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oddballwriter · 8 months

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hello! Could i please request a one shot where Steven and Marc know about Jake's existence and they have been trying to get used to him and get to know him, and during a mission where they need help they found out Jake has been having like a long term relationship with the reader (who is Sekhmet's avatar)

And Steven its totally freaking out but also crushing on her but Marc its like "wtf how long has this been going on?"

Unexpected Addition

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Part Two

Summary: Life with a new addition is a bit tricky, but Steven and Marc are getting the hang of having Jake around. But what they don't expect is that Jake has a bit of a life of his own, including a love. Which sort of adds another addition.

Warnings: The boys are fighting. Steven being a love sick puppy. Marc is kind of a dick in this not gonna lie. Mentions of some factors of D.I.D. . It's mentioned that Jake told reader about Marc's past, to a degree. There's some arguing about you and Jake being a thing for so long and kind of referenced that you and Jake technically overlap with Marc and Layla by a hair.

This fic is actually more of Steven just having a big stinkin' crush on you and Jake and Marc yelling at each other.

Author’s Snip: I feel like this is good but not completely on the mark. Anon, if you want to throw me another scenario that's Jake centric with this idea/world then feel free. Just give me a sign.

Notes: I semi-proof read this so if there's weird grammar and shit just ignore it.

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.

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Jake was a surprise. Well, in the logic of common D.I.D. systems not really, but in the sense that neither Steven nor Marc knew he was there. It felt like a bit of a privacy breach to think that Jake's just watched everything go down from the shadows only to leave as soon as he came, and it was a bit unnerving to know that Jake was more off the hinges. But it's not like they could really do anything about him. Jake's a part of the system, whether they like it or not.

Jake honestly wasn't that much of a change up though. He usually did his own things and kept in his lane for the most part. Even if his tactics were more... forceful than Marc and Steven's were. Otherwise Jake would be something of an allusive one. He didn't seem to do much but they had a hunch that there was more than just Jake Lockley, the third alter, cabbie by daylight, and system parachute and low key Khonshu's hitman. And there was.

Because there was you.

Marc and Steven found out about you because they were on a mission that Khonshu demanded that they do. And it turns out Sekhmet had the same idea for you.

It wasn't like the two were in on it and it was a ruse to get you to meet the others. It was genuinely just an "Oops, did know you were gonna get it." sort of thing.

"Jake? Wasn't expecting a surprise team up with you. Usually boyfriends surprise their girlfriends flowers." you laugh under your breath as you try to not catch any unwanted attention. You didn't need anymore than the " Excuse me?" from Marc to know that it wasn't Jake you've bumped into. "I'll explain once we get this done. Just follow my lead for now." you say as you move on with what you were planning on doing.

"Okay... so..." you roll out trying to think of what to say after having just handled the mission, and now sitting at an empty park bench in your regular clothes, "My name is Y/N. What's yours?" you settle on as you lift your hand for a handshake, trying your best to have a non-nervous smile. "How do you know about Jake?" Marc asked, ignoring your polite gesture of formality.

"Marc. That is so rude. She's trying to be nice." Steven scolded from the puddle at his feet.

"Me and Jake are... together." you mumble out. "How?" Marc demanded. He looked so angry and menacing while he interrogated you. You've seen a lot of mean looking guys but when it's the face of someone you recognize as your boyfriend, you felt a bit trapped by the tense energy. You barely squeak out "I met him a while back.".

"Marc, if you just let me explain without making a scene it'll all make sense." you quickly speak out before he almost interrupts you, "How do you know my name. You were acting like you didn't know it a seco-".

Marc violently twitches before the tense scowl on his face disappears and is replaced with a softer worried expression after a second less violent twitch.

He looks at you, he sees that you looks a bit frightened, and then he speaks, with a British accent "I'm sorry about that... that-that wasn't me. I didn't switch us." he says, "Must have been-" he tries to say before you speak. "Steven, right?" you ask in a soft voice. He's caught a bit off guard that you said his name. He points to himself with a "Me?" and nods "Yeah.".

You stare at each other for a bit before you speak up. "Jake hasn't told you about me, I know. He just barely started being known to you guys and he didn't want to rush anything. I understood that and did my best to stay clear so that I wouldn't shock you two but I knew that there would be a fumble at some point." you explain.

Steven listens intently till you're done. It was either that or listening to Marc and Jake yell at each other in the reflection of the puddles.

"I only know about you guys because he wanted me to be ready when the time came for him to think that it was a good time for us to actually meet. I didn't mean to throw any of you through a loop like that. It's just been a while since I've seen him and I got excited." you apologize as you explain more.

"It's okay , love. It's just that we hardly know anything about Jake and finding out something so personal was a bit jarring." Steven says. You feel a little flutter at being called "love" for a second before Steven speaks again. He subconsciously touched your hand. "And I'm sincerely sorry about Marc's behavior. You were being courteous and he was acting like you were a danger when you were making it clear that your and Jake had some type of acquaintance." he apologized.

"It's okay." you comment. "Jake told me that Marc would be a bit... apprehensive about me. That's just how he is." you add.

"And me?" Steven questions with a bit of curiosity to what Jake might have said about him. "He said that if I meet you then you might be a bit flighty. Said that you were easy to spook." you say in a bit of a laugh.

Steven got to see more of you after that. You would spend some time to get to know each other more, which Jake approved of. He thought it was nice to see the two parts of his life that he kept separate finally meet. It was kind of like having cats meet for the first time where you watch them interact and then get comfortable with each other.

Steven, admittedly, and a bit too obviously, took a huge liking towards you. And you the same. You were fascinated with the other. He liked hearing about what you did as the avatar of Sekhmet and what that entailed for you both in mission and personal life. Along with what you just did in your regular civilian life. As for you, you were amazed to see a person who acted, talked, and even moved so differently than the person you usually associated his face and body with.

Unfortunately, you and Marc weren't taking to each other too nicely. Well, you were still perfectly friendly towards him any time you saw him. It was Marc who wasn't very enchanted by you.

Matter of fact, he and Jake were still at it with each other.

"How long has this been a thing?" Marc asked with the same demanding voice he did to you. "Three years." Jake answered in a nonchalant tone. "Three years?!" Marc repeated, unpleasantly surprised by the answer. Jake scoffed "Didn't she say we've known each other for a while?" Jake mentioned.

"So you've just been seeing this random woman for three years behind our back-? Behind Layla's back?" Marc fumbled out with anger. "You," Jake interrupted, "- Sent divorce papers to Layla. Not me." Jake clarified. "Not to mention. She was your wife. You made it very clear to Steven that she was off limits and I already knew that she was off limits. So sorry I went and found my own woman instead of hitting up yours." Jake quipped.

"Yeah and now it seems like Steven likes yours too." Marc said making his own quip.

"Good!" Jake bursted, "At least he's courteous enough to treat her with some respect and get to know her.". Marc would have spoken again but just beat him to it. "You're acting like I was going to hide you from each other forever. I would have had you two meet at some point once you were used to me. You three just met earlier then I would have liked." Jake explained.

"Did she know about Layla?" Marc asked. "Of course I told her about Layla! I was open and honest about my situation and what that would spell out for our relationship." Jake answered with an emphasis on the words open and honest. "How much did you tell her about us?" Marc demanded again before Jake exploded.

"Everything!" Jake barked. "I told her fucking everything I could! I told her about you. About Steven. Layla. Our condition. Everything about us, she knows. I wanted her to be ready for when you cross paths. I told her how to behave and what to watch out for so that she wouldn't startle either of you. And you know what? She did! She was going to explain everything to you if you would just let her fucking speak instead of grill her like that." Jake lectured.

Listening to the two fight was something that Steven would usually ignore. It seemed like arguing while getting to know each other was a thing in the system. Usually Steven would intervene if it was getting too bad or he was brought into it. But neither of those caught his attention because he was busy paying attention to you. Again.

"You look so different." you say almost out of the blue. "Excuse me." Steven spoke. "You look so different from Jake even though it's the same body." you remark.

"You have such different eyes. Yours are all doe eyed and round. Jake has a resting angry face. It's so weird." you smile. "And you smile different too. Jake only smiles a little and with the corner of his mouth, so it looks like a smirk. You smile with your cheeks." you add.

Steven flustered and felt shy under your gaze. The way you were talking didn't speak ill of neither him or Jake. You were speaking in admiration at what made them so different.

"You also don't have the little paperboy hat or gel." you point out as you look at the curls on his head. "Jake usually wears a little bit of gel to slick back some of his hair. I sometimes forget just how curly it is." you say as you gently reach to play with a few little curls. Steven honestly felt like he should be coughing up wings by now with the amount of butterflies he had going in his stomach and chest as you touched him. Even if it was just to admire him for a moment.

He did feel a bit guilty for enjoying your words and affirmation a little too much. He wasn't entirely sure if Jake would act the same as Marc did when he accidentally made contact with Layla. But then again, he hasn't had Jake barging in and being defensive about you. It felt weird to think about it this way but at least Jake was, seemingly, sharing. That or he's too focused on Marc when he's not the one fronting.

Steven did wish that Marc was nicer to you and more open to meeting you. You were very sweet and treated them nicely.

Maybe Marc would get to see you look at him and complement all the details about him like his eyes and his smile. You could get to know him and what he likes and how that contrasts with you. maybe you two could get used to fighting together in the cases that you bump into each other again.

#moon knight #moonknight #moon knight x reader #moonknight x reader #steven grant #steven grant x reader #marc spector #marc spector x reader #jake lockley #jake lockley x reader

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gremlingottoosilly · 6 months

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"either sex, maybe something that you just know he wanted to try, but are too afraid of breaking you to try" 👀👀👀👀👀 do share with the class please, what things would he want to try??

Hehe! I feel like Konig has a lot of unexplored kinks because he doesn't have a rich sex life and his experiences are mostly vanilla, maybe a quickie with fellow soldier or a very drunk sex after a bar crawl. He doesn't get to indulge in himself often, usually just opting to watch some weird freaking porn and then go to have very sweet and slow sex with you - it's only when you are taking his laptop to see what he was watching, or ask him directly, you'd be able to see what kind of kinks he wants to explore. More under the cut!

Anal sex. Yes, I know, it might sound like a vanilla, but not with someone Konig's size. He knows he is big and your holes aren't trained enough to take him - he wants to try it, still, but even your pussy took a while to take him fully, and he doesn't want to hurt you. This man would occasionally slide his finger in your ass while fucking you in the pussy, fantasizing about somehow filling both of your holes at once - but the best gift you can give him is literally just meet him in the bedroom, big buttplug preparing your ass for him - even half-way, he'd still fold and almost cum too fast just from the understanding that you were willing to go through so much effort to please him. 2. Daddy kink. He doesn't really want kids, at least in my interpretation, but he gets off your age difference - he knows that he is an old dog who is too perverted and dark for someone as innocent as you, but he likes to indulge in this difference anyway. So, meeting him on your knees, not even waiting for him to take off his boots before meowling "Welcome home, daddy" and getting him in your mouth...he'd fold immediately, this man has a few pleasures. He is afraid of voicing this because he feels like it would make you uncomfortable - he doesn't like being reminded of his age, and he doesn't want you to acknowledge how much older he is, and that you can find someone younger and more appropriate. 3. Tactical uniform. He'd love to imagine a roleplay with you as his enemy, a captive soldier that he has to interrogate - he'd tie you down, maybe put you in his tactical vest so you'd look more dangerous, and would spend hours mockingly interrogate and edge you, maybe cutting you a little bit or giving your pussy good spanking until you'd cry. He is able to last a very long time like this, making you cry and cum over and over again, getting off your helpless state and pleading for mercy. This is his favorite fantasy - j you, tied to a chair, and he, doing whatever he wants. Konig has a passion for torturing and a passion for you...which could only mean wild things for a soft ol' thing. He'd love to be able to take your ass during those roleplays, maybe even adding a lesser amount of lube playing the whole torturing and interrogation thing - he would be so, so soft later, but when your pussy is burning from his slaps and you've cum under his mocking third time already, you really don't feel like it's your loving husband anymore...

#cod #konig x reader #yandere konig #konig

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 1 year

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Count Briar | Yandere Yuri Briar

“Hi, there! You must be Yor’s baby brother! She’s told me all about you, come on in!”

Being greeted by an unfamiliar person in the home he both cursed and loved as the house of his sister wasn’t something Yuri Briar was prepared for. He had a clear goal this time around. Tutor Loid’s spawn, bug the rooms, and see if there is any evidence of Loid’s trickery.

“Well don’t just stand there silly! Anya, why don’t you bring your uncle in while I finish this cake!”

“Okay!”

He needed to focus! Analyze this new enemy and try to find flaws! But it was so hard when you so eagerly fed him delicious cake. Not to mention you were smiling so sweetly at him. No he had to make sure you weren’t a spy! Begin the interrogation!

“So what made you worthy enough to be in my sister’s home?”

“Well it's kind of in my title silly! I’m Anya and Bond’s nanny!”

You giggled setting aside a cake for yourself, Anya, and Bond. Yuri kept his eyes on your every move, just waiting for you to slip up. Not because he couldn’t stop looking at you. Nope! Definitely because your smile was too bright and that must have been a devious tactic from an enemy like you.

“(Y/n)-sama! Let us begin our mission!”

“Yes, Anya-sama it is time!”

“W-what?!”

With a flap of the cape she was wearing, Anya was revealed to wear layers of clothes of various unmatching patterns. Bond too was wearing a hat that resembled one of a cowboy and a cape that he was currently trying to eat. He turned to you for some semblance of an understanding only to find that you were in an elaborate costume yourself with something akin to a masquerade mask. On guard, he stood up until you so easily pushed at his chest with gloved hands as you chuckled. It wasn’t because the soft push at his chest rendered him an overheating mess…definitely not.

“I thought Yor would have told you! We’re trying something new to encourage Anya to study. Now you're the count I have to seduce to get codes from!”

“W-what?!”

“Here Unkie takes this, those are the codes they have to get! But you can’t give it right away!”

He stood up again. He was putting his foot down and stopping whatever effect you were having on him.

“No! I’m not doing this! I told Yor I’d–”

He stopped at the unsettling silence in the room. Anya’s face was slowly contorting and you had removed your mask to look worriedly at her before flicking your hypnotizing eyes back at his. It was too much with you looking directly into his eyes with that pouty look on your face felt like a direct attack. Heart pumping as he watched your puffy delectable lips turn into a pout and your eyes droop. This pressure! There was only one way he could evade this and the unshed tears welling in Anya’s eyes spoke of one thing—!

“Fine. But after this we get right to studying.”

Tears gone and your smile returned, everyone continued to prepare for the game that you were all about to play. Sitting back down and wearing the accessory he had been given beforehand. Finishing quickly he watched as you dawned your mask once more retrieving the cut slices as you placed them on the table. Joining him on the couch he watches you clear out your voice before turning and speaking to him in an accent that wasn’t your own.

“Thank you for inviting us Count Briar, me and my associates are so happy we could attend your costume tea-party!”

He stood there holding your gaze before receiving a not-so subtle kick from under the table. Kirking your head in hopes to urge him he realized what exactly you were trying to get from him.

“Uh uh yes I’m so happy you could come uh-”

“The Countess of the Acrobatics.”

“Uh–yeah and you uhm Any–”

“Princess of Peanuts!”

“Yes and Bond-”

“Bodyguard Bond!”

“Right, yes thank you for bringing the cake, then.”

“Of course it's the least we could do. After all you do have those cherry bombs sitting on the Candy Kingdom.”

“Do I–? Augh! Yes! I do!” Receiving another kick, he fixed his response. Realizing how hard this was for him, he tried his hardest. After all, he wouldn't want to let you down. Wait, he meant Yor if she were ever to hear about his lacking acting skills.

He continued to maintain this character, learning through you and Anya’s dialogue that he was a Count looking to force the Candy Kingdom to give all their candy to him with his cherry bombs. Apparently the King you were working for was deathly allergic to cherries and therefore required that you two–their spies get the codes to disarm the bombs.

Even with your previous revelation of your tactic he couldn’t be prepared for your ‘seduction’ in the slightest. Slowly scooting closer to him on the couch was the first step, already bringing a slight blush as he realized what you were doing. It escalated when you let your shoulders touch. You must have been incredibly hot because the moment you touched, he was in desperate need of some cooling off. Unfortunately, he couldn’t leave especially since Bond–er Bodyguard Bond was eyeing his slice. In the next part, you offered to feed him the rest of his slice of cake.

“Say, ‘ahh’!”

“A-ah.”

Letting his mouth close around your fork he tried to look away from your eyes once more. Failing miserabley as he not only could see your face clearly but the oddly revealing bits your costume had.

“I got it, (Y/n) now keep distracting him.”

The not so silent whisper allowed him to break away looking at Anya, easily making away with the paper that was in his pocket.

“Uh oh, it looks like you have some cake on your face, Count Briar! I’ll get it for you.”

Were-were you going to kiss him?! So soon?! He wasn’t prepared for this! The only kiss he’s ever received like this is from Yor! Would this be his first kiss?!

