Winter Soldier wins!” announces the voice as Bucky extends a hand to help the girl up, which she accepts. It’s a little hard to see from so far away, but Clint thinks they’re both smiling, despite the blood running down their faces.

“I told you,” Clint boasts, smiling from ear to ear. Kate shoves him again.

~

Kate passes out on Clint’s bed when they get back to his apartment, Lucky following suit. Clint stays up, not tired yet because of his nap from earlier, staring at his phone.

Is he going crazy? He feels like he’s going crazy.

The phone rings five times, as per usual, before the automated voice tells Clint that he can leave a message after the tone.

He’s quiet for a moment, trying to decide what to say, then, “I sure hope you’re actually listening to these. Kate would be so disappointed to find out you haven’t really been saying hi.” Clint taps his hand absently on the table, thinking about how Bucky does that, too. “Maybe I’d be a little disappointed, too. We came and visited you at work. Oh, Kate really likes your coworker, is there any way we— you , could get her number, or something? She’s been bugging me about it but I didn’t want to bother you— although I guess I should’ve thought about that before I started leaving you multiple voicemails a day.”

Clint leans back in his chair, staring at the few arrow holes above the fridge, forming a perfect circle. “I wish I could get back to work,” he mutters. “I miss it so much. Kate is always saying that we could but— it scares me. You know that.”

Clearing his throat, Clint continues, “anyway. You should call me back. Sometime. I’ll make you more horrible coffee and you can pet my dog some more. And meet Katie, you’d like her, I think. She’s a bitch and I like her so much. Okay. I’ll let you go now. Goodnight.”

When he finally crawls into bed next to Kate, she mutters, “you make me depressed.”

Clint huffs a laugh, taking out his hearing-aids and pulling the covers up and over the head. If she says anything else, he doesn’t hear.

~

The only reason Clint realizes his phone is ringing is Lucky nudging him in the face, his wet nose prodding Clint’s eye. He groans, rolling onto his side, pausing when he sees the light on his phone flashing. It’s still dark in the room, no sunlight pouring through the curtains or annoying birds outside. Sighing, Clint grabs his hearing aids and picks up the phone. “This better be good, Katie.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” says a man’s voice.

Clint sits up so fast his head spins. “Bucky?” Lucky looks at him quizzically. “Took you long enough, asshole.”

Bucky’s end of the call is staticy and hard to hear, but Clint can barely make out, “sorry. Can I come over to your apartment?”

Something is up. “What’s wrong?” Clint asks, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and standing up. The hardwood floor is cold against his bare feet as he leaves his room and goes to the kitchen, Lucky following close behind.

“I’ll explain later. Can I come or not?”

“Yes, yes of course you can.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything else, just hangs up. Clint stops in his tracks, staring at the screen. The number Bucky just called from wasn’t his home one, which Clint has programmed into his phone. Lucky whines at his feet, looking up at Clint with his one eye like he’s pissed they’re not in bed.

“Me too, bud,” Clint mutters, patting the dog affectionately on the head and continuing into the kitchen.

Clint has barely turned on the coffee pot when there’s a knock at the door. Looking through the peephole shows that it’s Bucky, standing stock still.

“You look like shit,” says Clint as he opens the door. Bucky pushes himself between Clint and the door, shutting and locking it himself. Clint takes a long stride back, looking his new visitor up and down. He’s wearing the same thing he wore the two times Clint has seen him outside of the ring, a baggy grey sweatshirt, worn black jeans, a backpack, and that fake hand. His face and hair is bloody, clearly fresh from a fight.

Bucky turns and looks Clint up and down, humming. Clint blinks, looking down at himself in his purple pajama pants and white t-shirt. “I have… coffee,” he mutters, making his escape to the kitchen.

It takes a few minutes for Bucky to make his way into the kitchen after Clint, apparently wandering the apartment. Clint hardly notices him when he does, turning and nearly dropping the coffee pot to find him sitting at the table. He’s washed the blood off his face, and is digging through a first-aid kit with his right hand. “You know how to sneak up on people,” Clint comments, sitting down and pouring two mugs of coffee. Bucky has discarded the fake hand and shrugged off the sweatshirt, leaving him shirtless in Clint’s kitchen.

“Don’t you guys have an infirmary, or something?” Clint asks, gesturing vaguely to Bucky. He’s covered in bruises and scars and cuts, especially around his arm, where the scar tissue is thick and red, extending from his shoulder across his pec.

Bucky pushes the kit away from himself, exhaling through his nose and speaking up for the first time. “We have a doctor. And a glorified mechanic. Speaking of which,” he holds up his left arm. “You wouldn’t happen to know how to fix a cybernetic arm, would you?”

“Unfortunately no.”

Wrinkling his nose, Bucky flips open a panel on his wrist and digs around in it. “My  hand isn’t working, but luckily I can move the arm.” He rubs the stubble around his mouth with his right hand, closing his eyes. “The mechanic, Tony, he’s not in New York for a little while.”

“So he can’t fix it.”

“No,” Bucky confirms. He opens his eyes, looking at Clint for a moment, then flipping the panel closed. He takes a long drink of his coffee before saying anything else. “I won’t be able to fight until he can get back.”

Clint mulls this information over, running his finger around the rim of the steaming mug. “No fighting, no money.”

Nodding, his gaze far away, Bucky purses his lips and doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t know much about Bucky’s personal life, but Clint can imagine. He moves closer, scooching his chair until they’re practically side by side, their knees brushing. Clint grabs the first-aid kit, pulling out the disinfecting wipes and opening the package. Bucky doesn’t say anything as Clint brushes it across his face, over the cut on the cheek, and the one on the eyebrow, on the hairline, and so on. His right eye is black and almost swelling, both eyes closing when Clint gently runs his finger over the bruise.

“I’m no doctor,” Clint whispers.

“Doesn’t matter,” Bucky breathes.

