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thranduilsperkybutt · 3 years

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Killer

Gif sources: 1 | 2 | 3

Pairings: Baron Helmut Zemo/Reader

Warnings: TFATWS Spoilers! Hurt/comfort, slight angst but hopeful ending, a little bit of spice 🤏 but it’s still solidly SFW and mostly near the end; insignificant character death; canon violence; Zemo being a menace not only to my heart but my mental health

Word Count: 11,932 words

Reader Gender: Female

Author: Meg

Summary: While tracking the Flag Smashers across Europe alongside Sam and Bucky, you suddenly find yourself in need of a hero. The man who comes to your rescue, however, is the villain of too many people’s stories to ever be mistaken for one. The lines between what is and what should be become blurrier, making it too easy to forget that you aren’t supposed to like Baron Helmut Zemo at all.

A/N: Based on a simple sentence my friend said in the middle of us both simping over Zemo together, which inspired a novel lolol 😂 Whoops! Sorry I’m so long-winded, but I hope you guys like this anyway!

Oh, this was not good.

So very, very not good.

A twisting grip on your arm, pain shooting up your shoulder and from the side where the knee of the supersoldier atop you digs into the flesh of your hip, pinning you down. Cement bites into your cheek like a taunt of the predicament you’ve gotten yourself into when he slams you into the ground. Wind knocked out of you, you feel the painful strain in your joints, and know that if your arm is pushed too much further at this sharp angle, it’s likely your shoulder will come out of socket.

A whimpered yelp that you can’t bite down escapes just as the supersoldier’s grip tightens when you struggle beneath him, desperate panic lacing your blood as you realize you can’t escape his grip. You remember the sight of the back of Sam and Bucky’s heads when they went off towards the east side of this warehouse, and for a brief moment you wonder if that’s the last you’ll see of them. Splitting up had been the last thing you wanted to do, but the maze of this place made it a necessity if you were to do the thorough sweep of the area for the group of Flag Smashers rumored to be taking shelter here.

Well, you found them, alright.

Why did you have to be the one to get stuck searching the west side with Zemo?

The reluctance you’d displayed when Sam initially split you up with Zemo wasn’t exactly one-hundred percent truthful, though, was it? God, maybe it made you stupid and foolish, but a secret, cursed part of your stomach had flipped with nervous anticipation at the thought of being entirely alone with him. Something which had only been accomplished briefly over these past few days of tracking the Smashers all over Europe.

A subtle glance in Zemo’s direction had revealed no such similar reaction on his part, his stare meeting yours. Distant and unreadable, is what he was.

Except for when he wasn’t. Distant, that is.

Except for when he treated you with a modicum of civility. No, you couldn’t even fool yourself into believing it was simple civility, or even whatever traditional ingrained gentlemanliness that a Baron of Sokovia would have been taught in his youth.

Zemo had treated you with something more than that, especially when no one else was looking.

Sometimes, even if they were, and you still hadn’t decided if that dangerous toeing of the line between animosity and flirtation was a manufactured tactic to manipulate you or not. Uncertain if you should be offended that Zemo figured you the weakest link of your companions, or if, in the case that his interest was genuine… it wasn’t, so no use dwelling on what you would do in that case.

What you should do, when he set upon you with that look in his eye, like he knew something about you that you didn’t.

Like at the end of Sam’s introductory speech detailing the plan of the warehouse sweep, where that lingering glance in Zemo’s direction had ended with a slight curve of his lips upwards. Looking bizarrely satisfied with the announcement of Sam’s plan, and you couldn’t tell if it was at the thought of hunting supersoldiers, or the strange, treacherous feeling swimming in your own gut--- that Zemo’s pleasure was even minimally at the truth of another opportunity to have you, all to himself.