“Ah-W-wait-?!”

“Got it.”

With a swipe of your thumb from the corner of his lips the point of contention was gone. All he could do was overheat in embarrassment excitement as he watched you sit back to happily lick the frosting away before pridefully striking a pose.

“Waku waku Count Briar we’ve stolen your codes and therefore our mission is complete.”

“Yayy we did it! Victory hugs!”

Yuri watched bewildered as you did a dance with her; moving Bond in tandem with your movements. Completely oblivious to the crisis he could only recover from as he huffed to get everyone’s attention.

“A-alright now we study.”

“Awww but (Y/n) didn’t even do the kiss!”

Yuri stopped feeling an immense sense of being cheated that he couldn’t quite place. You shrugged as you began to take off Anya and Bond’s costumes.

“Sorry Anya but it's not cool to take your Unkie’s kisses! Now let’s get ready to study!”

Yuri pushed these thoughts away as he focused on coaching Loid’s near illiterate spawn as you did chores around their home. Every now and then he let himself stare because this would most certaintly not be the first time he’d find you. He’d figure out why you made him feel this way.

Just you wait.

Part 2: ?

#yandere spy x family #Yandere yuri briar #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yanderexrea #lovelyyandereaddictionpoint #yandere #yanderes #spy x family #yuri briar #anya forger #yuri spy x family #spy x family anime #yandere yuri #yandere Yuri Briar #yor briar #loid forger #possible series

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serafilms · 3 months

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song 17! cupid (fifty fifty) + tim drake (spotify wrapped event)

i’m feeling lonely, oh i wish i’d find a lover that could hold me, now i’m crying in my room, so skeptical of love, but still i want it more, more, more

You’ve reached a certain point where you think you’re going to die alone. Call it the overwhelming anxiety, paranoia, being surrounded by happy couples syndrome, or whatever you want, but none of it excuses the fact that in all your years of life, hardly anyone has even glanced your way.

Perhaps you’re just blind to their stares, like how pigeons can only see out the sides of their heads, but never what’s sitting right in front of them.

“Or maybe I’m just a loser,” you mutter under your breath.

You slam your book shut, having spent the last 10 minutes reading and rereading the same line without absorbing it, as your mind was preoccupied with wallowing in your misery.

Distractions are no help. There is quite literally nothing for you to do now except lie down and accept your fate. And maybe get some sleep.

Standing from your desk, you look around and take a moment to open the window.

Cold, fresh air.

Then, you take a step towards your bed and collapse face first into the pillow, letting out an agonising groan that comes out muffled.

“Wow, that doesn’t sound good.”

The first reaction you have upon hearing the voice is to scramble up and promptly fall on the floor. Rubbing your bruised tailbone, you stare incredulously at the open window, where there is a guy dressed up in a weird, red getup with a cape and a mask over his eyes.

“Red Robin?”

He grins at you as he slips through the window and looks around your room, wasting no time in going to your shelf to snoop through your things.

“That’s me," Red Robin replies, tilting his head at a picture frame. You leap out of bed at record speed to snatch it out of his hands.

"Dude, what the fuck?" Clutching it protectively to your chest, you shoot him an incredulous look then glance down at the picture. It's one of you and your friend, Tim, at your high school graduation. You set it down on your bedside table quickly, and cross your arms as you turn to glare at the vigilante in your room.

"What are you doing here?"

He glances away from your shelf for a moment, taking in the way that you've awkwardly shuffled to the edge of your bed away from him, then shrugs. "Just stopping by for a visit."

Brows knitting together, you frown. "Okay, let me rephrase. Why are you in my room?"

Red Robin pauses, his eyes flitting towards the picture frame you've set aside.

It's been silent for a little too long now, so you speak up again. "Like, is this some kind of interrogation? Because I swear, whatever crime you think I'm involved in, I don't know anything about it. Unless it's about my chem prof cooking meth. But even then! All I know is rumours!"

He looks at you, amused, and you feel fear building up in your stomach. Is this some sort of technique? You did see a video about how the best way to get someone to tell you a secret is to stay silent and wait for them to spill. You suppose you've just given him exactly what he wants.

Red Robin takes a step towards you and you stumble back into your bedside table.

"This isn't an interrogation," he chuckles, "I'm just checking in.”

Why would he check in on you, of all the people in Gotham?

You sniff. “I’m perfectly fine.”

You can’t see his eyes or eyebrows under the mask, but you assume they’re raised in skepticism.

“I heard you groaning from outside, you know.”

Dead silence. Your neck heats up.

“Oh, right … that …”

The vigilante says nothing; he just watches as you dart your eyes around the room, looking at anything but him.

You feel the need to say more and fill the silence. “Yeah, uh, I was just … having a moment.” He stares at you. “Loneliness. Relationship troubles.”

Damn it, now he’s using that tactic on you.

Red Robin clears his throat. “Ah, I see.”

Do your eyes deceive you or is he blushing?

“Yeah, that’s a tough one. Um.” He starts to back up a little, eyes flitting between you and the space behind you. “Well, you know, it’ll get better. You’ll find someone. Uh, I should probably get back to patrol.”

The vibe just got really weird, you think.

You watch in confusion as he takes tiny steps backward towards the window. He tosses a red business card towards you that lands somewhere halfway in between. “Well, shoot me a text later and I’ll try and help with that. It’s my duty as a hero, you know, haha.”

You blink. “Okay?”

He’s halfway out the window when he looks back and clears his throat. “Sometimes, the right person might be right under your nose. Or behind you.” He gestures vaguely behind you and makes a quick exit.

You’re not quite able to process what just happened. Behind you? Turning around, your eyes focus on the picture. The one of you and Tim. You frown. The right person. What was he on about?

You place the picture down and snatch up the business card instead. There’s a picture of his symbol in the centre, and a mobile number on the back. Maybe you’d have to text him and ask.

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that-ari-blogger · 4 months

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The Aftermath

The Beacon is a very... disjointed episode. It has the unfortunate placement of between two episodes that are, in my opinion, the two best that the show has to offer, and it doesn't matter how good this episode is, it suffers in the contrast.

The Beacon is trying to set up The Promise and still recovering from No Princess Left Behind, which means that it struggles to tie both together without feeling like a ton of disconnected events.

So, for the sake of analysis, let's look at those events on their own, and see what they do for the story as a whole. Because some of them are really well written.

Let me explain.

SPOILERS AHEAD

Catra's moments in this episode are genuinely some of the best little moments for her in the series. We see her kind nature start to show, ever so slightly. She is not kind, I want to stress this, a few actions do not make a redemption (yet), but we start to plant the seeds of that here.

In Entrapta's interrogation scene, we see Catra being manipulative, that much is obvious. But it's interesting how she does it. Catra doesn't belittle, or lie, or even seem disingenuous with her compliments, she is just aware that compliments lead to allegiances, and she is trying desperately to befriend the single smartest person on Etheria.

"You're not mad? People usually get mad." "Are you kidding?"

There is an empathy here with Catra. I mentioned in the previous post that everyone's greatest strength is their greatest weakness. And the same is true for Catra. She is exceedingly emotionally attuned. She sees herself in Entrapta, as the person left behind. The side effect of this is that she falls on her sword a bit when Adora leaves, but also in a weird, other way.

"Don't worry about that thing with Hordack. I've got plenty of experience getting yelled at... you get used to it."

Catra is talking to Shadow Weaver here, of all people. Why? Because she sees a person feeling low, and offers some condolences. Without concern for who she is, or what she has done. Catra offers a hand of peace. I want to stress that empathy isn't a weakness, that's not how this works, but it makes her easy prey for Shadow Weaver, because Catra is a child, a teenager, who is naive, and Shadow Weaver is evil.

But how does Shadow Weaver return the openness that Catra has displayed?

"I will not get used to mediocrity like you"

She returns kindness with an insult, and through her touch. Shadow Weaver desires power above all else, so when she is at her weakest, she tries to grab it from the one person she thinks she can mentally overpower.

This is why Catra is the way she is, any attempt at kindness is met with animosity for reasons she has no command in. But that little influence of Adora, and now Scorpia and even Entrapta, has kept the instinct alive. The empathy is there, just buried deep under the surface.

"I just wanted to prepare you for the world"

I love that Shadow Weaver has worked out her tactics are failing on Catra, so she tries giving the Adora treatment to her, and even that fails. I think that's rather satisfying. I pity her, but it is definitely gratifying to see her this low.

Shadow Weaver fits the same bill as everyone else in the series (strengths and weaknesses being the same), but she forms a weird parallel with Bow of all people. Shadow Weaver thinks big picture, she is the strategist, and she gets undermined time and again by the tiny things, such as personal determination, and unconditional love. This parallel isn't dwelled upon, but it's a neat thing to point out that Shadow Weaver's opposite isn't Catra or Adora, but Bow.

Speaking of Bow. The man is supportive of everyone, similarly to Sea Hawk. Bow still thinks big picture, but the difference between him and Shadow Weaver is that when Bow meets a wall, instead of thinking of a way to break it down, he finds another route. Bow is a strategist of the heart, making sure everyone is at their best and ready to step in to keep people's moral up, should they need it.

I also really like Glimmer's line:

"Your sorry is wrong and mine is right."

I think this is extremely revelatory about Glimmer, but that won't come up for a while.

Finally, there is Adora.

Under stress, she reverts. This is what Shadow Weaver did to her, she gave her a few set behaviours in response to certain stimuli. Notably, when scared, punch what I tell you. Shadow Weaver isn't here to give a target, so Adora decks the first thing she can get her hands on. Namely, this light.

There are other sections in the episode when she is in the background of other shots. And instead of just standing there, and looking apathetic, she shadow boxes. Adora cannot focus when she's directionless.

So naturally, she jumps at the opportunity to heal Glimmer, including possibly stabbing her, just to feel useful. Again, preprogrammed responses. She needs to feel useful, so she will run towards whomever is offering her that purpose.

"You want me to be weak? Well (Throws Sword), I am"

This leads into the above line. Adora believes she needs to be weak, and the first thing she does to achieve that is return to her original form and throw away her sword. Adora has associated strength with ability to achieve a given task. In this case, heal.

But the fascinating thing is how she goes about the accountability of failing. She has a weird internalisation of good things being She-Ra's fault, and bad things being Adora's fault. It's awful.

I'm going to finish this on a mildly happy note, because Glimmer and Angella have a really sweet interaction in this episode. Its the reassurance that a parent figure can offer. She offers support, and affirmation that this may not have worked, but it wasn't because of Glimmer's ideals, but her methods, which can be worked on.

Compare the following two lines.

"I will not get used to mediocrity like you" "We'll figure it out, together."

I have boldened a few words, because they reveal character quite nicely. One tries to separate the speaker from its subject, complete with an insult and a comparison, the other is supportive and constructive, and strives to make the listener understand this fact. Angella is a great mum.

Final Thoughts

This episode isn't particularly memorable. Which isn't its own fault. It is sandwiched by The Promise and No Princess Left Behind, which both render it rather uninspiring.

But this episode is actually quite decent. Its moments string together cohesively enough, and Marcus Scribner (Bow's Voice Actor) kills every line.

However, that opening sequence steals the show for me, as everyone leaves on their own way. That was why Entrapta's fake out death doesn't feel cheap. It actually hurts these people, and they don't get over it. This is a death that has its cake and eats it too, and that's a difficult thing to pull off. I think the thing that sells it is this is the only scene so far in the show (I think) in which Sea Hawk stays quiet, the events of the previous episode have managed to make the bard stop singing.

Previous - Next

#rants #literary analysis #literature analysis #what's so special about...?#character analysis #she ra and the princesses of power #she ra catra #she ra adora #she ra spop #adora #catra #spop #shadow weaver #she ra #she ra princess of power #she ra bow

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doctorbunny · 10 months

Text

The mission to track down (most of) the locations in Ai Nan Desu Yo!

Firstly, I want to thank @archivalofsins /Gunsli-01, this whole thing started because of us DMing, wondering if we could use the background images in Mahiru's first MV to guess which university she went to, that started this whole adventure. By the end of this saga, the process truly was a collaboration too and i would've given up much sooner (sorry for taking so long to write this up!)

It started here. The caption says Mahiru is sat on the 大学のテラス (University terrace). So we figured this was the best shot to find her uni. Gunsli tried reverse image search but it just kept throwing milgram back at us. So I got an idea:

The magic of photo editing! it worked too and I got this back:

That's right! This isn't a university but a pizza place! Specifically one called 800 ディグリーズナポリタンピッツェリア (800 degrees Neapolitan pizzeria) It is right next to two universities however:

Of these two, I speculate Aoyama Gakuin University is more likely to be Mahiru's as they have a large humanities department and an option to take Chinese language classes (interestingly, it is also a Very Christian university and we know from question 19 of Mahiru's trial 1 interrogation, she believes people go to Heaven when they die. There is also a lot of focus on international students and the campus nearest the pizza resturant has a 'statue of Love' in the Majima Archives building)

Inspired by this fruitful discovery I decided to try my method on other photos:

I jumped all the way over to day 13 because I felt like the sign would aid in my search. Before I bothered with any photo editing I just did some google searches "Tokyo Marun-" I got the autofill result 'Tokyo Marunouchi hotel' after investigating it wasn't the right place but we had a location name "Marunouchi" Trying again I typed "Tokyo Marunouchi Street" Autofill gave me "Marunouchi Street Park": Bingo!

This must be some kind of iconic sign because there were a ton of results for it. The bad news is that the sign was portable and only placed out for special events. So I introduce the next weapon in my arsenal: Google Streetview With a street to work with I walked up and down Morunouchi Naka-doori avenue until I got to a building with similar square pillars to the one behind Mahiru

This place is the MyPlaza, it's got a couple different shops, but importantly there is a function room you can rent out for events just like the wedding reception Mahiru attended here. This one turns out to be further away than some of the other discoveries but it makes sense because Mahiru is travelling to an event, not on a date.

Back to photo editing! This is one of two shrines I'll identify, they become important as they get special icons on google maps, becoming landmarks to search around later.

This is the Meiji Jingu Shrine

I was on a roll so quickly moved to day 14, however, my editing trick wouldn't work here so it would only be later that I uncovered the location of the park

Searching for day 11 was much more fruitful

I was really excited to track this one as Mahiru mentions it being the filming location for her favourite movie. So I thought if we could discover that, then we may unlock more clues about her as a person

I got about this far before realising I could try a different tactic. If this was a well known spot, surely in my broken Japanese I could google it right? So with a little help of my dictionary I spat out "Tokyo red hand railing movie". Somehow this barely worked

The movie? Your Name

At this point I was rolling on the floor laughing because I had been expecting some Japanese cult classic romance movie or a domestically popular but internationally obscure rom com meanwhile Your Name was a massive box office smash hit in many places. One of the few anime movies that even non-anime fans will be aware of.

Despite this, I hadn't actually seen it myself and wasn't really in the mood to watch it (I had more locations to track down, dammit) but fortunately Gunsli came in clutch, having previously seen the movie and also in the mood to rewatch it for clues about Mahiru.

These stairs are actually at a place called Suga Shrine, making this our second landmark. (Fun fact: if you look it up you'll find pictures of movie fans recreating photos of the place)

We were starting to build up an idea of Where Mahiru's world was, the border between Shibuya and Shinjuku ward. There were several parks in the area, so I figured I'd set out to find the day 14 park location by searching through each one. I was worried this would take a while but when I started with the biggest park, Yoyogi, I basically hit jackpot right away. Immediately upon seaching it, google recommended me results for images of the park at night. It turns out that Yoyogi had a large area used for concerts (that also may have been used for movie nights). By chance, I found this image from the park at night

which looks awfully similar to the lamp/benches seen in the background of day 14... According to Gunsli, the nearby yoyogi station is featured in an important scene in Your Name, so that's another thing pointing towards them being in this park. It's not solid evidence but we'll come back to this later.

At this point I'm both hyped up and bored, so to amuse myself and just to see if I can, I decide to search for the place Mahiru's boyfriend is working at in day 8

At first I had written it off as pointless to even try searching, but Gunsli noticed that in the top left corner you can see a hint of the store's sign. It is the same colours as a Seven Eleven (a chain that exists both in the US and Japan) This greatly narrowed down my search, as it ruled out the many Family Marts and Lawsons in the area (I cannot stress how many convenience stores there are in Tokyo) Unfortunately, there were still many 7/11s to search through and thus leads to the several hours I spent on google maps, individually going to each 7/11 in Shibuya and trying to look for those bike racks, floor tiles and old security camera. It was demoralising. But when hope was nearly lost and I almost gave up (there was a heat wave outside so my brain was melting during this). Gunsli reminded me of something very important. On day 8 we get two images, the above of Mahiru waiting outside the 7/11, and one of her sat on a park bench. If we were right about the day 14 park being Yoyogi, then surely our 7/11 would be in walking distance? The search began again. The third 7/11 I found near the park was it.