The cuts are bandaged with whatever Clint has in the first-aid kit, including a purple band-aid over the eyebrow.

“We match,” Clint teases, gesturing to the various purple bandages covering his arms and fingers.

Bucky looks at them, raising his eyebrows in a fond expression. “What’s with you and purple?”

The best thing Clint can do is shrug. “It’s just always been… our thing. Kate and I.” He rubs awkwardly at his face. “It’s a little leftover. From before.”

They sit in silence, after that, drinking their coffee and sneaking glances at each other.

“You know,” Clint finally says. "You can stay here.” Bucky stares at him, his face blank. Quickly, Clint adds, “just for a few days. If you need it—”

“No, I. Thank you, Clint.” Bucky sniffs, looking down awkwardly. “Steve offered, too, but I. He can’t be keeping me at his place.”

Clint doesn’t ask who Steve is, or what the situation is there, but can feel the sincerity in his voice. “As long as you need it,” he says softly. “Seriously.”

A soft smile sits on Bucky’s face, the corners of his mouth slightly turned up. Clint is reminded again how handsome he is, his long hair hanging around his face and his stubble accenting his chin. When he isn’t frowning or keeping his expression blank, Clint would go as far as to say beautiful . He can’t even imagine Bucky unscarred and bruised, or what he looks like under all the wounds.

Lucky breaks the moment, nudging Bucky with his nose and barking.

Bucky looks down at him, raising his brows. His voice gets higher when he talks to lucky, saying, “hello again.”

“His name is Lucky.” Clint leans his hand on his fist, watching them. “He likes you.”

Bucky runs his hand along Lucky’s head, scratching behind his ears and at his nape. “I bet he likes most people.”

“Maybe. But that’s kind of what dogs are for.” Lucky tips his head back and looks at Clint, his tongue rolling out the side of his mouth in a goofy grin. “Yeah, you know we’re talking about you.”

More silence passes as Clint stands, putting their now empty mugs in the sink. “You can have the bed.” Bucky starts to argue, but Clint cuts him off, “at least for tonight. Rest those bones.”

He accepts reluctantly, letting Clint lead him to the bedroom. “I listened to all your messages, you know.”

Clint tries to hide whatever emotion is boiling in his stomach at that moment, pushing the door to his bedroom open. “Really?” he asks, feeling like his voice has gone up a few octaves.

Bucky seems to take in the sight of the bedroom, disheveled sheets and rumpled clothes on the floor. Lucky has followed them and has already jumped back up into his spot on the bed. “Yes. They were.. A nice thing to come home to.” Bucky shrugs his sweatshirt back on, sitting on the edge of the bed and leaving Clint standing in the doorway. “Your coffee isn’t shitty.”

That wasn’t what Clint was expecting— but takes it anyway. “Thanks.” He turns to go, then, “oh, by the way. That girl you fought—”

Maybe Clint’s imagining it, but it looks like Bucky is smiling. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Something boils over, a sudden rush of emotions. He covers it by letting out a low, quiet, “goodnight, Bucky,” and shutting the door.

-

Soft sheets, warm blankets. There’s a long, blissful moment where Bucky doesn’t realize where he is, just keeps his eyes closed and his breathing slow and deep, embracing the warmth and the sunlight on his skin. It doesn’t last long, the unfamiliar feelings settling in his skin soon after waking.

He sits up quickly, blinking hard and fast as his body shifts into defense mode, analyzing his surroundings. Clothes that aren’t his own on the floor, a window letting in sunlight across the bed, holes in the walls, a nightstand covered in sticky notes, wrappers, and plastic bottles, and a yellow dog at his feet.

Right. He’s at Clint’s.

Upon closer inspection, the sticky notes are all from Kate, all addressed to Clint, saying things like “took lucky for a walk before i left, dont forget to text me when you wake up” and “get new batteries for hearing aids” . There are hundreds of them all over the table and on the wall above it and in the drawer. Some are simple, just some numbers and dates, while others take up four notes attached to each other. All signed xoxo Kate .

It’s cute.

Clint isn’t on the couch when Bucky exits the bedroom, or in the kitchen or bathroom. In fact, A sticky note is left on the fridge that wasn’t there the previous night.

Bucky—

Will be back soon

Kate will come to take Lucky out at some point, because I have no idea what you get up to while the sun is up

Be good

Clint

His handwriting is small and curly, the letters pushed tightly together like they might fall off the page. Bucky takes the note and sticks it into his sweatshirt pocket, moving away from the kitchen to wander around the rest of the apartment. It’s different in the sunlight, from when Bucky had arrived last night and had checked all the windows and doors while Clint was making coffee. There’s a pizza box on the coffee table, and a crack running through a tv screen. Dog food bowl on the floor next to a leash. Two toothbrushes on the sink next to an empty orange pill bottle. The whole apartment is quaint , Bucky decides, noting the blankets thrown everywhere and the silly mugs in the cupboards and some pictures on the walls or on tables. Photos of Clint and a dark haired girl who must be Kate, or of the two of them and Lucky. There’s one of Clint and a man that somehow looks more put together when side by side with Clint, his auburn hair hanging over his forehead and his green suit ill-fitting. They must be related , Bucky thinks, looking between their scruffy square jaws and the way their matching crooked smiles don’t really meet their eyes.

Bucky sets the photo back down on the windowsill, looking down at Lucky from where he has emerged from the bedroom. He stretches, the front of his body getting close to the floor and his tail up in the air, then straightens and looks at Bucky. “Good morning,” Bucky says to him, even though it’s more likely well into the afternoon. He doesn’t usually sleep this late, especially not in a place he’s unfamiliar with, but maybe being in an actual, comfortable bed for once forced his body to succumb to sleep. It also helps that Clint, apparently a retired superhero, was asleep just outside the door. A deaf, clumsy superhero who only uses bows and arrows, but a superhero nonetheless.