It had been enough to make you tear your eyes away, but not enough to get his lingering stare to stop itching the back of your neck. Enough to make Bucky raise a brow at you, a wary look in his eyes as he observed the one member of your party who seemed at all pleased with the fact that you were all likely heading into a fight, or worse, nothing at all, in mere moments. A warning simmered in blue, Bucky’s unspoken, “be careful,” resting on the solemn line of his frown.

You’d been told it enough in the past few days, to be careful of Zemo. Terrorist, criminal, killer--- a portion of the words they’d used to describe Zemo.

At first, you were acutely aware of the warnings you’d been given, of the story they’d told you. The same one you’d heard pieces of from different sources. What had happened in Bucharest was national news, but to think that the man who had sat across from you on his private plane, tension thick in the air while a smile rested on his own lips, had been responsible… it had churned your stomach at first. Sitting there in his finery, attended by a footman, he seemed a strange visual for the description that predated your formal introduction to him.

And you had excused yourself to the bathroom, if only to escape the feeling. The animosity of Bucky’s conversation and the tension in Sam’s shoulders, the weight of curious eyes, which always seemed to glance back towards you.

He was unnerving, if only because of how peculiarly normal he seemed in certain moments. Approachable. Amiable, even. A predator’s façade, meant for you to wonder if he had truly been the kind of man capable of terrorizing Bucharest and your friends the way he had.

Which was how he looked at you, just like a predator sizing up new prey.

The quaint jet washroom could not be your solace forever, and you were inevitably forced to emerge, or face the embarrassment of worrying your companions with an abnormally long bathroom break. When you emerged, however, you found the murmured conversation to be of a slightly lighter tone, and soon discovered the reason for it when you nearly walked straight into the chest of the man you’d gone to the restroom to escape.

“Apologies,” he had said, as if you were not the one who almost ran straight into him, amusement dancing in his eyes as his body easily blocked the narrow aisle towards where Sam and Bucky sat further in. They’d not yet noticed your emergence from the restroom, and your hoped your quick glance towards them had not looked too desperate. Torn back to Zemo with the startling shock that he would even offer, “Would you enjoy a drink? I was just on my way to get a refill, you see,” he raised the short glass in his hand, ice clinking, empty otherwise. Your pause was pregnant enough that he eventually teased, “I promise not to poison you, if that is your concern, my dear.”

“No, thank you,” had been your curt answer, pushing down the heat that threatened to burn your cheeks at his familiarity with you when you attempted to move around him, forced by the narrow aisle to graze his chest with yours in order to return to the attention of your companions, ignoring the additional attention which had followed you from the aisle.

The outfit you discovered he had chosen for you upon landing on the outskirts of Madripoor was… just another reason to dislike him. The one relief was that it was comfortable enough to fight or run in, if need be, but nothing about it was sensible in the least. What the outfit lacked in cleavage, it made up for in its form-fitting style, leaving little to the imagination otherwise. You felt as if every inch was on display for the perusal of whoever simply cast their eyes upon you, regardless of how you would tug and pull at the fabric in an attempt to make certain areas less focal.

And then there was what he’d said about it, humming appreciatively when you emerged from the jet just after Bucky and Sam to be offered a hand by Zemo at the last step, if only to scrutinize you in this ridiculous outfit as you equally scrutinized him, donned in a fur-trimmed jacket that you reluctantly had to admit made him look… handsome, “Good. In that, you shall make a believable lover.”

You’d almost tripped that last step at his words, despite the firm grip keeping you upright, eyes wide as you heard Bucky choke on his own spit before collecting himself.

Zemo paused long enough that you think he simply enjoyed watching whatever conclusions you were jumping to flash upon your face until he clarified, just as you opened your mouth to demand an explanation, wishing there was some way to wipe the smirk from his lips, “Not my lover, of course,” a gesture towards Sam, “but that of our friend, the Smiling Tiger.” His smirk broke out into a proper grin as you snatched your hand from his, realizing your form complimented Sam’s own ridiculous outfit, as Zemo addressed him, “The source of your alias is known for philandering various women. Seeing the Smiling Tiger with another woman has become somewhat expected.”