In one fell swoop I had confirmed both day 8 and 14. In celebration I made a tumblr post

Now, at this point I'm running out of images to search for because a lot of the locations in Ainan are indoors, meaning they could be taken from a studio or even one of the milgram crew's homes (which isn't actually uncommon) and thus, not a relavent location. I did half heartedly attempt to look for the day 9 bar, but as you can imagine, without any external landmarks it was even more of a goose chase than the 7/11...

The last location I decided to look for was all the way back in day 5

This edit was pretty tough to make so i was very annoyed when it didn't work. By this time it was late at night, but Gunsli had a hunch that this would be a well known running route, so started looking for those. By the time I'd woken up, she got it down to a route called the Imperial Palace Running Route, which is very popular (especially with tourists, it is recommended to give it a go if you're in the area)

I found it on streetview by following road signs seen in a video of someone running the route Gunsli found (the part in Mahiru's video appears at about 1:35)

youtube

It's an area called Takebashi and here is a screenshot both of what we saw in ainan, as well as what Mahiru would've seen in the direction she ran (the route loops back on itself)

Ok I'm tired it's 1 am, finally here's a really rough map of everywhere in relation to each other

An interesting thread throughout is that many of these places are sort of tourist-y, suggesting Mahiru's boyfriend may not be from Tokyo either. The university (assuming I'm guessing the right place) taking in lots of international students and Mahiru's boyfriend working at a 7/11 (which Japanese people can do but is also Stereotypically the part time job of choice for people from outside Japan while studying) could perhaps even hint to him not being Japanese, but it's all speculation right now

I hope you enjoyed this long rambly mess, I'm so sorry it took me so long to write it all up....

#mahiru shiina #milgram #ミルグラム #milgram theory #long post

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felassan · 1 year

Text

Some snippets of interest and insight from Mark Darrah, from a Mark Darrah on Games YouTube video where he is livestreaming playing Dragon Age II -

On Dragon Age: Dreadwolf and sort've like, the franchise in general:

A comment in chat asked "What do you think about the recent DA:D leaks?" Mark replied that he doesn't really think that there is much in those leaks.

A comment in chat mentioned the possible 2 companions setup from the leaks. Mark said "honestly, I think the 2 companions is probably better for storytelling than 3, because you're able to have a more consistent banter setup, as opposed to having someone [else] there just hanging on".

Chat asked if he was worried about the quality of writing in DA:D. He replied "I'm not worried about the quality of writing in Dreadwolf at all, no".

Chat asked "What are your thoughts on the Dreadwolf leaks as far as the Dragon Age gameplay moving towards hack'n'slack vs cRPG?" He said that DAII and DA:I are both action RPGs, it's just that what action RPGs are has changed over the last while. He said he thinks DA:D is continuing to try to be an action RPG, and that "I don't think they're trying to be God of War, in spite of what the rumors say. Though if you're making an action RPG these days you have to at least be influenced by God of War. Dragon Age has always had to be, it's always been in this problem of not being able to be itself within EA, so it's always having to change."

Chat asked "Why God of War, and not, say, Dragon's Dogma?" Mark explained that when looking for previous other games as comparison points/inspiration points etc, devs have to be careful not to go too far back into the past (& that Dragon's Dogma is a great game, but from quite a while ago now).

When talking about primer and detonator tactics like grease and fireball, he observed that the series generally has been moving away from this type of tactics. Grease/fireball for instance requires a certain degree of targeting that he thinks is a bit impractical, but things like mana clash are things which could continue to exist.

Red Hawke-style options in terms of metrics are the least picked by players, same as Renegade options in Mass Effect. (while Blue Hawke is likely the most chosen) They're there to simply be there more than they are to be the most-picked choice. There could be an opportunity here for devs to spend less resources in development on evil or mean choices in future, but they still need to be there.

Varric is pretty much the only true non-quantum companion from DA:I. Mark noted that if a character's quantum state isn't dead/not dead but is rather recruited/not recruited, they can always write it such that the character survived. (He also mentioned as an example that Isabela's quantum "collapsed" and was "undone" in DA:I).

He also mentioned that he will probably do livestreams playing DA:D as he has done with DA:O and is doing with DAII, but thinks it's unlikely that he will be done with streaming DA:I by then, so at that point he'll likely set DA:I aside, do DA:D and then come back to DA:I.

On Dragon Age: Absolution:

Chat asked what he thought about Meredith coming back in the show. "I don't have a problem with Meredith coming back because as revealed, it looks like she's basically almost entirely embedded in red lyrium or maybe is some kind of lyrium ghost, so I think it's certainly beyond plausible."

[source]

He also talked more generally about DAII and the previous games in general. These bits are collected under a cut due to length:

Regarding DAII's overkill, he said that the goal of DAII is to make the game "look like something", as DA:O doesn't really "look like something". The overpowered, Varric-embellished introduction to the game anchors this

Cassandra's hair isn't supposed to seem light-colored during the Varric interrogation sequence, this was probably a lighting issue

He commented that he feels Varric's voice has changed quite a bit from DAII to DA:I

Mages are super overpowered in DA:O in a very D&D way

DA:O is more difficult on PC than on consoles. He doesn't think this is the case for DAII and DA:I though

DA:O was trying to be a spiritual successor to Baldur's Gate (at least, that's what was said out loud). But Neverwinter Nights snuck in there a few times as DA:O bounced in and out of Multiplayer. So DA:O has some fingerprints on it which look like NWN. Also, it was originally built using some of its code, which ended up in the engine, Aurora

In the MET, because it's a trilogy and Shepard is the PC in each game, every single choice you made still mattered going forwards, whereas with DA, a lot of the more personal choices can be washed away game to game. That's an advantage in terms of responding to choices (as devs can set aside what they want to set aside, whereas ME3 was really bogged down by the weight of 2 games of previous choices)

On Flemeth's appearance in DAII, as a voice actor Kate was really "chewing the scenery" there and allowed to do so (to chew the scenery means to play a role in a very energetic, emotional or dramatic way); it got too expensive with Orange is the New Black to keep Kate in a big role going fowards

The slave statues at the entrance to Kirkwall are huge and probably magic

He mentioned that he thought Freddie Prinze Jr. was awesome as he was one of the most active voice actors that they had in terms of talking about his experience and how much he loved it

A comment in chat said "I just wish we had black stones in Kirkwall. any reason they made the stone white in this media only? books, animation, and codex say it's a pitch black stone city" and he explained that this is because black is almost incredibly hard to do in this engine, and that pitch black is not a good choice for level art in a video game

Chat asked "Do you feel DAII was too narratively ambitious at the start?" and Mark replied "Yeah probably, the writers have always had some difficulty keeping their ambitions in check"

Chat asked "Was it known since DA:O what Flemeth's story was?" and he replied that he thinks they always knew Flemeth was Mythal, but can't remember for sure

DAII is the most character-focused game, partially because during its development everything else had to get stripped away, but also because it laid the seeds of the devs finally admitting what BioWare are about

Chat asked "Was it ever discussed, bringing a Warden Hawke sibling to Nightmare in DA:I?" He said that he thinks it was discussed but the problem of bringing in the Warden sibling is that only one of them is alive, so they would have been dealing with quantum. They already were dealing with quantum, so they could have brought them, but only a small group of people would have the attachment to each character, because half of people would care about one and half about the other

Chat asked "Was DA:O or DA:I considered more of a success by BioWare?" DA:I sold better and has more awards, but it's hard to be down on DA:O as it was the first game and set up the IP

He feels that in a weird way, DA kind of ends up being in a similar weird place as Star Wars, in that the trilogy a fan likes best is often the one they saw when they were a child. There are people for whom Clone Wars is the pinnacle of SW, and people for whom the prequels are. Similarly, with DA, the one a player got introduced to first is often their favorite one

Mark mentioned that they probably switched to Welsh accents for Dalish elves in DAII because they liked how the accent sounded. The dwarves were always intended to sound American

Were he to remaster DA:I he'd like to push the Power requirements down a bit, so that players can go through the gates to the main storyline pieces quicker

He discussed a bit around remakes vs remasters in the context of things that have aged badly (in terms of what's politically/socially acceptable now and what isn't, compared to back then) and said that if you remake a game, you have to re-address those issue, whereas with a remaster you get away with not doing so

If they were to remake/remaster DAII they would probably only do it because they were remaking/remastering DA:O

A comment in chat said "hear me out, a VR remake of DA:O" and he replied that VR still remains pretty niche, and that making VR work well requires a certain smoothness that is missing from DA:O

(pls note that in places there is a bit of paraphrasing of the info, the best source is always the primary source with full quotes in their original context)

[source]

#dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age: dreadwolf spoilers #dragon age: absolution #dragon age #dragon age: absolution spoilers #bioware #mass effect #video games #long post #longpost #cassandra pentaghast #my lady paladin

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maxicaiman · 18 days

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Im gonna be a brave little goblin and ask about Zeta Draven cut that design is really neat and I like hearing people info dump.

TEEHEE GRINS AT YOU MISCHEVIOUSLY

Firstly his full ref sheet- (yes he's based off Baron Draxum LMFAO)

He's a TFA OC designed for my story with my brother Donnie! Humvee, Noxious, Maximus Prime and Draven are all involved in some way with his OC Tactic, and Draven's role is... interesting

He's a Decepitcon scientist, very similar to Shockwave in some ways, especially with his loyalty to Megatron. He treats Megs like a god of sorts, kind of like Lugnut, but he's not a mindless follower. He doesn't wait to be told what to do. He knows what Megatron would want and is capable of carrying out these decisions on his own

He is my OC Khaos's mentor, and the largest reason the mech is such a sadistic fuck. Draven is the same way himself. Much like Khaos, he doubles as an interrogator for more extreme cases, using his scientific knowledge to effectively torture information out of bots. He's unique in the way that hes very sympathetic to the pain of these bots and soothes them even as he's hurting them

He's driven by the promise of a wonderful life when he joins the Well of Allsparks, believing that if he follows Megatron's instruction that he will bring himself and others to a beautiful afterlife. He believes everything he does is for the Decepticon cause, and holds himself to a high standard because of it

#maxicaiman #max answers #maxicaiman rambles #transformers #transformers animated #tfa #transformers oc #zeta draven transformers

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bestworstcase · 4 days

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I am vexed bestworstcase, vexed! I am trying to write dialogue/interactions between Salem and Oscar and struggling with their characterizations. I keep turning the interrogation/false-start reunion scene in the whale over and over again in my mind. What would it look like for Oscar and Salem to be forced to talk to and interact with each other on more even ground or working towards a truce? (With a big ol Oz shaped elephant in the room.) I want to get across Oscar as an active participant with autonomy and not flatten him, while also reckoning with Salem’s complex headspace around this whole shitshow. Do you have an idea of how you’d approach writing that dynamic? Any advice on how to make such a dynamic hold true to their characters while being an interesting exploration of their relationship? [What fucking happens if they’re kind to each other when they’re both expecting cruelty???] Genuinely interested in your thoughts on this considering the show itself will inevitable have to revisit this dynamic at its climax and conclusion

basics first. my general read on salem is that she has a solid grasp of what makes people tick but struggles to articulate her thoughts clearly, and this has cascading impacts on her speech: if she isn’t delivering planned and rehearsed remarks, she seems to either circumlocute (in ways that are, textually, confusing: “what are you saying” + her inner circle’s wildly different interpretations of what she means) or just say nothing at all.

i think this reading explains salem’s manner of speech far better than the pure ‘manipulative, lying puppetmaster’ angle a lot of the fandom ascribes to her, because there are these incidents—like the interrogation scene—where salem is being manipulative and her tactics are very cunning but undermined by her erratic or flat affect and unclear speech; if she were a masterful manipulator being cryptic on purpose for the sake of deception, she would be able to turn that off and speak plainly in situations where being cryptic is counterproductive to her purpose. but it really doesn’t seem like she can do that.

complicating all this is that 1. i think salem is aware that she’s Not Good at conversation, and 2. she wants to be understood. her constant seething about ozma’s lies is partly from the traumatic betrayal of her trust and also partly because he’s spent the intervening centuries poisoning the well against her to ensure that anyone who meets her will have the preconceived notion that she’s an unfeeling, unreasonable, inhuman monster. so there’s a degree of self-protection in her silence and her aversion to talking about herself, i think—if ozma couldn’t give her the benefit of the doubt, why would she expect better from anyone else?

with oscar specifically—i’m assuming a post-v8/9 context—there’s also the complication of salem having. tortured him. the last time they spoke which i feel is almost a bigger goliath in the room than oz is, because salem is actually pretty on the ball with separating oscar from her feelings about ozma. but the torture is very personal and very fraught for both of them; do you acknowledge it? apologize? ask for an apology? if oscar doesn’t bring it up, should she? is salem doesn’t acknowledge what she did, how does oscar navigate whatever feelings he might have about that or assumptions he might make as to why (is she pretending it never happened? does she think it doesn’t matter? will she get angry if he brings it up? the last time he tried to reason with someone ironwood shot him off a ledge)? it’s delicate.

some uh, general things that i try to hold in mind when i write dialogue for salem:

what is she thinking and not saying?

why isn’t she saying it? is she afraid of not being understood or is she not able to see the gaps or is she not sure how to put it into words?

what does she mean?

is this something she planned out in advance (or something she talks about often enough to have a sort of script in her mind), or is she speaking off the cuff?

when in doubt, she should probably say less

remember that her affect gets erratic and weird when she’s really uncertain

does she have people on her side whom she can kind of rely on to fill in the gaps (eg, summer) or is she on her own?

her soliloquies are eloquent, even poetic; her speech tends to be simpler. she rarely uses metaphors in conversation.

she tends to answer questions by giving examples that imply her intended meaning, and i am… not sure she realizes that she’s doing it. (cinder in v5 is a good example: salem says “never underestimate the usefulness of others; take leonardo, he was one of ozpin’s most trusted, and now…” when what she means is she’s hoping she can turn ruby against oz later)

when she isn’t sure how to respond she sort of stares blankly into the middle distance for a second or two. (she does it with cinder in v5 and oscar in v8)

oscar is similar in a way because i think he spends a lot of time in his head and it’s rare for him to get to a point of emotional enough to let out… any of the deep existential fear he’s living in, and i get the sense that he’s very conscious of what he says—which can come out in awkward stammering but also in a very deliberate cadence when he’s feeling more confident or determined or too focused on what he’s trying to express to feel self-conscious about it. but at the same time he’s easier because he doesn’t have, gestures at salem and her labyrinth of emotional armor, all of that. and wasn’t alone for millions of years.

with the specific context of olive branches and peace talks i think—esp at first—salem’s liable to be pretty tangibly awkward? because being asked questions and engaged with like a Person instead of a Fairytale Witch runs so counter to her expectations for how people will treat her. kind of a rattling experience, and nerve-wracking.

rewatching scenes is always useful. i try to take note of like body language and cadence ’cause achieving dialogue that feels in character is as much about how the character talks as what sort of things they say. and also thinking about character goals and emotionality—what are they trying to get from this interaction, how do their feelings influence their speech, do they succeed or fail and why?—is helpful too. what motivates the words they say? what motivates the thoughts they keep to themselves?

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vivelarevolution13 · 22 days

Text

moving like a river of trouble crossing

Rating: M | Word count: 10,260 | Tags: Set in the lead up to and right at the end of CATWS, Character Study, PTSD, Grief/Mourning, Dissociation, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug (And A Friend), Wait No Not That One, Going Down Memory Lane, SHIELD Has Shitty Therapists, Horrible People Still Acting Like People, Captain America Politics, Natasha's Love Language Is Surveillance, Folks Trained For Violence Engaging In You Guessed It: Violence | Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanoff, implied Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Brock Rumlow (non-explicit, but still reasonably fucked up by virtue of Rumlow being Rumlow)

(belated) fic for @catws-anniversary, day 2. Thank you so much for putting it together, guys! | march 27th theme: steve rogers | prompts: guilt, "it kind of feels personal" | part of a WIP to be published on AO3

and because I apparently can't help myself with the music-fic thing, playlist for this here

Good morning Captain Rogers. It is 05:15 AM, EST. Up 'n' at 'em. Good morning, Captain Rogers. It is 04:41 AM, EST. Would you like me to set the blinds to a lower density? Don't you nuh-uh at me, sunshine - get your lazy ass out of bed. You're gonna be late. Good morning, Captain Rogers. I understand you are under some duress right now, but please do not be alarmed. It is 2:32 am, EST. The year is 2012. You are in New York City. You are safe. Please try to take a breath. Would you like me to call anyone?

Good morning, Steve. Good morning. You're gonna be late. You awake? You awake yet?

Sure. Sure, he's awake.

That afternoon he packs his bag, the single duffle that fits all of his earthly possessions. He tries to ignore the vaguely smug tone of Fury's voice when he tells him they already have an apartment set up for him in DC: ten minutes from HQ, real convenient, and has he ever been to see Lincoln Memorial? He'll love it, it's a nice spot for a walk, especially in the summers, or so Fury's been told.

Steve's been to DC, but he's never beeen to the memorial, never seen much of the city outside the confines of the hotel the USO booked for them. He thinks he can count the grand total of places he's gotten to see up close on his right hand, and half of them were in the European Theatre. The other half he's running from now.