Lucky jumps up onto the couch and goes right back to sleep, apparently content to wait for Kate to arrive.

The thought of Kate reminds him of Steve— he should probably go to his apartment. Brooklyn Heights isn’t too far away from Bed Stuy. He could catch the C train.

That’s the plan Bucky comes up with, heading to the bedroom to grab his things, shrugging on his shoes and jeans, followed by the stiff fake hand over the fingers that don’t work. It’s uncomfortable, feels like something is freezing his fingers in place while also wrapping them in a hundred layers of saran-wrap. He can hardly use the hand with the glove when his fingers are working , but now that they’re not it looks even faker than usual.

He keeps his hands tucked in his pocket as he walks to the subway and all the way to Steve’s apartment building, until he is knocking on the door. He knocks rhymically; three knocks, a pause, one knock, pause, then two more.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says as he opens the door not long after Bucky knocks. “Did you—”

“Yes,” Bucky cuts him off, shutting the door behind himself and pulling the hand off, immediately breathing a sigh of relief. “I stayed there last night.” He doesn’t have to look at Steve to know what his face looks like, his eyebrows raised high and his jaw loose in a smirk. “Don’t even start with me.” Bucky holds up a hand as he moves up the stairs to Steve’s kitchen.

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“Your silence speaks a thousand words.” Bucky tells him, opening the fridge and grabbing his orange juice, pulling off the cap and drinking straight from the jug.

“Why’d you come here instead of hanging around your new bff’s house then?” Steve grabs the juice from him. “He doesn’t have juice you can steal?”

“Can’t I enjoy the company of my best friend?” Bucky turns to get a good look at him finally. His blond hair is damp from a shower, and a fresh bandage sits over his nose. “Did you break your nose again last night? Maybe it’ll get smaller this time around.”

Steve rolls his eyes, touching the bandage gently. “Stop changing the subject. How’s your guy?”

“You know, for a long time if someone asked me that question I’d assume they were asking about you.”

He gives Bucky a flat look.

Bucky throws his arms up, his left hand hanging limply at the wrist. “I don’t know what to say, okay! He went somewhere this morning and wasn’t back by the time I woke up. His friend was coming to take out their dog and I’m not exactly ready to meet her—”

“Girlfriend?”

“More like a sister, I think.” Bucky continues, “and I hadn’t seen you since before you went on last night, so.”

Steve reaches over and thumps Bucky on the shoulder. “You know you’re always welcome here.”

Bucky looks at Steve’s hand where it now rests on his shoulder. There’s a nasty bite mark on the webbing between the thumb and pointer finger. “Who almost took your finger off?

“Bucky.”

“Was it Drax? No, Hulk.”

“ Bucky .”

“It wouldn’t be safe here, you know that. You’d get arrested, I’d probably be killed. It’s a miracle I’m even able to visit once or twice a week without a SWAT team storming the place,” Bucky stammers, shrugging Steve’s hand off his shoulder.

Something odd passes Steve’s face, but it passes soon enough. He looks at Bucky softly, maybe fondly. He notices just then that the purple under Steve’s eyes aren’t fading black eyes, like they’re both used to, but just bags. Fatigue. Bucky runs his fingers over them, like Clint had done the previous night, but it’s less intimate. More… familiar. Tracing what’s already known. Reminds Bucky of when they were kids and he was saving scrawny little Steve from bullies on the playground. Who knew one day it’d be the other way around. Except the bullies were Nazis and the playground is a highway in Washington DC. And maybe Bucky was the bully a little bit in that situation.

Still.

Steve throws an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, and this time Bucky lets him hover close.

“So, this guy …”

Bucky groans, lifting his hands to cover his face, hardly managing to shield anything when his left refuses to comply. “He’s nice , Steve.”

“What, and I’m not?”

“Not nice like you, Captain America. He’s nice like…” Bucky thinks for a moment. “He and his best friend used to be some crime fighting duo who fought enemies with their bows and arrows. And he bought me a drink after I won my first fight in a while, and is letting me stay at his place even though he doesn’t know me. Doesn’t know about the shit I’ve done.”

Steve knocks the sides of their heads together affectionately. “If he can get past the underground fighting ring I think he might be okay with the brain washing thing.”

Bucky pulls away, just slightly, enough to raise his eyebrows at his best friend. “Not exactly the same thing.”

~

When Bucky gets back to Clint’s apartment, its nearly evening, the sun setting on the New York skyline. Clint is sitting on the couch eating pizza, Lucky at his side eating his own slice. Bucky stares at them, frowning.

“Should a dog be eating pizza?”

Clint shrugs, not looking up from whatever he’s looking at on his phone. Bucky rounds the couch, sitting on the chair beside the couch to avoid sitting next to Clint. “It’s his favorite food. What did you get up to today?”

“Visited Steve.”

Around a mouthful of pizza, Clint asks, “who’s Steve?”

That’s a great question. “Captain America.” Clint chokes and drops his phone. “My best friend.”

“Your best friend is someone you beat the shit out of on a regular basis?”

Bucky waves a hand. “Our relationship seemed to dwindle down to that even before the accords. Now we just get paid for it.”

The frown on Clint’s face is unpleasant to look at. “What do you mean?”

“Doesn’t matter. Pass me a slice.” Clint complies, and seems to accept that Bucky doesn’t want to talk about it.

They eat their pizza in relative silence, the only thing breaking it being the sounds of Lucky’s slobbery munching. Clint eats most of the box by himself, leaving it on top of the one that was already discarded on the table when it’s empty.

“You can have your bed back,” Bucky says eventually. “I needed that sleep last night, thank you.”

“No need to thank me.”

“I have every reason to.” Bucky plays absently with his limp metal hand, running his fingers along the panels that he can’t feel as he talks, avoiding looking at Clint, who surely is looking at him. “Steve’s on the enhanced person list, so I can’t stay with him ‘cause he could get arrested. And, well, lets just say that I’m not the safest person for an enhanced person to be harbouring.”