“He takes different women with him, even to do business?” Sam raised a brow.

Zemo chuckled slightly, “Certainly not.”

“What am I supposed to be doing tonight if I’m not going to meet the contact with the rest of you?” jutting your chin out, you cross your arms over your chest, if only to attempt to appear as if Zemo didn’t utterly disarm you with the slip of his attention back to you, “I’m not here to stand around and look pretty, you know.”

“Although I’m certain you would excel at that,” Zemo had purred, your poker face almost breaking under the shock of his forwardness, wondering if he simply enjoyed toying with you--- if perhaps you were an easier read than you thought, “Madripoor is full of dangers, but no one would dare bother a woman who belonged to the Smiling Tiger. It is typically assumed that these women pose no threat in and of themselves, considering his habit of picking shallow, frivolous women who rarely realize they are not the only of their kind in his orbit. This assumption will offer you the perfect position to scout the outskirts of our interaction for anyone unsavory, who might try and interrupt us during our business tonight.” He reached out, pushing your hair from your shoulder, and you took effort not to flinch back at the ghost of a touch on your bare skin, “While you will undoubtedly draw the eyes of many, none who are searching for a potential threat will linger on you long.” Zemo’s teeth flashed with his smile, his hand returning to his side, delving into the pocket of his coat leisurely when he shrugged, “You are simply another beautiful woman on the arm of a dangerous man tonight. That is nothing new in Madripoor.”

“And just how loving is Smiling Tiger with his girlfriends?” Sam huffs, and you wondered if the apologetic look he cast your way was for Zemo’s behavior, or what would undoubtedly be his own tonight.

Striding forward towards the waiting car, Zemo glanced over his shoulder as he passed your companion, “Very. You might want to warm up to each other rather quickly, if that is to be an issue.”

But you’d done worse undercover before, and a night of flirting on the arm of Sam Wilson was the least of your worries, so you mimicked the shrug Zemo had given you, and fell into step beside Sam, “No problem.”

Sam nodded, “None for me, either.”

“Let’s just get this over with,” Bucky agreed with a clench of his jaw, marching after Zemo towards the car, and you remembered that whatever you had to endure tonight, would probably be only a fraction of the discomfort Bucky would feel at reliving his Winter Soldier days.

Even if it wasn’t real.

Part of you yearned for the weight of Sam’s hand in yours, his breath tickling your neck where he had kissed it for show, upon being left alone at the bar in this strange Babylon that was the Low Town of Madripoor. Not that you were incapable of defending yourself, but you were outnumbered--- really, you all were.

And you preferred for your only intel on the region to not have come from the single man in your company who you knew you couldn’t trust. Zemo’s word that no one would bother you, alone, in this ridiculous outfit, simply because they’d seen Sam--- or, the Smiling Tiger, as he was tonight--- all over you? Well, it wasn’t enough to put your mind at ease.

You tried to hide that unease behind the drink in your hand, thankful that you’d been given something fruitier and less daring than the drink Zemo had ordered for Sam, as your eyes scanned the bar, catching where the three of them had disappeared into the unknown of the one area you could not enter.

Technically, you could, but you’d have to take out the four--- no, five--- guards lingering in the main chamber of the bar, before doing so. You couldn’t do that without starting a scene, though, and there was no reason to do so until absolutely necessary.

Pushing away from the bar, your only indication of what was going on past those burly statues of guards flanking the way beyond was the sound of the earpiece in your ear, shaded from view by your hair. A whisper, compared to the throbbing music around you, but just loud enough with its closeness to make out the conversation you weren’t otherwise privy to. It was going well enough, as you moved throughout the bar, ensuring your counted five guards remained in their positions, with their relaxed posture, and counting a sixth one as he returned from the direction of the restrooms.

Some tried to stop you, to get you to dance with them, but a simple name of your alleged lover had sent them on their way easily enough. So perhaps Zemo had not been entirely untruthful, it seemed.