He's sure it'll be grand, he tells Fury. Beats the smell of moldy brick in the heat and a patchwork city manifesting ghosts out the corner of his eye, he doesn't say. ii.

They get him a therapist as a part of his onboarding at SHIELD. It’s due diligence, they say, in the aftermath of New York – someone to help him transition into his new role. But it’s been almost nine months now, and Steve’s learning their language, the words that get caught up in between all the red tape: saying assistance when they mean overwatch.

“This is supposed to be a safe space, not an interrogation,” the woman says at the start of her first evaluation, meeting all of his unease with a reassuring smile, and something about the misplaced quality of it puts him on a knife’s edge.

He only pieces it together the second time he’s called in to meet with her, when he's a bit more clear-headed and a whole lot more impatient than during their initial encounter. It only takes a few perfunctory exchanges before he starts registering the image as a whole: the painstakingly nonthreatening, gentle demeanor, the conservative clothes she’s wearing; the pale complexion and the sharp features and the unmistakable lilt to her voice, soft and rolling and decidedly more old country than east coast.

It would feel almost perverse, he thinks from a distance, if it wasn’t already painfully transparent and tactically inept to boot: this attempt at the same trick that didn’t work in their favor the first time around. He supposes he can’t blame them for trying to fill in the gaps between what they could scrounge up from paper and old photographs with something predictable and comforting, something expected of his background and what is now probably regarded as an antiquated time period.

He also knows that going off of little information when dealing with a potential threat is dangerous. What’s even more so, he thinks as he nods politely along to the lady's explanation of their work together, is believing you know more than you do, and that’s the easiest mistake to exploit.

Here's a fact probably still recorded somewhere on a faded death certificate: Sarah Rogers never lived long enough to get gray in her hair like that.

Here’s another, probably only still recorded in his memory and nowhere else: his mother had been fiercely caring, yes, and compassionate to a fault, but her kindness had never translated to docility, and it sure as hell had never translated to softspoken dishonesty.

So when the shrink bearing a near-painful resemblance to her starts asking incisive questions enshrouded in unoffensive words and indulgent tones, Steve packs his entire reality into a series of half-truths without batting an eye and doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt.

Yes, he’s eating. Yes, he’s sleeping well. No, he’s not on edge – sure, it gets hard, sometimes, but exercise helps, meditation, music. Going out into the world, meeting new people. Trying new things. Yes, he’s ready to be back in the field. No, not so much so that he’s itching for it. Yes ma’am, he’s doing fine, just fine, thank you for asking. iii.

“I heard Hannah’s single,” Romanoff's saying, and it’s not the first time his brain is latching onto the fact that she’s keeping pace with him without losing too much breath, without any discomfort in the cool air that's just starting to roll in as fall bleeds into the city, painting it in darkening evenings and dimming colors. “You know, from forensics? Glasses, leggy, science-y type. Blonde – you like blondes, right?”

“I’m starting to think you only have one thing on your mind,” Steve pants, pushes harder ahead until his calves start burning, just to see if she'll allow herself to follow. Keep moving, keep moving. You awake yet? “Gotta admit, it’s making it kinda hard to enjoy all this quality time we spend together.”

“What, you’re going to stop inviting me on runs? Aw, Rogers. Break a girl’s heart, why don’t you.”

“It’s not really an invitation if you just show up without me letting you know where I’m going, you know.”

She shrugs. “I needed to burn some energy, and you’re not exactly the most unpredictable person in this city.” Her ponytail whips over his shoulder as she follows his sharp right turn around the War Memorial and passes him towards Constitution Gardens, too close and competitive. “Brunette, then? There’s a girl in operations, real tough, good with a gun – at least your propensity for that type has been well documented, but I guess you didn't really have enough time to enjoy it, y'know, all the way –”

Steve knows she’s talking about Peggy, he does. It doesn’t help the hard-wired alarm bells going off in the back of his head any. He digs his heels in, skids to a stuttering halt over the wet pavement, and somewhere in the back of his consciousness he’s quietly pleased that it catches Romanoff off guard a little.

“What, too far?” she jokes, but her eyes are quick over his face; cataloguing the boundaries, the places she can still push.

He's sure it's well-meaning, as much as a blatant handler can get. But some habits are just harder to shake than others. That, he's intimately familiar with.

“If I say yes, will you stop? Or at least stop tailing me?”

“I don’t tail you. That’s below my paygrade,” she says, mouth quirking up at the corner like that’s all the punchline she needs as she types something into her smartphone. “I’ll text you her number. She likes spicy food and old movies.”

“Sure, fine. Great.”

“It is. You'll see.” The phone disappears back into one of the many hidden pockets of her skin-tight leggings. The marvels of modern technology, Steve thinks. Natasha quirks a challenging brow. “Now can we start the actual run finally or have you reached your limit, grandpa?”

He's all but ready to chicken out of the date all week, fighting the urge to cancel at the last minute, but he figures the girl doesn't deserve his bad manners just because he feels like spiting Romanoff when she tries to play his puppetmaster.

In the end it goes...surprisingly well. As Romanoff described, Lina’s beautiful and sharp and a little closed off, tough as nails and maybe even more rigid in her approach than him, but once they get over the initial hurdle of awkwardness and expectations the conversation flows with relative ease. They swap the basics, they talk interests and habits and what moving to DC's like, fun little stories from growing up; he tells her about the butcher on his block when he was a kid that kept a rooster in the backyard, and she tells him about the kid on her floor at community college that set the dorm on fire trying to boil an egg. They talk SHIELD and her work training the new recruits and there’s a spark in her eye as she dives into giving him a breakdown of what he should look into, BJJ and MMA and gyms around town that would be discreet enough to take him in.

“SHIELD’s got plenty of hand-to-hand experts,” she says in a pensive tone over the dessert, “but it can get a little…”

Steve chuckles around his spoonful of the sticky rice, the sweetness of the mango across the back of his palate soothing the previous burn of the spice. Turns out he likes Thai food, too. Who would’ve thought. “Intense?”

“Testosterone-riddled, I was gonna say,” Lina grins, conspiratory. “And paranoid. Not the best scene if you just want to learn,” and he nods along because it’s true, and because it’s a relief to have someone else say it for him.

So it’s nice, and sweet, and ultimately entirely impersonal. He walks her to her door and she gives him a kiss on the cheek, and when she explains how she’s not really looking for anything right now her dark eyes are warm and honest but not overly apologetic. It’s a gesture he’s grateful for.

“Besides, not to be blunt, but you don’t seem all that…” She trails off, waving her hand.

He winces. “Interested? I am, really, but...” And that’s just it, isn’t it. He’s interested; she’s wonderful, just his type, seems to like him well enough. But.

“Look, I get it. We’ve all been there. Can’t really avoid it in this business.” She shrugs as if to say what can you do, smiles up at him knowingly. “Wrong place, wrong time, right?”

And Steve thinks, yeah. Yeah, something like that. iv.

“–piece of shit, every time, wet sand all up in the fuckin’ thing. Goddamn Kandahar all over again,” Rumlow’s muttering, agitated and half to himself, and Steve doesn’t ask about the last part, just dumps his own gear on the rack and drops down onto the bench. They might be friendly, but they’re not friends – Rumlow doesn’t owe him his history. “I get sent to the fuckin’ desert in this weather one more time, I’m gonna start missing New York winters.”

The jet’s engines hum at his back, adrenaline leaving his body in slow pulls as he watches Rumlow work, notes the intermittent scarring over his hands as they strip the jammed gun down like it’s muscle memory, quick and capable. There's not a spot on him that seems unmarred, really - the scars are a continous, scattered motif up to his face, moving faint in the dim light of the jet.

Loved being in the ring, he'd said once with a wry grin, as far back as I can remember. Might've gotten the shit kicked out of me more than was strictly necessary, though. Accounts for me ending up here, in any case.

He’s drawn this exact scene, it occurs to Steve before he can push it away; down to the boxer's shoulders, down to the complaining, and more than once.

“You from the city?” he offers, an easy distraction that Rumlow seems grateful for.

“Yeah. Yeah, born and raised right off of Arthur Ave.”

“No shit?”

“Yep. Good old Belmont.” He looks up, gaze turning sharp at whatever he catches on Steve’s face before he can look away. “Wouldn’t think you’d know where that is. You ever even been past Central Park?”

Steve gets a flash of washed-out color and brilliant light, of Art and Charlie and the rest of them from the Y dragging him up to Harlem; thinks of the queens with their elaborate glamour and loud, unapologetic laughter and that last wet spring before the cops started shutting everything down, of stumbling tipsy towards the A down 155th Street with empty pockets and Jeanie giggling into his shoulder about some honey-eyed daddy that gave her a sweet kiss goodnight. A well-insulated secret, a fleeting memory of feeling like he could swallow the world whole.

It’s not what Rumlow’s talking about, he knows. He nods anyway.

“Loved that neighborhood. My folks moved us out to Staten when I was in high school, though,” and Steve must make an involuntary face at that because Rumlow chuckles and says, “Alright, tough guy. Not all of us had the privilege of living within two blocks of Prospect Park.”

“Neither did I, but it sure beat Staten," Steve snorts. "And it wasn’t even as much of a privilege, back then.”

“Yeah, I think you’ll notice a lot of things’ve changed.” He tilts his head, scratches contemplative at his stubbled chin. Steve wonders if he’s projecting the bitterness in Rumlow’s voice. “A lotta things’ve gone to shit in that place. Food’s still way better than fuckin’ DC, though. Not nearly enough Italians over here.”

“Yeah. All that white marble and not a single decent, roach-infested deli. Real shithole. Should put that on the tourist brochures,” Steve says after a moment, testing the waters. It gets another laugh out of Rumlow, low and maybe a little surprised, and the sound settles like molten lead in Steve’s stomach, grounding. v.

One morning in November he gets a phone call from a Washington Post journalist asking for his statement on the newly planned Captain America exhibit, and then in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it feat of persuasion it’s three days later and he’s somehow been roped into a grand opening ceremony, a speech and a press conference at the Smithsonian.

It lasts for-fucking-ever.

By the time he's back in his neighborhood his ears are ringing with leftover noise and applause, his cheeks sore from a constant smile that'd felt more like a slashed tire than a friendly gesture even as he was forcing it. He'd reverted back to the Best Foot Forward, Always mentality of the bonds circuit quick enough - but at least back then it felt like it had a marginal purpose, no matter how flimsy or false. Back then it didn't drain him this much, he doesn't think, no matter how frustrating. Best Foot Forward these days feels more like sleepwalking his way off a cliff than anything else.

The second he's through the door he shrugs out of the tie and starched shirt chafing at his neck, tries not to think about how he still would've preferred all the commotion and the pretense to the unfamiliar silence of the otherwise big apartment building. Tries to give the feeling resurfacing in him now that he's got attention enough for it a name other than unbearable.

Here's the thing: pain, Steve knows on an intimate level, is something you get used to. It's not to say you forget it exists completely: you just subsume it, you learn to expect it. It’s less about it becoming a habit and more that it becomes a part of you when you’re not looking: fills up all the empty crevices it can find and creates a mold, and that’s the shape you start to take if you live with it long enough. The problem with that is that the longer it goes on, the less space in you there is for other things.

He was five the first time he got really sick. It'd started simple enough – the winter of ’23 came early and sudden, and New Year’s Eve found him in bed with a fever that earned the dreaded prefix scarlet soon enough when the spread of dotted red started taking up more and more space on his body. He'd spent two weeks feeling like someone's dangling him off the edge of the unknown, and much longer than that after with his mother's watchful eyes following him from the window whenever he left the house, like she couldn't force herself to look away.

But he made it. Despite all indications, little Stevie Rogers didn't die, and it was a miracle with a capital M. All he had to do is make peace with having a somewhat faulty heart as a keepsake of his survival and maybe never playing for the Dodgers, which is not to say it stopped him from trying.

But then next year it was the whooping cough so bad it cracked a rib, then his left ear giving out on him after a prolonged sinus infection, then the asthma he barely even noticed amidst everything else until it layed him out flat midway through a game of stickball bad enough it landed him in the hospital. The minor league dreams dissolved fairly quickly after that.

In ’25 he missed more school than he attended. The kids from down the block came round to call on him less and less, and it wasn't too long before they forgot completely and it was just him and a handful of toy soldiers left, with names like Joe and Jack and occasionally if he allowed himself, Steve. Their neighbors started smiling at him more. The grocer started handing him a fistful of candy under the counter every time they came in, looking at his mother in a way that said sorry for your loss and that Steve hated with a passion, least of all because he couldn't even enjoy the pity because hello, here comes diabetes. Then it was the pernicious goddamn anemia and months and months of the liver-fucking-everything diet followed closely by its sworn enemy the ulcers, and then the growing pains, and then the bad back, and then the bum joints –

Here’s the thing about pain: the longer you carry it, the more you forget you’re doing it in the first place. You ignore it because it’s the only way to survive it, because what the hell else are you supposed to do? And that’s when you start thinking you have it under control. You start to think you’ll be ready when it comes for you again.

Here’s the other thing about pain: you’re never ready. It comes as a surprise each time. He wasn’t ready in ‘30 when the neighborhood suddenly started reeking of despair and death and he wasn’t ready in ’36 when his ma went and he wasn’t ready in ’44 when he got shot in the neck and thought oh, so it can still hurt like this. I can still bleed.

Then '45 rolled around and a new thought followed, a miserable dot at the end of a sentence: maybe bleeding out would've hurt less. At least it would've made us even.

None of that experience and understanding stops him feeling it now, again, still, like an interrupted line from that first fever chill to here, standing in the middle of his living room with a glossy brochure full of dead faces in his hand and an exhaustion so deep it roots him to the spot.

And then there’s the anger, of course: equally familiar but much more muted, less expressive than it used to be, dancing around the edges of everything else. He looks back down at the crumpled pamphlet, to where the folded-unfolded-refolded creases cut through the title:

Captain America’s team: the top tier of the World War II effort and a leading example of integration!

As if they were somehow Captain America's or even the US army’s to begin with; as if it was encouraged and Steve didn’t have to stand around in moldy tents arguing his brand-new, star-spangled ass off with Major Whatshisname and Colonel Whoever-the-fuck for days on end just to keep them eating in the same mess hall and sleeping in the same barracks. Nothing about any of the ugly parts, about the blood and the bureaucracy and the bullshit. Nothing about any of them, either - no mention of Dernier's politics or Gabe's professorship or Morita's writing. Not a single inch of space left for their families or their own stories except as a footnote in Steve's own, a way to make it picture perfect.

Nothing about Bucky other than the barebone facts: he was Steve's friend, he was a good soldier, he died. The meat and blood and soul of the person, left out; the fact of whose fault it ultimately was, conveniently gone.

And that name – the Howling fucking Commandos. The bunch of them would’ve busted a rib laughing at it, laid out all grandiose like that. For one, it’s still as ridiculous as it was back then – sounds more action novel than historical account and distinctly less bureaucratic and arbitrary than the Specialized 107th, which is what they were strictly called in the paperwork. Personally, Steve always thought that out of the variety of nicknames they’ve been awarded, the Invaders was by far the most fitting. Truer to wartime, to what it was they really did, and far more threatening if it ever reached the other side of the line. Then again, from what he’s gathered so far, it seems like America’s done far more than its fair share of invading since. It definitely accounts for the 180 degree change in branding.

Turns out it’s still all about selling comic books and war bonds. And Steve, too caught up in his own sorry wallowing, is just going along with it.

Jesus, he thinks, the tone of it coated in a wry, familiar voice nestled in the back of his brain but much harsher than it ever was in reality, drop the philosophy for one goddamn minute. Anybody ever tell you idle hands are the Devil's playthings? Get moving, Rogers. Trade the speeches in for something useful.

So he does: chucks the paper into the empty white fruit bowl collecting dust on the countertop, turns the TV on to a random channel to break the silence. He doesn’t recognize the title of the movie playing but it’s soothing, the background awash with static and the accents just familiar enough to make for pleasant white noise. He heats up his leftovers, sprawls out on the couch and gets to reading the reports Fury had unloaded on him, tuning in every so often to the witty back-and-forth dialogue. It’s maybe half an hour of squinting at indecipherable bureaucratic jargon before he finally gives up, lifts his head to rub the sleep from his eyes.

One of the men on screen – Nick, Steve thinks, or maybe that one’s Mikey, he hasn’t been following along all that well, to the work or the film – is trying to dissuade the other from visiting his mother’s grave in the dead of night.

It’s 1 in the morning.

That makes it nicer.

It doesn’t make it anything, Nick. A grave is a grave. There’s not a religion in the world that says a person’s soul is buried with them in their grave, the man argues, and it’s like whiplash pulling him out of the serene lull, the memory of a name over a plot in Greenwood he’d never gone to visit, and he thinks, a little disoriented – of course there’d be no soul in that patch of land. The grave itself is empty.

They’d given him reports in the beginning, too: a neat stack of papers, most of them stamped DECEASED in glaring red letters, and the single mocking MISSING IN ACTION. At the very end there’d been a laughably short list of contacts; among them a phone number and address for one Rebecca Barnes-Proctor.