Clint reaches forward suddenly, wrapping his hands around Bucky’s, both metal and flesh. He holds them in such a way that forces the metal one to curl in on itself like a fist, the flesh one cupped over it. His own hold them on top of that, enveloping them almost completely. His hands are surprisingly big; Bucky hadn’t noticed. Archer’s hands.

There’s almost certainly a flush on Bucky’s face, which he can’t even cover because Clint has his hands wrapped up. Maybe his mouth is hanging open a little. He forces himself to look at Clint, his brown eyes meeting Clint’s blue ones. Bucky wants to say something, but doesn’t know what. He snaps his mouth closed, his teeth clicking loudly and filling the air between them.

Clint’s eyes leave Bucky’s, looking down at their hands. He separates them slowly, not pulling away, but leaning in close and studying the metal. “Can you feel it?”

It takes a moment for Bucky to realize what Clint means. “Right now, no. But usually, there’s some sort of sensation. Not exactly touch, but…”

One of Clint’s long fingers runs up the nearly flat plane of Bucky’s left middle finger, catching on the rim of the panel where a fingerprint should be.

Bucky desperately wishes that the hand was up and running properly, just so he could feel the sensation of Clint’s delicate fingers running along it and treating it like it might fall apart in his hands if he doesn’t handle it properly.

Clint stands suddenly, letting go of Bucky’s hand. “Bed,” he mutters, licking his lips and running a hand through his shaggy hair. He turns and looks at Lucky, who jumps off the couch and goes into the room, like he knows exactly what Clint said. Bucky feels cold, like cold water is trickling down his arm and into his body. “Good night,” Clint rushes out, and disappears.

It is only once Bucky is alone, the ghost of a touch along his fingers, that he realizes that his right hand was gripping the seat of the chair so hard that some of the seams have ripped, spilling out cotton.

~

Things get less strange, after that.

Tony is back after a few weeks to fix the arm (“Seriously, Terminator, have you no respect for this fine piece of machinery on you?”), and Bucky is back in the ring. He pays the rent and sleeps in his own bed for the first time in what feels like months but has in reality only been days. Bucky tries not to think about it, but while he lies awake at night worrying about whether or not he really locked his door (he always does), he thinks about how soft Clint’s bed was, and the warm presence of Lucky at his feet, and falls asleep quickly.

And maybe he wonders what it would feel like if Clint held his newly restored metal hand like he did that night, and what kind of sensations that would cause. He rubs his fingers together, staring at the peeling wall absent of any arrow holes, and knows that it doesn’t feel the same.

~

Bucky gets to Clint’s one evening after a fight, in considerably better shape than he would usually be. Someone newer, apparently, not as experienced.

The door swings open almost as soon as he knocks, revealing a pale and tired looking Clint. His eyes are rimmed with purple, like he hasn’t gotten enough sleep the past few days, his hair sitting flat and sadly on his head.

Bucky steps in and around him, venturing further into the apartment. Once the door is closed and Clint has followed Bucky into the living room, he says, “do you want me to ask?”

Clint gestures vaguely.

“Are you okay?”

Another motion, followed by a deep sigh. He flops back onto the couch, an arm thrown over his face. Bucky sits beside him, enough distance between them so they’re not touching but not so far that Bucky can’t reach forward if he needs to.

Finally, from behind his arm, Clint speaks up. “My brother died six years ago around this time.”

Bucky glances over at the photo of Clint and the man on the windowsill. “I’m sorry,” is all he can say, sitting still and watching Clint carefully.

“He wasn’t the greatest brother,” Clint admits, shrugging. He sits up, wrinkling his nose as he reaches forward and grabs something from the coffee table. “But today, I got a letter from him.”

“You what?”

Clint holds up what must be the letter, five or six pages stapled at the corner with creases where they were once folded. “It’s definitely him. He used all our codes, and apologized for—” Clint cuts himself off, clearly holding back something, then continues, “for what happened. Among other things.” Clint adds that last part somewhat grumpily. He flips through the pages of the letter absently while Bucky stares at him.

Bucky knows a thing or two about dead men coming back to life. He just doesn’t know how to apply it here. “Did he explain how…?”

“Not really. Something about wanting a better life away from the shit I was getting up to, which, frankly, wasn’t any better than what he was doing, but whatever.”

Seizing the opportunity, Bucky reaches forward and grabs Clint’s hand, dark metal stark against Clint’s pale skin. He seems surprised by the action but doesn’t pull away, much to Bucky’s relief. He just sits, unmoving, holding onto the letter in one hand and Bucky with the other.

“I’m not very good at comfort,” Bucky says.

“You don’t need to be.” Apparently Bucky doesn’t need to be a lot of things, to Clint. Maybe that’s okay.

At some point they’ve managed to move until they’re shoulder to shoulder, hands held together. They’re not really looking at each other, Clint down at the letter and at their hands, Bucky around the apartment and at the photo across from them, hardly visible from where they sit, just the green of the brother’s suit, the purple of Clint’s shirt, the starkness of their hair against a dark background.

Bucky isn’t even paying attention when Clint brushes his fingers along the gash on Bucky’s forehead with his fingers. His head snaps back around to find that Clint is close and looking at him strangely, his eyes flicking around Bucky’s face. “Did you fight good today?”

“I always fight good.”

Clint laughs. A decent, hearty laugh that makes him tip his head back and move a little bit away from Bucky. He realizes, looking at the soft smile that falls onto Clint’s lips after he gets the laugh out, how much he’d like to kiss him.