Then, the meeting had turned sour. Going south fast, and you watched as the two guards flanking your companion’s escape tilted towards their bulky earpieces, but you were on them before they could go further within, to where you now heard fighting in your own subtle earpiece.

Doing your best to sound like a bubbly drunk, you draped yourself between them, obstructing their path, “Oh, is this the way to the bathroom?” You were two steps into the hall, when one grabbed you by the arm, the other attempting to walk around you, but you easily blocked the way as you tumbled yourself into his arms, apparently losing your footing at the tug on your arm, “You don’t have to be so rough!”

“Get out the way, lady, this isn’t the bathroom,” the one whose arms you were haphazardly steadied with grunted, and you watched as the other slipped past you towards the beyond, his partner following close behind.

But by then you were halfway across the bar in a quick stride, hearing the hushed, “Meet us outside, we’re going out the back,” that Bucky murmured, just for you.

“No weapons,” Zemo added curtly. “We are not ready to cause a scene, my dear.”

The threatening chime of the phones around as you hit the front doors and pushed beyond, only to find that the clinging followed you even there, lifted up by the chill and stink of Madripoor’s Low Town air, had you growling out, “Looks like that scene’s already started, whether or not you want it to, Baron.”

You caught sight of them up ahead, walking just as briskly down the side-street, and nearly had to run to catch up to their pace. By the time you did fall into step beside Sam, the neon glow of the bar at your back went black with a heart-stopping shunt, right before the gunfire started.

Your only relief as Sam pushed you down with his ducking, was that whoever was firing the automatic weapon was not a good shot. Then, you ran.

But, from the corner of your eye, you saw the flap of a long coat, the swivel on firm calves, as Zemo turned to the side, and escaped beyond the adjacent alley, and, right then, you thought that would be the last you saw of him. Yet, you couldn’t be concerned with hunting him down, what with the gunfire coming from all directions, straight at you, Sam, and Bucky. Allowing the perfect moment for Zemo to slip away.

As you ran, heart pounding and barely registering the sound of your companion’s voices, you almost laughed bitterly with the hysteria of the chaos around you, and the thought that maybe Zemo had created it just to escape. Whether he did or not, it certainly worked to his advantage, and the rev of motorcycle engines biting at your heels reminded you that, like it or not, you couldn’t worry about where he had gone, down that side-street, at the current moment.

Blindly following Sam, who was blindly following Bucky, down the alleys of Low Town, you turned the next corner as a shot rang out. Not the same, quick bursts of an automatic, but rather, the loud, resounding hollowness of a sniper’s bullet.

Air brushing against your cheek, the deathly kiss of wind as the bullet moved past your head, and straight into the motorcyclist behind you. You barely breathed as the second, then third shot rang true, and your pursuers fell dead on the slick, black wetness that was Madripoor’s alley streets.

Just as Zemo emerged from the opposite end of the street, catching your bewildered stare as his own, matching confusion, accompanied a breathless, “You seem to have a guardian angel.”

Even by looking at her, you could tell Sharon Carter was anything but your guardian angel.

Madripoor had changed her. The events which had trapped her here had done even worse. Something bitter and estranged lingered under each word the former agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. said as she presented her story for the four of you. Enough to make you wary of her intentions, regardless of how helpful she may have seemed.

Despite the fact you had known her, when you, too, once worked for S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Well, this is just too perfect,” were her first words, when she’d come upon the four of you in that alleyway.

Too perfect, was right. Her High Town home, her art gallery full of stolen things, the undisclosed clientele she apparently kept, and expected, resulting in your hasty changing of clothes. It all was too perfect, even down to her tragic story of exile from the States. Something was off, but you had too much to worry about to concern yourself with picking apart the story of your host, your momentary refuge provided by her hand.

You wondered if Bucky could sense it, too, when he said, “She’s kind of awful now,” following her abrasive callousness in detailing the hypocrisy of heroism.