God help us all, he can imagine the voice of George Barnes saying even now, jokingly abject, our Becca’s married a Proddie.

But there had been briefings, then, and the shitshow over Manhattan, and in between all of that the days where he couldn’t even find the will to leave his apartment block, let alone go to Brooklyn. Over and over, he’d given himself the same excuses as with Peggy – it would be too much, too soon, too selfish to usurp her life like that.

Of course, the truth of it all was much simpler. All too cowardly, too, in a way that has the guilt blooming with a vengence somewhere in the pit of his stomach: he didn’t have the guts to look Bucky’s baby sister in the eye, no matter her age, and say, I’m sorry you didn’t get a body to bury. I’m sorry the one time he needed it I didn’t do the job he spent his whole life doing for me. I’m sorry I left him behind when it should have been me down there in the first place.

He watches the two men stumble around in the muddy dark of the graveyard and yell and bicker in a way that strikes Steve as bitterly melancholy, the familiarity of it unmooring.

Mike, y’know what? Now that I’m here, I don’t know what to do, Nick finally admits at the foot of the tombstone, wild-eyed and devolving into a rambling laugh, and ain’t that a kicker. Welcome to the club.

It’s very hard to talk to a dead person, we have nothing in common. Hi, ma.

Nick, you’re making me forget the kaddish, Mike chides with mounting frustration as Nick keeps giggling and it’s not funny, it’s really not, the whole premise of it deeply morbid, but Steve finds himself laughing right along with Nick’s hysterical hiccups, his childlike plea of I don’t wanna die, ma.

You don’t get a choice in the matter, his own mother had told him when he was maybe 8 or 9, faced with the concept of death the first time when Mrs. Kowalski from 4C got sick, if that’s the way the chips fall, then that’s God’s will. But what matters is the middle, what you choose to do with it. Do you understand?

He didn’t, really, not back then, and ten years later when they’d lowered her into the ground all he could think was: what is the point of it, anyway, of all those right choices, if all that happens is you end up dying alone?

Steve hadn’t been, of course. For all of the isolation he’d felt during those last few months of his mother’s illness, he’d never been really alone. There’d been the Barnes’ and the old ladies from church and even some of the folks Sarah had helped treat at the hospital coming by and Bucky, Jesus Christ; Bucky crying at the funeral and saying kaddish for months like Sarah was his own and letting Steve rage and lash out until all the fight had drained out of him, his arms like a vice around Steve’s shaky frame.

And there’s the actual goddamned truth, he thinks, bone-weary. The only truth that matters, the one that’ll never get written on any museum walls: Steve was only ever as strong as the people propping him up.

I think that’s the reason we’re such good friends, Nick is saying to Mike when he tunes back in, and Steve’s not laughing anymore, hasn’t been ever since his throat had gone tight a long few minutes ago, because we remember each other from when we were kids. Things that happened when we were kids that no one else knows about but us. It’s in our heads. That’s how we know they really happened.

What are you talking about? I know what really happened when I was a kid.

Yeah, but no one else does, Nick says, painfully earnest. I mean, everyone we knew as kids is dead.

He shuts the TV off with a soft click, waits a long while before the heartbeat pounding in his ears has settled. Thinks about what it really means, then, to embody the final resting place of all your ghosts.

Maudlin, Bucky’s voice echoes in his head again, fills out the crevices of the silent apartment like a slow bleed. Always gotta be so maudlin, Rogers, like you’re Scarlett O-fucking-Hara. Just get up. Get up, Steve, c'mon.

“Yeah,” Steve sniffs, wipes a rough hand over his eyes; laughs again because it’s a damn joke, all of it, and he can afford to lose the plot in the privacy of his own home. “Yeah, fuck you too, asshole. Go haunt somebody else.” vi.

"Heard you had an eventful weekend," Rumlow comments when they all pile into the locker room the following week, a little roughed up and beat and stinking of iron and sweat but otherwise in decent spirits. "Seemed like a good time, all those pretty girls throwing themselves at you to shake their babies and kiss their hands or whatever."

"Shows how much you know. The pretty ladies were all balding men over the age of 50," Steve says, only half-joking, shrugging into his civvies with a wince. There's a cut on his side where he fell a little too close to a protruding piece of rebar that's already reopened twice by the time they've gotten off the jet, but despite the sharp sting of it he's feeling better than he did just a mere twelve hours ago.

Idle hands turns out to be true enough. Wryly, he thinks he might owe sending an apology up to Sister Andrea, although he figures anyone that enjoyed using a ruler on little kids that much wouldn't have ended up in Heaven, anyway.

"But sure, it was alright. A little too much attention all at once, if I'm being honest."

"Oh yeah?" Rumlow huffs. "Big talk coming from someone who dresses like you do. I hope you didn't show up there wearing that."

Steve frowns down at the faded jeans, the fitted grey shirt – one of many pairs that came with the closet in his apartment. It rubbed him the wrong way, at first, but it's easier in the end; not having all that wide array of choice dumped over his head all the time. "What's wrong with my clothes?"

"Nothing. I just get worried they're gonna start cutting off blood flow at some point, y'know," Rumlow grins, his teeth very white in the bright fluorescent lights. "God forbid we go to a bar one of these days, I'd have to mind every creep from here to Dupont tryna get a peek down your shirt."

"Fuck off," Steve huffs, feeling heat flush down into his neck despite himself. Yeah, blood flow really isn't the problem. He gestures at Rumlow's own undershirt, all slick black and skin-tight, motion packed in. "Look who's talkin'."

"Yeah, but I don't dress like this out there. This is all for you guys," he yawns with a stretch, all exaggerated bravado. "I got one of those, y'know - work-life balances. Out there I clean up nice. You, I imagine you sleep in that shit."

Steve snorts. "You'll be happy to know I clean up just fine. Got the one suit and everything."

"Is that right? They get you decked out in some bespoke threads for the parade, Cap?" He chuckles at the face Steve makes when the word bespoke fully registers. "See if I believe that without any evidence."

Steve digs out his phone reluctantly. He does have pictures, is the thing, woke up the next morning feeling like a sack of potatoes tossed from a great height just to see his phone light up with an email from SHIELD's HR with an attachment sent over for approval - like he was a celebrity ending up in a tabloid, he thinks again with distate, like he should care much either way what he looked like. He thumbs through his email to the one labeled FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION, and shoves it over at Rumlow before he drops onto the bench to sort out the rest of his pack.

"Looking good, you weren't kidding. And the mural's all heroic," Rumlow comments lightly as he scrolls through. "Wait, don't tell me - the little mustachioed, scruffy looking one is the frogeater, yeah?"

Steve laugh comes easier this time. "The little mustachioed, scruffy looking one would've kicked your ass six ways from Sunday if he'd heard you call him that. Yeah, that's Dernier. Gabe, next to him," he lists, trying not to think about how it comes across that he's memorized the order, "Dum Dum - he didn't like that nickname, either - Bucky, Monty, and Morita."

"Sure were big on callin' each other everything other than your names, huh?" The joke is followed by a stretch of quiet, and when Steve looks back up Rumlow's frowning at the phone a little, a flicker of uncertainty over his face that Steve doesn't get to figure out before it's gone. His face smoothes out into a mostly neutral expression, an undercurrent of something unnerved and white-hot, and Steve can't help himself.

"What?"

Rumlow passes him the phone back with a shrug. "Nothing, just - haven't seen those pictures since I was in high school," he says, a little distant like the memory's faded to oblivion since, and hell if Steve'll ever stop finding it strange that all of them ended up in dusty old school books, long obsolete. "Long time ago, now. Guess I just remembered all of you being much older, is all."

He leans back against the wall of lockers, pensive, watches Steve fumble with the zipper of his hoodie where it keeps sticking for a minute. "You must miss it, though. The good old days. Your people."

Steve clears his throat, yanks at the cheap piece of plastic again. The fit and cut, he might've gotten used to - but he'll never get over the waste; just how quickly everything falls right apart in the future. "Yeah, well. Like you said, it was a long time ago."

"It was, wasn't it. Longer for some than others, though," he says cryptically, and Steve really has nothing to say to that that won't land him right back where he was two days ago. He doesn't have to, in the end, because Rumlow throws a curt nod at his front, and it takes a second too long for him to interpret what his zeroed-in expression means, to register the dotting of blood through the thin fabric of his shirt. "You're bleeding all over the place again."

"It's fine. Don't feel it much," Steve says. Something's different. What's different? Wake up.

"Sure. Never do, do you," he says, gesturing to the hoodie with a thoughtful expression that's inching away from the easy banter. "That shit's gonna stain, though."

"I was gonna throw it out anyway."

It should be enough, and in any other situation it would be. Any other situation he'd shrug it off with more conviction, Rumlow'd call him a tough guy with just the right amount of mockery, and the tension would pass. Except that Rumlow had to lead them into uncharted territory and Steve hadn't been quick enough to notice before he was flailing, too exposed.

Except that instead of a quip what he gets is Rumlow's stepping into his space, the casual slouch of his shoulders replaced with something more deliberate when he reaches for where Steve's hand is still holding onto where the teeth of the zipper have gotten all gnarled. In a heartbeat Steve's back to square one: keenly aware of the proximity and every inch of his body in the cramped space; back to that first day in the elevator with Rumlow's dark eyes turned on him with a questioning look and a twist to his mouth that said it's a pleasure, Cap but meant I've been here long enough - you don't impress me any more than any other kid I've seen this place chew up and spit back out.

It'd been enough to get his spine straightening of its own accord back then, too; the sheer challenge of it, pushing at the boundaries of hierarchy. It makes him want to pull away now, want to put the usual distance between them, to get the hell out of this stuffy locker room. Makes him want to push forward until he meets something immovable and solid. Want. want, want - too much and for things that were unreachable. That's always been his problem, hasn't it?

The sound of the zipper is too loud in the mostly empty space when it gets yanked loose, pulled up and over the slow spread of the stain, and Steve realizes with a start that he didn't notice the chatter die down as the few stragglers left the room. Realizes that he hasn't moved a muscle in a good minute, like a butterfly with its wing pinned.

Rumlow's touch lingers, just the barest pressure under his Adam's apple, and Steve's breath catches. Rumlow makes a considering noise.

He snapped a guy's neck with those hands not two hours ago: a thoughtless, instinctive thing in the middle of the ambush that was waiting for them. It's not that Steve's forgotten it; Steve's aware of it to the point of failure. It's just that it got bound up with everything else, the easy reliance and the ribbing bordering on rough and the adrenaline under his skin like a necessity.

Wake up.

Rumlow's eyes on him are sharp, a little curious. Less surprised than they ought to be.

Wake up, get moving, get out of sight. We've been here before.

Steve swallows. "Thanks."

"Sure." Rumlow steps back to hoist his bag over his shoulder and the moment breaks as quick as it came on, the whole uninterruped line of him lax and easy again, surface friendly. "Now you won't scare the guys at the front desk."

And then he's off down the hallway, leaving Steve to lean on the cool metal of the wall and do everything but think about the sudden feeling of being off balance, a little too tight in his skin in a way that only half has to do with the too-quick beat of his blood, the lingering smell of Rumlow's cologne.

vii.

Funnily enough, the Christmas gala almost slips his mind – an extraordinary accomplishment, considering that he spends most of December thinking up viable excuses not to go, dodging Romanoff’s questions and sideways looks with the agility of a man running for his life.

“We can hang out with the civilians. Break the record of how many weapons contractors you can piss off in one night,” she says one brisk and sunny afternoon when she manages to drag him out to a coffee shop barely across from SHIELD, the steam from her tea swirling up in billows to fog her opaque sunglasses. “It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t know any civilians,” he says, deliberately obtuse. It’s a joke; he can’t help that it’s also mostly true.

“What about Kate?”

It’s not a surprise anymore, really, that she knows everything about his life, that she has no problem making that clear to him when she wants to. He’s fine with it, he has to keep reminding himself. Maybe it’s a control thing, like when she acts like she’s not holding back when they spar, a holdover from some other life. Maybe this is the closest they get to trust, and it doesn’t matter. Much like the tails that he pretends not to clock, the check-ins and evaluations and this whole neatly preordained life someone else's drawn up for him – it comes with the package, and what difference does it make, anyway? It’s simpler like this. He can do his job, and if thinking that he’s a situation she has a handle on makes Romanoff feel better, then that’s fine, too.

“What about her?”

“You talk to her yet?”

“I talk to her all the time,” he points out. Natasha cocks her head, the rest of her expression as obscure as her shaded eyes.

“It’s for a charity. The gala.” She keeps switching lanes. Trying to get him to stumble, he thinks.

“Yeah, Ms. Potts said.” Two can play at that game. “You want a date so bad, why don't you pester Barton this much about it?”

“Clint doesn’t need pestering. It’d be good publicity if you showed, you know.”

He scoffs; there it is. “For what, the charity or Stark Industries?”

“So it is about Stark, then.”

He takes a sip of his coffee, over-sweetened and dark. 100% pure Colombian arabica, apparently, and with the price tag to reflect it. The acidic taste sticks at the roof of his mouth. “I don’t have a problem with Tony.”

He doesn’t. Stark’s a good man, he thinks, despite having inherited all of Howard’s arrogance and none of his approachability. Whatever tension was there in the beginning had dissipated, though, the second Tony plummeted thousands of feet from the sky after having, for all intents and purposes, blown himself up to save all their sorry necks. They’d broken bread, shaken hands, parted ways.

For the best, probably. Good man or not, Tony has a singular way of getting under his skin.

And then there’s also the fact that being in Manhattan just doesn’t feel right, not with the destruction still settling over everything like a cloud of noxious dust, the fenced off craters and leftover vigils scattered every few blocks like an improvised graveyard. Good morning, Captain Rogers. It is 4:47 AM EST. It is a new day. Do you see it? Do you see it yet? Are you awake?

It’s not new, this sense of loss: looking at the city and feeling grief, compounded.

“Not what I said.”

“What are you saying, then?”

“I’m saying SHIELD throws shitty office parties.” Natasha frowns and chugs half the scalding cup in one go before pushing up from the table, checking her phone. “I have to go,” she says, gives him a long look that he can’t really decipher, unusually lingering and far too serious by Natasha's standard. “Come to New York, Steve. Or at least think about it.”

viii.

He goes to see Peggy again, because of course he does. She greets him at the door with her most pleasant, polite smile this time, the kind reserved for strangers – Time for my medicine again, is it, darling? – but it’s alright, he understands. They’ve explained it to him, the good and bad days, how there’s rarely any constant. He’s grateful, anyway: just so grateful to have her around, as much as he can. Which is why he doesn’t flinch when she cries, when she calls for him like it’s been another seventy years, why he holds her brittle hand in his until she gets hazy around the eyes again and he feels a nurse’s gentle tap on his shoulder, hears her suggest that he come another time.

He takes the Harley out on the highway and drives aimlessly for the rest of the evening and well into the night, down and out and then back again until the traffic has thinned out to semis and the rare leftover commuter. He watches the speedometer kick up to 80, 90, a 100, the bike struggling, feels the rumble of the engine all the way up his spine when it skids unbalanced over the odd ice patch and thinks, grateful, grateful, grateful.

ix.

“You’re up late.”

“Hey.” Most of the building’s emptied out by now – he’d thought he’d find some privacy in the abandoned atmosphere of the holidays, and instead here Rumlow is when he was meant to be three states over, strolling through his periphery looking like he’s got nothing but time on his hands. “Thought you left with everybody else.”

“Nah. Had some business to take care of.” He settles against the wall opposite Steve, watches him shake out a one-two-three pattern that has the chain of the bag groaning. “Thought you’d be at Stark’s fancy party and putting that suit to good, promotional use.”

He never gets a chance to think about it, it turns out, getting called in two days before Christmas and ending up sending Ms. Potts – Pepper, please, call me Pepper – an overly apologetic, last-minute message excusing himself from the night. It’s a good call, in the end. The last thing he needs tonight is to be stuck in a room full of obscenely drunk, obscenely rich people expecting him to gush over the hors d’oeuvres and play at appearances.

He feels as though what he’s doing right now isn’t much different, though. It takes a whole lot of effort and posturing to dredge up a wry smile for Rumlow, anyway. “Well, it’s been busy here. Couldn’t fit it into my packed schedule.”

Rumlow snorts. He gets that expression on his face, sometimes, that same brand of amusement that makes Steve second-guess whether he’s actually in on the joke or just the punchline of it, that gets him hot under the collar in all the wrong ways. The punching bag chooses this moment to finally release its desperate grip on the physical realm, flying off the chain with one last pitiful creak and sending sand spraying across the floor. Rumlow’s eyes track the movement with unabashed fascination.

He walks over to the neat row of bags Steve’s lined up and picks one up with relative ease, a casual show of strength. “So you gonna talk about it,” he pipes back up, handing Steve the replacement, “or do I have to keep standing around here until you’ve run the rest of ‘em into the ground?”

“Talk about what?”

“Whatever’s got you shredding through these poor fuckin’ things at 11 pm on Christmas Eve.”