He does, when Clint rocks back forward, opening his mouth to say something. They’re still, for a moment, their lips pressed together, but then Clint moans, just a small, quiet thing as he drops the papers, and Bucky presses forward even more, his right hand moving up to hold the side of Clint’s head. His fingers press into soft blonde hair at the same time Clint’s hands are reaching up to hold onto either side of Bucky’s neck, underneath his curtain of dark hair.

Clint pulls away first to get a breath, diving back in before Bucky can even say anything. He wants to get his hands everywhere, they move up and down the side of Clint’s face and side, pulling their chests together. It doesn’t seem like they can get close enough, like this is something they bothneed , finally something they can agree on.

Bucky’s mouth moves to the side of Clint’s, then down until he’s pressing his face into the soft skin of his neck. “We should’ve done this a while ago,” Clint breathes, one of his hands now at the back of Bucky’s neck. Bucky just laughs, hot air against Clint’s neck as he does so.

A moan follows the laugh soon enough as Clint manages to slip a hand between them, digging underneath Bucky’s shirt and near the hem of his pants. “Okay, bedroom,” Bucky gasps, separating themselves. When he looks at Clint, with his pink lips and rumpled hair, he looks closer to himself than he had earlier, somehow. “I thought you’d never ask,” he says, leaning forward to kiss Bucky again, hauling them both up and pulling them towards his bedroom.

They stay close throughout the short walk to the room, getting distracted a few times by each other, finally shutting the door behind them after way, way too long.

[pastelskrulls]

the young avengers (no not those ones)

the war starts when steve is 13.

all of his classmates want to enlist, want the glory of winning and protecting their nation.

steve only wants to stay home. to protect his mother from the man she married

when steve is 15, his mother dies of tb. he no longer has a reason to stay in new york, and he crumbles under the pain of it

he turns 16 and he enlists, forging the papers with the help of a kind german doctor

he stands out in training, from the angles in his still growing body, the vague irish lilt in his voice

however, what sets him apart the most is his commitment, his guts

he recieves the super soldier serum and a year later, nosedives into the arctic

he wakes up in new york 70 years later in the custody of shield

across the country, jane foster fresh off the high of earning her learners permit, hits a man with her dad’s truck

well, not a man. a boy

he looks like he couldn’t be older than 17 and he keeps mumbling about trolls, a magical hammer, and a rainbow bridge

the doctors determine he must have brain damage and leave it at that

the boy apparently has no family in new mexico and whatever family he did have hated him (because seriously, jane thought, who names their kid thor)

her dad, hardworking and compassionate if not a bit over ambitious, offers to take him in until they can get him registered in the system

it turns out they don’t have to, because three days later, thor fights a giant evil robot in the middle of the town, picks up a hammer from norse legend, and is carted off by some government agency

bruce banner is 16 going on 17 and interning under thadeus ross at culver university.

ross is obsessed with replicating the serum that created captain america, and bruce is obsessed with getting a full ride (and an internship with a general at a nationally acclaimed university was certainly going to help) so he plays along

the exposure to gamma radiation morphs something in his dna

in class the next day, some meathead, robert he thinks, is pestering him, calling him names just like always. bruce is used to it by now, but then he mentions bruce’s mom and something in him snaps

he wakes up in an alleyway, clothes shredded to hell and no memory of what had happened.

the newspapers are all talking about the same thing. a monster, loose in virginia. witnesses claim they had seen their classmate, bruce banner turn into a hulking green beast. he had beaten a student, robert maverick and fled. police are offering a reward to anyone with knowledge of his whereabouts

bruce doesnt know how to fix this, so he heads home, packs a suitcase, and runs

he ends up at his uncle’s apartment, a small brownstone in new york

after a little convincing from his daughter, mr.walters agrees to hide bruce for a short time, just until they can figure out what happened

but they never get the chance

the next day, government agents dressed in gray and black uniforms break down the door and cart bruce away to some facility. he doesn’t know what will happen to him, and more than ever before, he is scared

tony graduated college when he was 15. he had a fully stocked lab, an invite to every party in town, and more money than he could ever spend. all thanks to his father.

no matter what he does, everyone; magazines, documentaries, newspapers, only seem to care about howard. he can’t seem to escape the man’s shadow, and he resents him for it.

so he rebels. he goes clubbing, he brings home girls, he bought expensive cars, but nothing seemed to work

until the day he was kidnapped.

the kidnappers saw how smart he was, and they wanted it.

they threw his father’s tech at him, told him to start developing a new missile. instead, he designed a suit. his fellow captive a professor, ho yinsen helped him, and together they built the scrapper. it was barely a prototype, but it was the best shot they had

professor ho had shoved him towards the suit, told him to run and headed toward the guards.

he was plucked out of the deaert by an unmarked government helicopter and was met by two agents

“are you interested in helping us? we could use that tech of yours.”

and for the first time, tony felt seen

clint pulled on his blindfold and gripped his bow, finding the worn in finger rests. he pulled an arrow from the quiver and slid it into place. he took a deep breath, aimed the shot, and released. the raucous applause surrounding him told him he had hit his mark, just like always.

the show continued and he trudged outside, opening his small (very small) trailer. he let himself flop onto the bed, face first. his aids buzzed and crackled with the impact and he rolled over, staring up at the ceiling. before he could get comfortable, there was a knock at his door.

he sighed dramatically, rolled out of bed and opened it.

standing in the rain was a steely eyed woman, dressed in a black bodysuit.

“clint barton? i saw your... performance tonight”

he raised an eyebrow “okaaaay?”

“how old are you?”

“19” the lie slipped off his tongue easily. if there was a chance of getting out of this place, he knew it wouldn’t come to a 15 year old.