He wants to point out that he could be asking the same question – that there really is no reason for Rumlow to be here this late when he’s still technically on medical, to be in his usual tac clothes and looking as wired as Steve’s feeling. You ever take a day off? he considers asking, but that’d be prodding. What’s worse, it’d be hypocritical.

“Nothing, you know how it is – mission ran long. Had some leftover energy.”

“Yeah, Rollins mentioned you guys ran into some kinks.”

It’s not exactly the word Steve would use to describe the shitshow of that morning, utter failure avoided by a narrow margin because it was an old school lab, Christ, still had extracurriculars on the weekends and everything, and they just charged in half-blind.

It’s rigged, naturally. The room blows as he’s getting the janitor out, tears the face of the building open towards the sharp drop below, and all Steve can think is what a stupid, avoidable way to die. The electrical fire smell lingers for a long time after the explosion, the patter of the wet snow through the blown roof nowhere near enough to put the flames out.

They’re told to avoid detailing the collateral in the report, after: SHIELD had no way of knowing the complete situation beforehand, they say, short and brooking no argument, and Steve’s getting real damn tired of hearing that. By the time they wrap up cleanup he’s shivery and exhausted and when he finally dozes off on the long flight back with his ear to the monotonous drone of the engine, it’s to vague, uneasy bursts of the taste of ash in the mouth and many small, cold hands dragging him deep into the frozen ground.

Absurdly, the first thing he thinks of when he startles awake is Dugan’s thick mustache chained solid with frost, lips blue with the cold and grumbling under his breath.

"Gee, you're looking awful familiar there, Dum," Gabe'd say, biting off the ends of his sentences with the chatter of his own teeth. "Made this snowman that looked just like you when I was a kid - all white and lumpy with a great big bush over his lip. 'Cept his carrot nose was half as long and he never ran his fuckin' mouth this much."

And despite the cold and the misery, Dugan would elbow him and Gabe'd elbow back, obstinate. And Bucky'd laugh, Bucky'd call them all a bunch of fucking morons, and do they really want their last to be the Germans hearing them squabbling like two bitter old biddies out on the steps of the church for the whole neighborhood to see? Think of the image of our troops, golly gee. God forbid.

He strips out of his wet suit at the compound by rote and doesn’t think about the numbing cold of December among towering trees, of snow burning his fingers raw, clinging to his lashes. He runs until his lungs burn and it’s nothing like that thin, strangling air of the mountain range, nothing like warm skin sticking to icy metal, muscles all locked up and tears hot like bile in the back of his throat and the wind screaming in his ears, and –

Winters are warmer now, somebody’d told him at some point. Something about northern lights and the ozone in the Earth’s atmosphere.

“Kinks, right.”

He smooths out the edges of the tape that’s come loose over his knuckles, tries to tuck it in where he’s spotted red through the fabric. Suddenly he’s all too aware of the seconds lumbering on in silence, the eerie, empty quiet of the building; Rumlow looking at him with a single-minded intensity that makes the back of his neck prickle with heat, gets him on edge in a way he doesn't want to parse, doesn't have the energy to hide from.

It'd be no use, anyway; sometimes he thinks Rumlow can smell it on him, blood in the water.

“Alright, then.”

He aims a perfunctory jab at the bag and lets it swing back to catch it mid-air, brand-new vinyl creaking under his fingers, and considers ignoring the man altogether. He's not feeling generous with his words tonight. “Alright what?”

When he turns back around Rumlow’s ditching his holstered gun on the bench. Steve didn't even notice he was armed. “You said you got some energy to burn – so let’s go a few rounds.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“Come on,” and it’s his voice in the end, if he’s being honest with himself, that makes Steve fold; the cajoling tone and those long, tightly rolled vowels that curl and hook into the sheltered space behind his ribs. “C’mon, man, it’s been a while. I could stand to let off some steam, too.”

Come on, do it for me, Bucky had said in dozens of different iterations over the years and then only once after when it had meant something, only once when he was really asking, back up against the hard bark of the tree with his hands dangling between his legs like a man who had no more use for them. You gotta promise me, Steve, he’d tried, low and worn thin, and Steve didn’t, couldn’t find the words to that wouldn’t be a complete lie and a betrayal. Instead he’d leaned harder into his side, hand at the back of his neck, and wanted and wanted and wished like hell, not for the first time, that he could drain the misery and exhaustion out of Bucky’s body at every point of contact.

Come on, Rumlow says, and Steve goes, Pavlovian.

He rewraps his hands in silence, waits for the other man to tape up before he steps into the ring.

“Y’know, it could’ve been worse,” he says, circling Steve, tone casual, “No casualties is better than what we get most days. So you might as well stop with all this self-flagellation bullshit, Cap. It’s no good.”

“You wanna keep talking,” Steve goads him because it’s worked in the past, because it really has been a long day, “or do you wanna fight?”

They start off slow, Rumlow testing the waters and Steve pulling his punches by habit by now. He manages to land a few hits that don’t really scratch the surface, doesn’t pull back in time to avoid Rumlow’s hook. His blood rushes at the first, second, third collision, zings up his spine and sharpens everything out, bright Technicolor; it’s good, doesn’t even hurt, he’d almost forgotten –

It gets real brutal real quick, after that.

“C’mon. What, you gettin’ bored already?” Rumlow says the third time he gets past his guard, an edge of something mean and frustrated in it. He strikes out again just to skirt off Steve’s belated block, more provocation than actual intent. “Jesus, you fallin' asleep on me? Fight the fuck back, old man.”

“Look who’s talkin’,” Steve gets out, putting distance between them. “Ain’t you supposed to be passed out drunk on eggnog in Staten Island right now?”

“You ever stop running your mouth? No wonder you were the neighborhood punching bag, kid.”

“I weighed a 100 pounds soaking wet, I had to compensate. What’s your excuse?”

He’s slow this time, too. Rumlow’s not someone who signals. The kick to the plexus sends Steve stumbling back and something pops, loud. He coughs once, twice; shakes it off.

“Aw, there he is. You’re alright,” Rumlow says, deceptively sweet, dismissive. “You’re just fine. Come on, Cap. You gonna quit being a pussy or what?"

Here’s the thing: he’s not sure he likes Rumlow all that much, really, can’t read him all the way to be able to say for sure; isn't sure that he wants to. They don’t know each other, not in a way that counts – it’s only been a handful of times that they’ve even worked on the same team in the time Steve’s been in DC, even less they've gotten to have anything that counts as a real conversation outside the single locker room incident, but he’s been leading men long enough that he can pick up on the patterns. He can see the way Rumlow commands respect among STRIKE, knows the type, besides: collected and confident and purposeful, committed to the cause to the point of failure. Violent, too, sure, shooting for the head when Steve’d still be asking questions; a little too rough around the edges, sometimes, yes, but so what – Steve’s seen his fair share of that. Steve’s lived it, felt it on his own skin, inside and out, been in it for three whole years. So what. He’s not about to run away screaming.

It isn’t even the first time they’ve done this, beaten the shit out of each other after hours in the deserted facility. It’s not the first time he’s seeing Rumlow in this light, eyes dark and focused; liking it a little too much, maybe, liking riling Steve up and drawing blood. A natural progression to all the things about him Steve maybe didn't want to notice and all the things that had his full attention since the second they met.

It’s fine – Steve figures, this body can take it. It’s what it was made for, anyway. Steve figures better here than out there, and out there Rumlow’s all brutal efficiency and casual competence and Steve trusts him to have his back, get the job done, which is the only part that matters. Steve trusts him, is the thing, and that carries more weight likeability ever could.

Rumlow’s fist connects with his jaw and he feels it rattle up into his teeth, the dull pain like a live current through his body, whiting everything else out: you awake, Steve? You awake yet? Is it enough, to still be able to bleed?

So sure, maybe it’s the violence that gets him. Maybe it’s that Rumlow fights just dirty enough and doesn’t pull his punches with Steve, grins at him sharp when he spits blood from his busted lip and squares back up. Maybe it’s just that he’s not afraid to touch him or look at him wrong. Everyone else seems to be.

He blinks sweat out of his eyes and creeps in close, lands a few swings in quick succession that have Rumlow easing off, head snapping to the side.

“Yeah. That’s it, there you go. C’mon,” he laughs, pushes damp hair out of his face in a well-worn afterthought of a move, and Steve –

Steve has to remind himself, is the thing. Every goddamn day of the week he has to keep reminding himself of where he is. Eventually, he thinks, it might stick – but God, he’s sick and tired of it.

They don’t even look alike. For one, Rumlow’s much older than Bucky ever got to be. Has the scars and the experience and the too-mean edge to his voice to prove it.

But in the end, when he's got Steve face down on the floor, breath hot down his neck, it turns out it doesn't really matter all that much.

He bucks anyway, if for no other reason just to prove a point to himself, just to feel his bones grind together. You're still moving, you're still just going forward, heart pumping like it's gonna burst with it. Rumlow twists his arm further up his back, grip iron tight. “I said stay down.”

“Yeah, fuck you,” Steve pants into the mat. “Pretty sure this ain’t within kickboxing rules.”

“Pretty sure there was no talk of rules in the first place. I keep tellin’ you, don’t I, you gotta get that or else people’ll think you’ve gone soft. Someone might take advantage.”

“You ever quit talkin’ shit?” Steve throws back at him.

“Nah.” Rumlow shifts, the weight of him heavy and hot, too close. Steve can’t catch his breath. Rumlow’s knee is still pressing into his back and he can already feel a bruise spreading at the bottom of his ribs that’ll be gone in the morning. He doesn’t even feel it all that much. He never even – “See, I don’t think you’d want that.”

Steve could break the hold with ease. He could throw Rumlow off and still walk away with most of his dignity intact. Steve could do a lot of things.

He’s fucking tired, is the thing. He’s in his body and buzzing hard out of his head and it hurts, Christ, it hurts so bad, has for such a long time now, and it doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t matter one bit.

Keep moving, keep moving. Maybe he doesn't want to. Maybe it's alright if it's not him, anyway; a river of trouble, cross currents, carrying him along.

It’s just easier, in the end, to trust someone on his team. That’s all there is to it. It's easier, it is, it's getting there at least, Steve keeps telling himself as he lets Rumlow take him apart in more ways than one.

Eventually, he thinks, he might even believe it.

He meets Sam Wilson on a humid day in late May when the sun's barely made its way up, the sky an overripe color and all of his bruises already healing or healed or tucked neatly all the way back under the surface. Like many things with him these days, it starts off as muscle memory; then a shot in the dark, then relief when it works.

It still takes all of his willpower not to physically retreat when he's hit with the familiar, tired refrain:

You must miss the good old days, huh?

But then Sam cuts straight through the middle of it: Sam calls his bluff, quick as hell but with kind, serious eyes and an outstreched hand, and by the time the sleek black car rolls up to the curb with a roar Steve's got another title in his little book of the future and a chest that feels slightly lighter than it did when he jolted awake at 3 in the morning.

Romanoff pulls them back out onto the street without a word, and he doesn't even mind the knowing look she casts his way all that much. Just looks out the open window, the spring air whipping past as the speedometer ticks up 40, 50, 60, and thinks about whether the farmer's market will be open when they get back in: having some fruit in that goddamned fruit bowl might be nice for a change.

(epilogue)

When all is said and done, he thinks he really should have seen it coming. There was no talk of rules, and it's Steve's own damn fault for not listening. When the dust settles and the Potomac still reeks of a gasoline fire, when Steve's switched back onto battlefield efficiency despite the nightmares creeping into his subconscious with a vengance, it really shouldn't feel personal.

Except for the memory of Rumlow's slick grin in the too-bright, too-close space of the elevator, except for the phantom feeling that he can still sometimes smell scorched skin on his stomach; except for the way Bucky's horrified expression is burnt into the backs of Steve's eyelids like a brand, like a scar that won't heal fully.

Except that it's nothing but personal, in all the ways that matter.

Sam looks at him in question when he pauses in the middle of breakfast, eyes glued to the closest thing that passes for a modern TV in a roadside diner in Bumfuck, Iowa. Hospital breakout, the breaking news states, three dead, seven injured, dangerous fugitive on the loose. Be advised. Do not engage. Do not engage.

Yeah. Too fucking late for that now, isn't it.

"You alright?"

That's a loaded question, he thinks. I'm not sure what that really means and I don't know if I have for a while, he thinks.

You awake, Steve? You awake? You see it yet?

"Fine," he says, and digs back into the cold, gummy pancakes. "You think they got any blueberries in this place?"

Sam's face cracks into a smile, dubious and slow and then all at once. Sure, if you say so. Sure, I see what you're doing, but I'll trust your lead. Prop me up, I've got you right back. "Man, I don't think they even have hot water, but. Gimme five minutes and a Captain America name drop, I'm sure we can figure something out."

#this got very long jesus christ #I overthought it so now I'm just hoping it fits the event and the prompts??? anyway #so unbeta'd. my apologies and also enjoy! I hope!#catws10 #catws anniversary #steve rogers #brock rumlow #natasha romanoff #don't wanna tag sam because he only shows up for a blink of an eye but. he shows up and also I love him<3 #idk if it’s actually an M rating but. just to be safe #cw: violence #(but only barely)#gaslighting #by sheer virtue of the bastard involved #stevebucky #steve rogers/brock rumlow #I don't know the tag for that and I kind of don't want to know #this was really interesting and challenging and ultimately very painful to write ngl #my fic

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octavare · 24 days

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I just had a really coked out AU idea in which Oliver and Mark swap places (Oliver is the first child, Mark is the Thraxan hybrid). Comic spoilers obviously.

So a lot of Oliver’s personality is due to his genetics from being half thraxan (the photographic memory), but even setting that aside we can assume that Oliver is very intelligent. He’s also a lot less emotionally driven than Mark, he’s more of a logical and pragmatic kind of guy.

So what would it mean if Oliver was the one who grew up first on Earth with a human mother? Oh boy.

Oliver doesn’t care too much about Earth in the comics because they aren’t his people, there’s fundamental differences between both of his species and humans for him to really relate to them on the same level, plus the first and most formative few months on his life was spent on Thraxa. But in this AU… he’d be attached to Earth instead.

First major divergence: Oliver wouldn’t be Invincible, he’d be Kid Omni-Man, which raises extreme questions for his public image after Nolan is outed as a conqueror. But in canon, Oliver chooses to go by his father’s name because he wants to continue the image that Omni-Man had originally created as a savior. Unlike Mark, Oliver wouldn’t deny that he is like his father, but he’d focus on the positives rather than looking at the negatives.

Second major divergence: Oliver would not butt heads with Cecil, he’d understand him. He’d likely not even go out to Thraxa to help the Thraxans to begin with (so he probably meets his little brother in a different way—Nolan bringing him to Earth (unlikely since Earth would see him entering the atmosphere and be on his ass), or maybe someone in the coalition tells Oliver, that’s a whole different dilemma. Who knows.

The whole reaniman/Nightwing II dilemma wouldn’t happen because Oliver would understand it. He wouldn’t see anything wrong with it.

Anyway this sends things on a drastically different trajectory since Oliver would still be working for Cecil for the middle third of the story. The Invinci— sorry, Kid Omni-Man War would have Oliver under direct tactical orders from Cecil which could definitely change some things. I do not remember every detail about the Invincible War but I do remember Mark did do some things that weren’t exactly great ideas.

Conquest fake death: Cecil doesn’t have a need to lie to Oliver, the boy is loyal. He tells him that Conq is still alive. Oliver helps the GDA to actually successfully interrogate him. He’d be able to hold him down in his weakened state. And they could execute him after.

I’m going to stop the speculation here for right now because honestly I’m kind of rusty on some of these events (basically everything from IW onward) but I figured it would be worth talking about to see if it gets anyone else thinking.

#invincible #oliver grayson #mark grayson #nolan grayson #cecil stedman

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jamneuromain · 1 year

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When Pigs Fly

Steve Rogers x You (Reader)

Warning: Swearing, a lil humor, a lil fluff, agent!reader

W/C: 1.7K

Summary: Is there a chance for Captain America, to be your friend?

A/N: Big smooch to @rogerswifesblog, who forms this idea with me together.

Steve is using his serious face again.

He crosses his arms, standing upright, looking down at you with a stern look.

“You were reckless in the field, Agent.” He addresses you coldly, “I will not tolerate that sort of behavior.”

This isn’t the first time when you argue with Steve Rogers because of the way you behave in the field. If you are being honest, Captain Rogers himself is also behaving recklessly, doing stupid shit all day, with no one up on his ass.

“And I saved the team. You’re welcome.” You retort back, fiddling with your tactical suit and the stains of dirt.

“Nearly killing yourse-” Anger bubbles in his stomach. Steve takes a deep breath, calming himself, “until further evaluation, you’re on desk duty.”

You don’t care about desk duty. You could fool those tests easily and get back into the field in no time. But you can’t help but tease him, wiggling your eyebrows, “killing myself? Care so much about me, Capitaine? What, you have a crush on me or something?”

You swear, some newbie gasps in the background.

Utter silence.

You witness Steve’s ears flush red, while his jaw clenches.

Quinjet is so quiet that you could drop a needle on the ground, and the whole team can hear it.

“Landing in five.” A pilot speaks through the broadcasting system.

“NO.” He pushes the words out of his tight lips, “no, Agent, I do not have a crush on you. Now sit back and report to the mission center after landing. You are off the team for a month. End of discussion.”

Wow, I wonder if someone takes the wrong medicine this morning.

They would’ve taken you off the team completely if you weren’t one of the best field agents.

They still need you.

But you��ve poked the Captain enough for today.

“Aye aye, Captain.” You buckle yourself into the uncomfortable seat, patting the dust on your sleeves.

“Damn, desk duty again?” Sam, who’s around the mission center when you submit your evaluation form, asks you in surprise, “what did you do this time?”

You press your lips into a flat line and shrug, “reckless. Guilty as charged.” You eye your paperwork while mouthing “Captain America”.

Sam huffs out a laugh, “c’mon, it’s been what, two weeks? Since you have been back on the field? You really pissed him off, huh?”

You nod to the mission dispatch lady at the front desk, swinging your backpack over your shoulder. You can’t tell if you pissed off THE Steve Rogers. However, you know, deep down, that if he is angry, you will face something much worse. You don’t know how you will face an angrier version of him, which makes you slightly uncomfortable.

You choose to steer away from the topic, “I’m heading to the weapon room to return my stuff, you coming?”

“Uh-huh, I’m picking up my gears there.” Sam smiles, gesturing to the special elevator five feet away, “might as well use the shortcut.”

The weapon room is a few floors below. Instead of taking the staff elevator, which is three hundred feet away, Sam is kind enough to let you ride the “Avengers only” elevator with him, leading to the conference hall floors below.

You can hear two voices before you even reach the conference hall.

“…can’t do this, Buck.”

“…then what?”

Sam murmurs quietly: “Speak of the devil.”

“…risking her LIFE! I can’t exactly watch…”

The conference hall is empty. The only possibility is that Steve and Bucky are talking in one of the conference rooms down the hall.

The voices getting clearer as you approach one of the rooms, the glass door of which clearly leaves on open by accident.

“Geez, calm down, punk.” You hear Bucky speaks in a low voice, “you like her or something?”

Awkward silence.

Sam spares a glance at you briefly.

You keep your face strict. Even the world’s most impressive interrogator couldn’t read anything from your expression right now.

“…I don’t like her.”

You hear Steve say.

Cold. Distant. Indifferent.

It will be lying to admit if his words didn’t just hurt you.

All this time, you thought at least, you and Steve could reach the bar of “barely-friends”.

Hearing he doesn’t like you is like a bucket of ice water dropped from your head, helping you realize that work buddies don’t socialize. Colleagues will never be true friends.

Not in your line of work.

Well, it’s his loss. You scoff, walking further away from the room they are in, nearly stomping your boots off.

Bucky catches a glimpse of Sam passing from the door. He lowers his voice even more: “I’m on your side, punk. I can tell-”

Steve shakes his head, carrying the shield on his back, clearly doesn’t want to continue this conversation,“see you in the training room in twenty.”

Steve pushes through the door.

He does not have you in sight, but his super hearing captures Sam and you.

“I’m sure Steve means it in a good way.”

“Yeah, when pigs fly.”

It is two weeks later when Steve sees you in such a big compound again.

He is supposed to deliver his mission report to the mission center when he runs into you, knocking over the box of files in your hands.

You look surprised, but only a little, crouching to pick up the files. “Hello, Captain.”

“Hello Agent.” He feels sorry, helping you to put the files back into the box, “how’s desk duty? No hard feelings, right?”

You don’t know whether he’s mocking or just caring.

“Not as exciting as in the field, but I’ll manage.” You cover the box with a lid, avoiding his gaze, “not my first time anyway.”

You speak with a careless tone, as if nothing truly frustrates you.

Steve has checked your evaluation progress. There is only one assessment left. His own.

He has been pending the result for three days, yet he still could not determine whether or not to let you back in the field.

On the one hand, you are one of the best agents he knows. You are loyal, decisive, and above all, capable.

On the other hand, you are truly reckless. Some might even say cold blood when you are evaluating your life against others.

You tend to choose others over your own.

Two weeks ago, if it hadn’t been you taking out the last bomb on the very last second of the countdown, it could have been one-half of the team that was buried under the building, him included.

You also could have died because you try to disarm it even if he told you to retreat to rendezvous.

“Do you need anything else, Captain Rogers?”

You ask him with the heavy box under your arm.

He feels sorry for you, somehow. Steve wants to make it up to you.

“We’re having pizza night, tonight, in the compound. Sam, Bucky, Nat…a small group of people, basically everyone you know. We thought it’d be nice if you could join us.”

They didn’t.

They don’t know about this.

It is purely his idea to have you join them. To get to know you better.

It’s not even pizza night tonight. He said so because he figured you would be more comfortable with familiars around.

“Raincheck.” A polite smile hanging on your lips, “schedule’s full tonight. Sorry.”

Your heartbeat perks up, because you are lying, and he hears it.

“…OK. Maybe sometime next week?” He asks hopefully.

You love pizza. But he made it clear to you, socializing with heroes is dangerous. And he might not want you there. He doesn’t even like you. He probably asks you out of politeness.

Why would you embarrass yourself when you don’t know all of them that well?

You come so close to smiling at his attempt, “Captain Rogers, we’re not the same kind of person. I get it. You don’t have to do this. We don’t have to be friends.”

He sighs, putting up his hands as a sign of giving up, “not the slightest of chance?”

“When pigs fly.” You joke, “seriously, though, have a good night, Captain Rogers.”

Steve goes to bed that night, can’t stop thinking about you.

He mutters God knows how many times “I don’t have a crush on her” before he could go to sleep.

Two more weeks flew by when you receive an anonymous note.

Two simple words.

“Look outside.”

There’s swooshing sound outside. Your colleagues are rushing out of the compound in laughter. Some open the window, also laughing.

You wonder if there is a gas leak.

However, you follow them out of the building for your own sanity, looking up as most of them point their phones to the sky.

Swooshing sound grows louder.

You crane your neck and see the most unbelievable thing in your life - and you are saying this when you can see Hulk’s transformation and Ironman’s suit on a weekly basis.

Ironman’s suit - no, a small Ironsuit with a pig in it, is flying across the compound in low air.

The Ironsuit literally has four legs.

The pig is squeaking, thrusters are booming, ridiculous and laughable at the same time.

Never in one day of your life have you ever thought of the proverb “pigs fly” would come true.

“We’re doing pizza night, wanna come?” A familiar voice stands on your left. You know who spoke before you turn your head and look.

“Pigs fly. Steve. Wow.” You exclaim, “how did you get it done?”

Steve Rogers beams, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. He is only wearing a simple shirt and jeans, his hands in his pockets, giving off a relaxing vibe.

“Well, Tony helped. Clint too, he offered a piglet.”

“Unbelievable.” You shake your head in amusement.

“So, pizza night…?”

“If pigs can fly,” you point to the sky, a genuine smile on your lips, “why not?”

Bonus:

You meet Tony on your way back to the building.

Tony pointed at Steve with his index finger, “you, Mister Rogers, owe me. Big time.”

Steve and you exchange a knowing look. Steve grins, “thank you, Tony. The plan worked.”

“Oh no. That’s not what I’m talking about.” Tony grinds his teeth, “Nobody told me that pigs could shit their pants ... shit their suit.”

You smother your laugh with your palm, shaking like a leaf in the autumn air.

The billionaire let out a shriek, “now that lump of meatloaf has ruined my million-dollar custom-made suit. Shit. Shitted - HOW AM I GOING TO EXPLAIN THIS TO PEPPER???"

#steve rogers #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers fanfiction #captain america #captain america x reader #captain america x you #agent!reader #captain america fluff

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lazybutsmexy · 1 year

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Bird hunting

Ghost x fem!reader x Soap

Chapter 8: Predator and Prey

Ch. 7 < Series Masterlist > Ch. 9

Warnings: violence, innacurate police procedures, very unlawful interrogation tactics, cursing

Summary: Ghost and Soap have a few questions for Luke.

Do not read if you're under 18. This work contains mature and triggering themes.

Word count: 3200~

The beating sound of fists connecting with the sandbag echoed across the training room as the sunshine peeked through the windows. Each hit carried the sound vigorously through the air, along with all the pent up frustration and pain. It was like hearing battle drums in the fog, a premonition of danger, a promise of a violent death.

Nearly half an hour had passed since Ghost had begun punching the bag, and even though he wasn’t the only one in the training room who wanted to use the sandbags, no one dared to interrupt him. The rookies - who had only been in the Special Forces for less than five years - only glanced at him from the corner of their eyes, and for just a few seconds. They didn’t want the Lieutenant to decide to take his frustrations on them on the mat instead. Sergeant Soap Mactavish was already doing a good job at that.

Yet another body was slammed on the mat by Soap, a loud grunt let out by the private now laying on the floor. The Sargeant incorporated himself, and aside from a thin layer of sweat covering his forehead, there were no signs that it had taken any effort at all to win the wrestling match.

“On your feet, Private,” Soap commanded, causing anyone paying attention to suppress a shiver at the lack of any of the usual teasing in his tone. Some of the younger recruits spared glances to each other, but knew better than to voice their concerns.

Gaz sneaked a glance at Soap as he drilled a group of recruits doing pull-ups. He had initially questioned Price’s order for both men to return to drill exercises and training as usual given the circumstances. However, it looked as if despite their obvious tension release in each activity, they didn’t take it all out on the rest of the soldiers. It actually looked as if keeping the routinary workout was helping them channel their restlessness as they waited for any updates from Hartford.

It had become known throughout base that Corporal Canary was missing. The thing that wasn’t well known was the actual relationship between her, Soap, and Ghost. Gaz was sure that the majority of the personnel on base simply saw the trio as a tightly-knit group of siblings-in-arms.

However, there was a carefully selected group of people who knew the reality of the trio; of the way their gazes found each other in any situation was always more than coincidental; of the manner in which they squeezed together a bit more than necessary during transport; of the certainty that when one went, the other two would follow, and it was not just because they were in the same team. Well, partially it was, but a different kind of team.

Price had been the first to know - he had suspected it, but it had been the three of them who went to him directly with the news. They respected their Captain immensely, and he reciprocated by simply telling them to ‘keep it professional’ - after giving them an earful, of course. And they did, even in the current circumstances.

Gaz had found out by accident, because he had gotten used to entering Canary’s barrack without knocking - she was practically ‘one of the boys’ after all. Until one day, when he walked in and saw her clinging to Ghost, locked up in a heated kiss, while Soap pressed himself to her back with his hands under the front of her tank top. He had never shut a door so quickly in his life, and he hadn’t entered a room on base without knocking first ever again.

The young Sargeant stole another look around the rookies, knowing that they would eventually feel the same kind of loss as Soap and Ghost were. And would feel the frustration and hopelessness that came with knowing that they couldn’t change the facts, and life had to go on as usual.

Another body slammed against the mat under Soap, and Gaz barked new orders at his group. Ghost had finally switched to lifting weights, coaching the recruits around him who were doing the same. And life went on.

Until a voice in the speakers called Ghost, Soap, and Gaz to Price’s office. That’s when life for the three men seemed to have come to a stop.

~~~~~~

At 10 AM sharp the doors of the police station were pushed open to their limits. Four soldiers walked in, geared up in their uniforms and tactical vests, holsters gripping their thighs and boots marking their march as they headed straight to the back end of the building. The police officers and a small handful of civilians present in the main hall parted ways like the Red Sea to clear their path. Some baffled stares followed them as they made their way through the hallways. No instructions were needed.

The officer standing by the doors of the interrogation room nearly swung the door off its hinges when he opened it for them, allowing them into the small room. Hartford was there already, and nodded them in a greeting. He tilted his head towards the large one-way window in front of them. At the other side they could see the interrogation room, with a table and a chair, and a man sitting down. They couldn’t see his face well, as he was holding an ice pack against his face, but Ghost immediately recognized him as the driver of the gray van.

“His name is Luke Simmons,” Hartford explained, and Price noticed the faint hint of giddiness in his voice, “he was caught this morning, driving the van we were looking for.”

“Looks like your boys did a number on him, detective,” Soap pointed out amused, enjoying the view of the bandaged arm and the asphalt rash on one side of his face.

“Oh, the arm?” the detective smirked, “The K9 did that.”

Ghost let out a snort, and Soap could almost see his lips stretching into a smirk under the mask, “Good boy, that one.”

“Yeah, definitely getting extra treats later,” the detective hummed, before turning back to the soldiers, “my plan is to get in there first and try to coax something out of him. I’ll threaten him a little with letting you guys in,” he nodded at Ghost and Soap, “and if he still refuses to say where Canary is, he’s all yours.”

“What if he lawyers up?” Price inquired, and both Soap, Gaz and Ghost seemed to just realize that could be a possibility. If Luke asked for a lawyer, they wouldn’t be able to talk to him any longer until he found a lawyer, and then getting any information would delay them hours, maybe even days.

Hartford’s eyes glinted and a fantom grin teased his lips before he handed him a folder. Price opened it, and his eyes studied the contents, a dark smirk stretching his lips as he listened to Hartford’s explanation. Soap’s tongue poked out, wetting his lips as he stared at Luke, and Ghost felt his fist clench, his eyes boring into the forehead of the man that would bring them a step closer to Canary.

~~~~~~~

The cold press was managing only slightly to keep the swelling down on his face, Luke realized, and set it down on the table with a sigh. He had already steeled himself, decided not to speak one word. He assumed that, at most, they would file a robbery charge on him for the stolen van. Nothing connected him to the dead woman, nor the one they had kidnapped. If they tried to, he would only tell them he had stolen the van last night. And if they still tried to pressure him down, he would lawyer up. Easy.

Yet, he felt an uneasiness rising in his stomach. He felt as if he was being stalked by a predator from the other side of that window. He knew from enough series that behind that window were people watching him. And Luke felt as if at least one of them wanted to murder him.

Somehow, he managed not to flinch when the door opened, and a man with salt-and-pepper hair walked in. He looked pretty strong, Luke noticed, taking a deep breath when the man sat down and placed a bottle of water in front of him. He looked at the bottle warily and refused to take it, but the man seemed not to care.

“I’m detective Hartford,” the man introduced himself, “Do you know why you’re here?”

Luke said nothing, simply staring at the man and willing himself to remain impassive. The detective, again, didn’t seem to care, before opening a folder in front of himself. “You were arrested while driving a stolen van,” he explained, before switching his eyes to stare at Luke dead in the eyes. “You know what we found in that van?”

The younger man licked his lips, but refused to shy away. The detective took this as his sign to continue, “We found blood belonging to Johanna Donovan, her body was found under the bridge near the campus trail.” Hartford placed a photograph of a smiling woman on a graduation gown in front of him, along with the one Luke recognized as the photo Alan had taken of her. It had been taken just minutes before she tried to fight her way out. Still, he said nothing.

“We also found the rifle used to shoot and kill Officer Melanie Kirk,” the detective placed a photograph of a smiley Melanie in uniform, and Luke couldn’t help to widen his eyes at the new information. Officer? The woman they killed the night before was a cop? He raised his eyes to find the detective staring at him thoughtfully. No wonder he wasn’t trying to act friendly - he was holding back. Was that why he felt that way before…?

“We also have reasons to suspect that another woman was kidnapped by someone using that van,” his voice was steady, not a hint of emotion as he stared at Luke, “we have witnesses who saw you driving by the area where she was kidnapped, along with this man,” the detective placed a scarily accurate portrait sketch of Charlie in front of him, and Luke tensed up. He took deep breaths, and kept his mouth shut. They had more than he imagined, and he should recognize he was in deep shit.

A final photograph was placed in front of him, a woman in a military uniform holding a sniping rifle, staring back at him with a serious expression. He immediately recognized her, a chill running down his spine. There was no fucking way.

“Codename ‘Canary’,” the detective grunted, pointing at her face in the photograph, “Elite member of the SAS. She disappeared while on medical leave.” The detective paused, looking carefully at Luke’s barely hidden shocked expression, “She disappeared while running on the trail you were seen driving past, only a couple minutes drive from the scene where Johanna’s body was found, whose blood was found in the van you were driving.”

“It’s not my van,” Luke answered quickly, and the corner of the detective’s mouth twitched.

“Oh, we know that, the van was stolen two weeks ago,” Hartford leaned forwards on his elbows, frowning at Luke, “you stole it and used it to kidnap two women, kill one of them, and you were driving it while someone, perhaps your friend,” he pointed at Charlie’s portrait, “shot and killed Officer Kirk.”

Luke bit his lip and looked at all the photographs in front of him. After a few minutes where the only sounds were Luke’s purposeful deep breaths, Hartford let out a long sigh, “Look, son, you better tell me everything,” Luke looked up at him, a bead of sweat running down his temple and irritating the rash on his face, “we want to find Canary. Both me and her friends in the room behind me.” His eyes switched from the detective to the window, before focusing again on the man. “We have reasons to believe that you’re part of a trafficking ring, and the moment I walk out, it will be their turn to talk to you.” Hartford’s voice was grave, and to Luke, it felt like the detective was a judge sentencing him to death.