“would you let me in? i’d like to tell you about something called shield”

natasha had been raised in the red room. the barbed fences, concrete walls, and armed guards were all she had ever known. every morning they trained her and the other girls. she worked, strived to be the best. she had stopped hoping for an escape and started hoping for a mission. but she knew hoping would get her nowhere, so instead she fought. she wanted to prove herself. to grab attention and not let it go.

when she turned 15, she was given her first mission. she was to kill her target, a man by the name of clint barton. he was an assasin. a good one.

he worked for shield, a top secret agency run by and for the us government.

it was easy enough to find him. he had perched on top of a building

she wasn’t sure what she had been expecting with the guy, but it wasn’t this. he looked... young. not much older than her. there was no way his file had the truth about him.

she had been made to fight. trained to kill. but with this boy. she couldn’t. they were too alike.

she stepped out of the shadows, and his bow instantly trained on her.

but he didn’t shoot. she could tell he felt it too. he lowered his weapon and stepped forward, cautious but open.

“do you need help?”

“yes”

she didn’t know why she said it, but the word tumbled out before she could think

he brought her inside, taking an elevator down to the underground offices and facilities. he pointed her down the hall, telling her to look for a man named nick fury

when she reached his office, she found him waiting for her. he held a gun in one hand and a file in the other. she cursed herself. cursed herself for trusting that boy

“i suppose you’re going to shoot me now?” she held herself in a tight stance, ready for a fight. it had been a setup. of course. she hadn’t wanted this. it seemed childish to even think, but it wasn’t fair. it wasn’t fair that she should die for the red room. die before she even got to live

“that’s your choice” he said. he looked her up and down and she could tell he saw the unnatural thinness, the not yet faded bruises

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

“well ms romanoff, would you like to save the world?”

the first real threat came in the form of a god’s temper tantrum

thor’s younger brother (who looked like a middle schooler) who he insisted wasn’t really evil,

“you don’t understand he’s just going through a phase!” he yelled as he flew between buildings, wind whipping his hair.

“it isn’t a phase, brother!” loki had shouted back

when the battle was over, odin arrived, patting the boy on the back and turned to fury

“he just wants a little attention, i assure you this won’t happen again”

fury had nodded and, when odin had left, taken out a flask.

“so, what now?” everyone turned to clint.

“how about some food?” bruce suggested

“ah, a fantastic idea, we have fought well and a feast of victory is well deserved!”

natasha gave a sharp nod, looking through the rubble for a restaurant that was still standing, much less open.

in the end they found a shwarma place that was willing to open up and serve the heroes with a discount.

soon enough however, some agents came to collect them, and in the quinjet they were briefed on their next mission. high school.

(i can write more of this if anyone wants. ive got more ideas but i wanna just post this. my inbox is open, so if you want anything specific for this universe or something else, go there! i also fudged some of the backstories a bit, threw in what i knew from comics, and changed some dates, but i think i stuck pretty well to canon)

(you can probably tell i got more into this as i wrote fjxndn)

[sanjuno]

EC here, requesting Reborn introducing himself to/demanding answers from Sentai!Tsuna.

KHR: Freaky Friday 5/13 - Reach for the Sky (Again)

In today’s episode of KAMEN RIDER SORA the famous hitman tutor REBORN is seeking the answers to several questions. Who was that masked man in orange? Where does his student disappear to every day? Will Reborn manage to uncover the truth behind the mystery hero of Namimori?

Stay tuned to find out!

/…/

… DAY ONE…

… REVEALED PRESENCE TO NEW STUDENT - CLOSE QUARTERS TARGET ASSESSMENT INITIATED…

… MISSION INTELLIGENCE COMPROMISED BY FALSE SURVEILLANCE REPORTS - THREAT LEVEL TO NEW STUDENT UNKNOWN…

“I hired a home tutor for you, Tsuna! He’s come all the way from Italy as a special favour for your Papa!”

“Ehh? But Kasan, I’m already getting tutoring at school!”

“Caiosu. I’m the home tutor Reborn.” This child is far to suspicious of me to be ignorant of who I am. What has Smoking Bomb told him about the Mafia? Did that stupid boy go so Sky Struck he broke Omertà?

“… You’re a baby in a suit.” Oh shit the Youma are coming into people’s homes now?

“Let’s all try to get along!”

/…/

Reborn decided to wait and see how long it took for the boy to crack, and instead of drawing his gun to reveal that Tsuna was now the heir to the Vongola Famiglia, he instead forced Tsuna to do all his homework instead. Sitting on the tabletop, Reborn watched silently as Tsuna worked through each subject and smiled innocently when the boy started twitching spastically every time their eyes met.

Reborn wanted answers, and he would do whatever it took to get them.

The fact that Reborn could entertain himself in the process was just a nice bonus.

/…/

… DAY TWO…

… NEW STUDENT STILL ACTING SQUIRRELLY…

… ATTEMPT MADE TO UNCOVER METHODOLOGY BEHIND UNKNOWN FLAME USE…

“So do you have lots of friends, Dame-Tsuna?”

“I… I suppose I have a few.”

“Do you belong to any after school clubs?”

“Not um, not exactly…”

“You should speak more confidently, Dame-Tsuna.”

“You say that sort of thing but call be by that name… it’s a contradiction.”

“Don’t talk back to your beloved tutor, Dame-Tsuna.”

“Wh-what part of you is beloved?”

“So rude, Dame-Tsuna. Do you talk to your subordinates like that?”

“Why would I have subordinates?”

“You run the local school gang, right? With those delinquents you cut class with.”

“Don’t call them delinquents!”

“So it is a gang.”

“NO IT’S NOT. STOP DECIDING THINGS WITHOUT LISTENING!”

“Don’t yell at me, Dame-Tsuna, it’s impolite.”

“Hieeee…”

“Also you’re late for school.”

“HIEEEEE! Hibari-sempai’s gonna bite me to death!”

“Thank you for the meal, Maman. I’ll walk to the school with my student today.”

… FIRST ATTEMPT UNSUCCESSFUL…

/…/

Searching Tsuna’s room while the boy was sleeping for any hints about what sort of Flame group the boy had fallen in with revealed nothing except that Tsuna was an energetic sleeper. Amusing due to the distinct similarities between Tsuna’s flailing limbs and a dog chasing dream rabbits, but ultimately fruitless.