Five long minutes passed where only the sound of Luke’s breathing was heard. When Hartford had enough, he began gathering the photographs and putting them back in the folder. He spoke out loud so it would be caught by the camera that had been recording their interaction so far, “Well, the police officially handed over the case to the SAS as of this moment.” He stood up, took the folder, and walked to the door just as Luke became frantic.

“W-Wait!”

“Lieutenant, Sergeant,” Hartford called out, and Luke’s blood turned cold when he saw two large, muscled men in uniform cross the doorway. He instantly recognized the soldier with the skull balaclava he had seen the day prior. The other man didn’t have his face covered, but he looked just as scary, his jaw was clenched tight and one of his hands held a belt from his tactical vest with a strong grip.

The door to the interrogation room closed, the click of the doorknob echoing in the space. Ghost remained in front of Luke, while Soap slowly walked around the table and stopped behind him. Luke didn’t know which of them to look at - he had a feeling that two hungry tigers were about to pounce on him. He remembered the feeling of dread that had assaulted him earlier, and understood that it was them who caused it. He was sure that both soldiers could hear his heart pounding wildly in the pregnant silence that fell on them.

“Where is Canary?” Ghost’s voice finally broke the silence. He wasn’t yelling, but the timbre was so deep that it cut through Luke like a sharpened knife.

“I-... Uh…” Luke hesitated, startling himself with how shaky his voice came out. His throat felt dry and parched like a desert, and he briefly glanced at the water bottle still sitting in front of him.

“The Lieutenant asked you a question,” Soap’s grave voice startled him, and Luke’s skin erupted into goosebumps.

“I-... I don’t k-know,” he stammered, his tongue clicking in the dryness of his mouth.

“I didn’t ask you if you knew,” Ghost’s glare pierced through his head, and he took a step closer. Luke subconsciously moved back on his chair until he was stopped by its backrest. “You know where she is. Tell me.” His words were slow and commanding, each pause accentuated. Luke decided that the smartest thing he could do at that moment was simply to answer the damn question.

“I-I really don’t know, I d-drove there, but someone guided me,” his breathing quickened as he spoke, his voice grew throaty with each word.

“Who?” Ghost growled, leaning closer until he was towering over the table. Luke couldn’t help but wonder how it was possible for a human being to be so big.

“M-... Our boss,” he realized that since they already knew as much as the detective, they would find out even more, even if he didn’t tell them. He would still try to avoid giving their names, if he could. “He guided us there when… When we realized the police were getting close…”

“...Drink your water.” Ghost growled, and Luke’s hand shakily got hold of the bottle.

He somehow managed to drink a few gulps, when a thought came to him. These soldiers surely wouldn’t physically assault him here, they could only scare him into giving up information. This was a police station, not a room in a forgotten deposit in the middle of nowhere. There were other people around, and there was surveillance as well. He could still ask for a lawyer, and sue the department for threatening him into a confession. His eyes looked for the camera that he had noticed earlier in a corner of the room, expecting to see the blinking red light that indicated it was recording.

His heart fell to the bottom of his stomach, and all the muscles of his body stiffened. The camera had been switched off.

“What do you plan to do with her?” Soap’s voice interrupted his frenetic thoughts, and he nearly choked on his water.

“Um… I’m n-not sure…” He breathed out, trying to calm himself down while clutching the bottle in his hands, “I only…drive them where they tell me to go.”

Ghost's hand slammed on the metallic table and Luke jumped on his seat, barely registering the water drenching his clothes when he squeezed the bottle in shock. “Don’t fucking lie to us!” Ghost bellowed, the sound making his eardrums ring. Luke felt the presence of Soap even closer to him, and his eyes shot to the door. Maybe if he-

His face slammed into the table before he could even register it moving, and the sensitive rash collided with the metallic surface at an abnormal speed, making him cry out in pain. Soap’s iron-clad grip squeezed his skull making him feel like it was going to be crushed like an egg. The bottle cluttered on the floor and he clawed at the table, worthlessly struggling against the Sergeant’s massive strength.

“Don't fucking make me repeat myself,” Soap growled, his breath hot in his ear. Luke groaned in pain, feeling his jawbone crinkle under the weight of the soldier’s clamp.

“Argh! Okay, okay!” Luke relented, but the weight on his face didn’t waver an inch, “They’ll upload her to a website and offer her up for sale!” That only seemed to make the Sergeant angrier, as his skull dangerously reached its limits of resistance. He screamed as white hot pain made his entire body tremble and caused the chair to clatter its legs against the floor. “Please, stop!” he pleaded as scorching tears pooled in his eyes.

The hand pressing down on his skull lifted, but he didn’t have time to even sigh in relief as another fisted his hair in a tearing hold. His neck bent painfully as his head was tilted upwards, and his teary eyes found a dark stare behind a skull balaclava searing into him. His spine was bending at its limits and his jaw slackened to release the tension of the uncomfortable angle. Luke could only gasp and whimper in agony as the face of the grim reaper seemed to burn in his retinae.

“You will take us to the location she is in, and you better get us there before anything happens to her,” his snarl rumbled through his body, and the tears now flooded freely down his cheek, the salt irritating the bloodied rash.

“If we’re late because of you,” Soap growled in his ear, his hands clamping down on his shoulders and making his collar bones creak in protest, “there will be no holding cell, no isolation cell, no nook or cranny in this world that will keep you safe from us.”

Ghost hummed in agreement, and Luke could almost feel the smirk in his voice, dripping venom.

“We’re damn good at getting into places where people feel safe, after all.”

A/N: u ok Luke? You seem a bit shaken' up

Taglist: @died-in-a-field-of-flowers @rafaelacallinybbay @namenotimportant1373 @ragingbookdragon @zinfairy @scrumplump @speckel @omgitstatertot @fullmoon-94 @kalamataolivesssss @embers-of-alluring @warenai @frazie99 @kee-0-kee @littlezarp @scaredknight @tapioca-marzipan @kendahl757 @sweetybuzz25 @cumbersome-robes @carlyi @oyaoyaoyaoyaoyaoyaoyaoya @scarletbandit @twistytimesandthoughts @angelsquidd @ilovemoneyandcheese @sail-boat21

To be added to the taglist, comment on the series masterlist - link at the top of this post! :)

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anonymousewrites · 4 months

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Portal to My Heart (Book 3) Chapter Six

Loki x Reader

Chapter Six: Into Some Trouble

Summary: Loki interrogates Brad again.

“Hi,” said Loki simply, gaining Brad’s attention as he stepped back into the holding cell.

“Hello, Loki. Ready for round two?” said Brad.

“I felt like I just needed another session, you know?” said Loki with only a little bit of sarcasm. “Get a few things off my chest.”

“Gonna try hardball tactics this time?” said Brad.

“Something like that,” remarked Loki.

“Okay,” said Brad, shrugging. He looked in confusion as Mobius and (Y/N) pushed a machine into the room. He stood up and watched them wheel it into place in his cell. “Where’s B-15?” he said cautiously.

“She’s not gonna be attending this session,” chirped (Y/N).

“Oh, I get it,” scoffed Brad. “So, you come in here without B-15, and I’m supposed to believe you’re gonna torture me?”

“Well, let’s simplify everything,” said Mobius. “You have information that we need.” He plugged in the device. “You don’t want to give it to us. So, how do we find common ground?”

“You are getting’ desperate,” said Brad.

“You’re not wrong. He’s not wrong,” remarked Loki casually.

“Well, you know how I am when I’m pushed into a corner,” said (Y/N), smirking.

“We’ll be honest with you, we’re down to our last option,” said Mobius.

“And our last chance,” added Loki.

“This is cute,” sneered Brad, trying to rile them up again. “Which one of you came up with this script?”

“Because you’re a tough not to crack, you’ve left us no choice but to kind of ramp—”

“Mobius, controller,” said Loki.

“Right, okay.” Mobius grinned at Brad. “We can’t start the festivities without that little baby. Stand by.”

“I think I put it out here,” said (Y/N), stepping out of the room with Mobius.

Loki followed and slammed the door shut with a resounding thud. Brad tensed in confusion and turned in his seat to face Loki.

“Hey, Loki, what are you doing?” questioned (Y/N).

Loki turned away from the window of the door as (Y/N) and Mobius called for him. He ignored them and focused on Brad. “Turns out, there is actually one other option.” Loki smirked and strolled closer to Brad.

“No, no. Hey!” shouted Mobius.

Brad looked at Loki with confusion bordering on worry while Loki continued to speak.

“You sniffed us out, Brad,” said Loki. “And I knew you would because you’re a clever chap. So guess what? I wrote a little script of my own.”

“Loki, open up!” snapped (Y/N). “This isn’t the plan!”

“That thing doesn’t work without the controller, though, so what’re you gonna do?” challenged Brad.

Loki pulled out the control from where he had hidden it. “This one?” he remarked as Brad paled slightly. “Okay, great. We’re gonna have a little Q and A.” He went to the machine and began fiddling with in while Brad stood and shifted nervously. “Did you find Sylvie? And if you did, where is she? Simple question, really, but doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy ourselves as we go along.” He glanced at the device. “This one’s plugged in.”

“You almost got me,” said Brad, chuckling. “You have no idea how to work that thing.”

Loki paused and smirked. “I’m not trying to be a hero, Brad. I’m a villain.” His smirk fell, and a darker look entered his gaze. “Remember?”

“No, Loki!” shouted (Y/N).

“This isn’t the kind of mischief we were talking about!” said Mobius. “You’re not a villain, Loki!”

Loki revved the machine, and it turned on. Brad took a step back warily as the truth of the danger started to set in.

“Look at that!” said Loki.

“Um, earlier, I said some really hurtful things, and I brought up your mother and (Y/N). And I am really sorry about that,” said Brad cautiously. “Mobius! Hey, get in here! (Y/N), control him!”

“It’s locked, Brad, it’s locked!” said Mobius.

Brad watched Loki hold the controller up and paled. “You need to put that down. That’s…you don’t know what you’re doing with that.”

“What does this one do?” Loki pressed a button, and a golden box appeared around the stool. Loki pressed another button, and the box shrunk and disappeared, leaving the stool compressed and broken. Brad flinched and jumped back at the idea of that happening to him. Loki chuckled. “Sorry. Could’ve hurt yourself there.”

“Hey, just don’t touch random buttons on that, okay?” snapped Brad, tensed. “Mobius, (Y/N), get in here!”

“There’s a learning curve on this thing,” remarked Loki.

“Yeah, there is a learning curve,” repeated Brad in frustration. “You could kill me with that.”

“Could I?” No smile, no smirk, just an even gaze at Brad, and his eyes widened at Loki’s eyes. Loki pressed a button, and Brad was trapped in a golden box. “This is exciting,” smirked Loki.

“Turn it off,” said Brad sharply. “Loki, turn it off!”

“Let me try this, let me try this.” Loki pressed another button, and the sides of the box compressed.

“Okay, okay, alright!” said Brad, beginning to panic.

“Sorry, that’s only made it smaller,” “apologized” Loki.

“Now, look. I don’t know where Dox and the others are. Okay? I don’t know!” shouted Brad, being pushed to the edge.

“I don’t know if you know this, but I’ve done some terrible, awful things,” said Loki calmly.

“Yeah, you have! You’re doing one right now!” shouted Brad. “Have some perspective on yourself! Loki grinned and shrunk the height of the box, and Brad crouched in panic. “Okay! Okay. Okay. I swear I don’t know where they are.”

“Brad,” sighed Loki. “You’re so convincing. I want to believe you, but you’re just—You’re such a good actor.”

“Look!” Brad was nearly pleading. “I really, I really don’t know. I swear!”

“You’re so talented!” said Loki, chuckling darkly.

“They did not tell me the plan!” shouted Brad.

“Please tell me the truth,” said Loki sharply. “I know you’re lying.”

“Okay? Okay, okay!” shouted Brad as Loki reached for the button again. “I lied! I lied, okay? I did. I was supposed to go and look for Sylvie, but then, I failed, okay? I bailed.”

“Right. So, they told you to go after Sylvie and you bailed?” remarked Loki.

“Yeah!” said Brad.

“What’s the penalty for a highly-decorated field officer abandoning his mission?” said Loki calmly. “You and Dox? I don’t buy it.” He pressed the controller, and the box shortened on the bottom.

Brad was trapped in the air within the golden glow. “Okay, look, I swear, okay?!” He saw Loki’s dark look and continued. “I went down there, and I went to get my life, okay?! Because…none of this is real!”

“Well, if nothing else is real, I guess you aren’t either,” remarked Loki coldly.

The box shrunk again, and Brad thrashed in alarm. “Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!”

“Just tell me where Sylvie is, Brad,” said Loki with terrifying calm.

“Alright!” coughed Brad, fighting for breath. “I’ll tell you where she is! She has a new life!”

Loki released the box, and Brad fell to the ground in a heap. He groaned.

“Got there in the end,” said Loki, tsking. “Why do you make it so hard on yourself, Brad?” He placed the controller down and looked down upon Brad. “One thing, you said you bailed on the mission.”

“Yeah, but I found her first,” said Brad, unwilling to put himself through that fear again. “She’s on a branch.”

(Y/N) pushed open the door of the holding cell and strolled in with Mobius. “Did you get it?”

“He knows where Sylvie is,” said Loki, nodding.

“See? A little bit of mischief,” said (Y/N).

“Only as good as your plan,” said Mobius.

“You make a marvelous advisor,” said Loki, smiling.

“I know,” said (Y/N), winking. She grinned at Brad. “I told you I could control you.”

Brad looked at her sullenly.

“Alright, let’s go, Zaniac,” said Mobius, hauling Brad up.

Brad looked around, bewildered. “Are you telling me that was—”

“Hell of a performance,” said Mobius cheerfully.

“If I tell her where she is, you’ll let me go?” asked Brad.

“No, you’re gonna show us,” said Mobius, pushing him out the door.

Loki took (Y/N)’s arm and paused before leaving. “Are you ready to see Sylvie?” After everything that happened? After she hurt you?

“Are you?” said (Y/N).

“I’m not sure,” said Loki honestly.

(Y/N) reached up and squeezed his arm. “I know you don’t want us to fight again. But remember, if it does happen, I’m with you. We’re together in all of this.”

Loki smiled softly and gazed fondly at her. “Yes. We are.”

“Brad, walk,” said Mobius, pulling him forward when they stepped out onto a parking lot in a branched timeline’s 1982.

“And if you’re not telling the truth, you’re going back in the Gizmo,” said (Y/N), smiling threateningly.

“Okay, okay!” said Brad quickly. “Look, she’s in there, alright?” He gestured to the McDonalds. “She’s in there. So why don’t you guys just head on in and remember that I’m the one who brought you here, and a deal’s a deal, alright? So, you go ahead, I’m gonna head on back.”

(Y/N)’s eyes narrowed. He was getting awfully antsy to go back to the TVA. “Why are you so jumpy?”

“I’m not jumpy,” denied Brad. “I just don’t want to be around a Variant that killed four hundred of my coworkers.”

“What do you think?” said Mobius.

“If she’s here, we need to find out what she knows,” said Loki. Even if I don’t want her to be around (Y/N). Not until she proves she is sorry for what she did. Truly sorry.

“We’ll do the talking, Mobius. Be ready for…I don’t know. Everything. Anything,” said (Y/N). She looked at Loki. “Ready?”

“As I can be,” said Loki.

(Y/N) and Loki walked forward, and Mobius watched them. They opened the door of the fast-food restaurant and stepped inside. (Y/N) scanned the room and stopped as her gaze landed on the counter where several people were standing and taking orders.

And then (E/C)-eyes met green.

Sylvie’s breath caught in her throat as she looked upon someone she never thought she’d see again. (Y/N) smiled slightly, and Sylvie couldn’t think of anything more horrible. Not when all she could remember was her knife slicing into (Y/N) and her blood staining Sylvie’s hands.

Sylvie averted her gaze and looked at Loki, Mobius, and Brad. She had been found, and the escape she had found was gone. She swallowed hard and looked away from them all, holding onto the counter.

That didn’t stop (Y/N) and Loki from stepping up to the register, though. All three remained silent as they stared at each other.

“…Hi.” (Y/N) broke the silence.

Sylvie stared at her before replying. “Hi.” She cleared her throat. “Listen, I don’t have all day. You’re gonna order something? Or what?”

“We need to talk,” said (Y/N).

Sylvie tensed, and Loki spoke up. “Please, Sylvie. We must.”

Sylvie sighed. “My break’s in five minutes.” She turned and walked away.

(Y/N) and Loki looked at each other and nodded before heading outside to wait for Sylvie. Mobius made a smart decision and stayed inside with a snack and Brad.

Taglist:

@alexpangender

@technikerin23

@kikster606

@neenieweenie

@h-l-vlovesvintage

@chronicallybubbly

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