Following the boy to school again, this time out in the open, revealed nothing new. However, it did allow Reborn to confirm that whatever Tsuna was mixed up in, the Sasagawa siblings and Kurokawa Hana were in on it. Reborn had almost forgotten what it was like to have a young lady squint suspiciously at him. This was the first time since he was cursed that a woman had obviously objected to his company.

How odd to meet kids that suspected a baby of nefarious plans. Reborn had not been this entertained on a job in years.

The front wall of the grocery market they were passing by collapsed as an almost-fish shaped monstrosity wearing only strategically placed coconuts rampaged through.

Reborn blinked.

Tsuna and his friends disappeared.

The grotesque fishy-monster thing cackled.

It was promptly ambushed by the Yellow and Orange Power Rangers.

“WE EXTREMELY OBJECT TO UNSAFE FISHING PRACTICE!!”

The fish thing exploded.

Reborn stared blankly at the sparkling pile of rainbow glitter.

“… What.”

… SECOND ATTEMPT UNSUCCESSFUL…

/…/

There were uniformed men and women swarming the area around the demolished market. Very neat. Very fast response time. Very official looking.

Those badges did not belong to any Japanese or International authority on or off the record. Reborn watched with narrow eyes as Kurokawa Hana snapped orders and directed techs carrying some sort of scanning equipment as they set up.

Sasagawa Kyoko, her brother Ryohei, and Sawada Tsunayoshi were nowhere to be seen. Seated comfortably in the concealing foliage of a potted plant, Reborn tilted his head as Leon crawled along the brim of his hat. One of the scanners was run over the bush, the tech watching the screen intently. In fact, Reborn noticed that everything organic in the area was being scanned. When his bush was declared cleared, Reborn remained seated and continued to observe.

What interesting friends you have, Sawada Tsunayoshi.

/…/

“Ciaossu.”

“Wh- Reborn? How did you get in here! This is a restricted area!”

“I am a master of disguise.”

“You’re trespassing! And probably a Youma in disguise!”

“I’ve never done a costume for that before. What’s a youma?”

“Don’t try to change the subject!”

“It’s the same subject, Dame-Tsuna. Don’t snap just because you don’t know the answer to the question.”

“I know what a youma is! Shut up! Stop making no sense!”

“… Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you to the lab! Then you’ll be someone else’s problem.”

“This isn’t the way a good student treats his tutor, Dame-Tsuna.”

“You aren’t any sort of tutor! Either you’re a baby playing pretend or you’re a youma trying to throw me off guard and it’s not going to work so stop acting already!”

“You are a very high strung young man.”

… THIRD ATTEMPT UNSUCCESSFUL…

/…/

When Tsuna dropped him onto a lap table in front of Smoking Bomb with an irritated huff, Reborn knew the jig was up. Pity, the last twenty-four hours had been fun, even if the repeated occasions of monsters versus speed racer cosplayers still confused him.

“Caiosu, Smoking Bomb.”

“Eh? Aren’t you the Arcobaleno Reborn?”

“Your sister’s been worried about you, Gokudera Hayato. Call Bianchi before I tell her where you are.”

“Hiieee? Hayato, you have a sister? And you know this baby?”

“Um, Tsuna… he’s not just a normal baby…”

“I’m not just a home tutor. I’m also the World’s Greatest Hitman. Dame-Tsuna, as a favour to the Ninth Boss of the Vongola, I’m here to train you to be a Mafia Boss.”

Watching Smoking Bomb choke and fall out of his chair, knocking his student over on his way down, Reborn had absolutely no regrets about his announcement.

It was impossible to buy entertainment this good.

Tsuna surged to his feet and hauled Hayato up with him, staring at the Hitman Baby with wide eyes.

“WHAT?”

… FOURTH ATTEMPT IN PROGRESS…

=/=

This is one of the rougher freewrites I’ve done so far, but it flows pretty well and the comedy is snappy enough to pass muster, so here ya’ll go.

Enjoy. ^_^

[mvnikin-blog]

alden ehrenreich + cis male + he/him.┊ ❛ ━ hey, is it just me or do you hear all i want by walk the moon playing in the distance ? oh, thats just manikin, a neutral good member of the LEAGUE OF HEROES. i suspect they might be brayden “ray” gray, a twenty-five year old bouncer at no angels nightclub with the ability of self-manipulative puppetry. according to my sources, he can be stoic, but also facetious which is probably why they remind everyone of the slightest falter of a practiced grin and freshly fallen cigarette ashes so much. anyway, a superhero or not, crystalline city is keeping a close eye on them! (logan, 18, est, she/her )

hey, howdy, hey  ! i’m logan, and this is my dude brayden gray. basically, he’s a former syndicate member who found the errors of his ways but doesn’t really know where to go now that he’s apparently a hero and working a somewhat normal job again. if you want to find out more, take a gander down below here. and, if you’re so inclined, send me a lil IM to plot ! i’ve been actually trying to find an excuse to play alden and this power so i’m kind of super excited right now.

POWER

SELF-MANIPULATIVE PUPPETRY the power to control the user's own motor functions regardless of what state their body is in. user can control their own body like a marionette, allowing them to move freely even if they possess injuries or ailments that would normally impede normal movement such as paralysis, broken limbs or dislocated joints. - superpower wiki

how i’m interpreting this is he can pick up anything just like that. ballet, football, martial arts... you name it and he can do it after a few hours of watching or listening to people do it. the problem is that around the age of 21/22, he had gotten an injury that cost him the use and feeling of his body below the neck until his power kicked in yet again. his once fluid and somewhat perfect movements began to look forced and jerky. he still can’t get to those natural movements down, but he has total control over his body so he can’t fight against his power anymore. he also can’t feel anything below his neck, so things like breaking his thumbs to get out of handcuffs and fighting got a whole lot easier after.

PERSONALITY

ray is a good kid. generally speaking, he tries his best to be a good person for his family and friends but sometimes he doesn’t know the best way to do it so he slides into situations most good people avoid because it’s all he can figure out.

he’s also a very, very, very closed off individual. that jelly jar you can’t open ? it’s him. not to say he’s not friendly with people (because that’s entirely the opposite of true), but he hates talking about himself and his issues. he’d rather die of a splinter than ask someone to take it out for him. instead of talking about real problems he makes jokes and changes the subject if it’s about him. if someone else needs help and they’re apart of his friend/family group, you better bet he’s there in minutes to help or to at least make them laugh. very heavy dad friend vibes because he basically was a dad for so long at so young.

honestly ? he hates fighting, but he attracts it like a light to moths... but, he’s also really good at it ? ever since he was 16 he had been working at bars and clubs as a bouncer because fighting just came easily to him and every time he got into one he hated it but it was what it was. and when he became a villain it kind of just was what it was. it was part of the trade off to him but don’t think for a second he didn’t have long nights trying to forget all the things he did.

he’s way more mature than a 25 year old should be. granted, he’s made mistakes and he seems like that one annoying kid singing offkey in a starbucks to make someone laugh, but he’s really not. he has wrinkles in places he shouldn’t and hands rougher than they should be, he’s seen the side of people that are typically very well hidden, and he’s skipped over the whole being a kid phase to grow up quick. so when he says “i understand,” he almost always genuinely means it.

BACKGROUND ( death, paralysis tw )

from the second ray was born, he laughed and it took a whole lot to make him finally cry. he had a mother who loved him, a father who couldn’t care any less, and a whole world waiting to take him in. when he got home, he was safely secured in his mother’s arms until the next year when he started walking and running around the house causing a little bit of chaos for his stay-at-home mother and his father who, after coming home from long days working, just went to bed and left his wife to deal with the energy he had.

just as he was starting out kindergarten, his family changed very rapidly. his baby brother, noah, was born and their father left the family for another woman the same month. his mother had to get a job and ray had no choice but to help take care of his brother while doing school and trying to continue being a kid at the same time.

his life started to become a pattern. he had school, some sort of free after school thing, walking home to his brother, cook dinner, start the coffee for his mother when she came back for her two hour nap, sleep, repeat. after he turned 16 however, when his brother was about 11, he made the decision to drop out of school and begin working in at a nightclub that gave him some slack for his age if they could pay him in cash. he agreed immediately and the extra income and time during the day helped out with the family a lot more than going to school would have helped him and it gave his brother a chance to not have to do the same.

a year into this brand new job, ray found out that the reason he was getting paid in cash wasn’t just so that he could work the long hours at his age and not have someone on payroll... it was instead because they weren’t just a club. they had an illegal business in the back that they wanted to protect as well. there they sold objects you wouldn’t want people to know you have like guns, drugs, high tech, and more... when he found this out they called him into the office and offered him a lot more money if he took care of security for the club and started going out with them on deals for safety. there was hesitation, but it came down to how much good he could do for his family when he told them yes. they were in too much debt and their house was on the verge of foreclosure for him to say no.

from there he continued to stay home to help his family and their debt, but he also spiraled into a lot more criminal acts. he started getting more involved in this organization and as he got older, he got more useful to them and more stuck in the cycle. he never stopped raising his brother, in fact he worked harder to make sure he was better than himself, but his time home became less and less. he didn’t know anything else to do so he kept with it for the next five years when he thought his brother had ran away.

the moment his mother called him freaking out, he quit working with these people and drove home as fast as he could. part of him worried it was the line of work he was in, but the reality was that it was a hard environment to live in and he figured he tried to run away. there was a few nights calling around and praying someone would know something before he decided to pack up his things, leave most of his savings to their mother, and look in the city in case he could find his brother or someone who could find him.

a few weeks into the investigation, his mother had come down to visit him in a ragtag little apartment and while the two were talking the building came down. nobody really knows what happened, but within seconds the building started to crumble and lives were lost... including his mother’s. on top of that, ray was severely injured and at the hospital he was told that his spine had been damaged and he wouldn’t be able to move below his neck. it was so much devastating news, but what made it worse was that something was off with what the doc said. when she left, he tried to scratch his nose and instead of realizing what she actually said and going “oh,” he actually did it. that’s when he knew that he had some sort of ability and he sort of freaked out. during that night, he left the hospital so he didn’t have to explain anything and then he sat down and tried to come up with some sort of plan to avoid thinking about his mother.

somehow his plans led to him meeting someone from this syndicate who promised him that they'd find his brother if he helped them out. he's done some bad things in his time to help out his family, so what would have made this different? he agreed with only a thimble of hesitation and put in the same work effort he had had oh so long ago.

after being with this organization of supervillains for so long, he lost hope that he'd fine his brother. he figured that if he hadn't found him in these three years that he'd never do so. his conscience began to weigh on him and when the first of the year came around, he took a chance to leave the organization and use his gift for good instead of being selfish and these past few months have been a trial period for him because who would trust a guy with his background ?

CONNECTIONS

the person who vouched for him to the league. maybe they knew him for a while and then found out who/what he was ? maybe they were the one he got into contact with when he wanted to change sides ? maybe they were fighting and suddenly he goes “i want to be good again” ? we can talk about this and figure it out because this is a biggie.

a genuine friend at the syndicate. someone who he still keeps in contact with despite now being on opposite sides. they get coffee together in secret, and just are good friends. maybe they’re both set in their paths and while he would like them to come with him, he’d rather them both to be friends... or maybe they want to change too ?

an ex because honestly ? an old s/o would really be sweet and there’s so many connections you could do with it.

i don’t know, more to come !