If not him, then perhaps the look Zemo sent your way could confirm your suspicions, but he buried it down behind the glass of whatever hard liquor he had acquired in her too perfect home. Nagel, Wilfred Nagel was who you should have been focusing on, rather than the question you nearly dared to ask Zemo right there, as Sam offered Sharon a pardon that you all knew relied on too many bureaucrats to ever be a certain promise.

The longer Zemo held your gaze, the less you concentrated on the conversation around you, until something of a party was mentioned, and the low promise of the, “Trouble,” that Sharon would find parted Zemo’s lips. You could believe that, more than whatever Sam had promised her.

The art gallery had taken on the atmosphere of a club, rather than some simple party. Music throbbed, louder than that of the bar earlier in the night, pulsing bodies to move in tandem with the beat of the sound. Veins, stretching out from the same, beating heart.

But further in, past the stage and the DJ, was a viewing of priceless art, which was certain to be priced and sold tonight. The business Sharon was conducting, the contacts she’d said she would work for information on Nagel’s location, were undoubtedly among the people gathered there.

Waiting around was rarely enjoyable.

Your group moved towards the open bar, but none of you looked to the bartender for a drink. Zemo’s eyes affixed along the dancefloor, surveying, as much as Sam or Bucky were. If someone were to look closely enough, in that moment, that simple glance would give away their training. Your eyes, however, traveled past them, catching the questioning glance Bucky sent your way as you moved to separate and disperse into the crowd of writhing bodies around you.

“I’m going to dance,” was your only explanation. If the three of them had not seen some potential threat in those few moments of surveying, then it likely wasn’t there.

Either way, Sharon had said, “Lay low, blend in, enjoy the party,” before sending you on your way.

That much, you could oblige her with.

Considering the dancefloor was a great percentage of the party, dancing also allowed you to survey the room without looking like you were gawking. Thankful to be back in your own clothes, the black on black and buckles of your light tactical wear fit in appropriately with the variety of party-goers around you. Tempo flaring, sweat and alcohol, adrenaline rushing your veins, for a moment you found you were enjoying yourself, after the initial sweep of the dancefloor had come up empty of threats. Or, well, anything that was immediately threatening to you.

Which is why you could have kicked yourself for letting what might have been the biggest threat in the room creep up on you, in that brief moment of thrumming ecstasy.

His hand caught in the buckled strap at your waist, pulling you into a firm back, not unlike other dancers around you had, but his breath smelled of bourbon as it ghosted your cheek, and the accented voice at his lips was enough to have you whirling in his arms, “Do you mind if I dance with you?”

In your defense, the last you’d seen of Zemo had been moments ago, across the bar as he perused the artwork with Sam and Bucky. You could hardly believe he’d crossed the room as quick as he had--- quick enough to catch you off-guard.

“What?” you question blandly, the mixture of unease and shock churning into something else that you wouldn’t dare admit as he offered a dazzling smile, and you suddenly realized you were still standing far too close, with the growing crowd around you.

He mistook your confusion for difficulty hearing over the blaring music, and leaned closer, to catch you by the ear, “Dance with me.” Not a question, this time.

He was close enough you could smell his cologne--- a rich scent, peppered with cinnamon, which had you wondering just how much he had paid for the bottle of whatever it was, or if it had been something Sokovian from before the fall. It was unlike anything you’d scented before. He even smelled expensive.

For a second time, you almost jumbled his question, though not from shock. The heat rising to your cheeks and the skip in your chest, you couldn’t convince yourself was entirely from the dancing or the light drink you’d had earlier in the evening.

His own cheeks were faintly pink, upon closer inspection, but otherwise there was no evidence in his smooth posture of the multiple glasses of liquor he’d had tonight, yet it’s enough to make him look warm--- perhaps not as cold as he once had appeared.

Human.

“We are to enjoy ourselves, are we not?” he suggested, as if that would push you toward one answer over another, and it worked.

“Yes,” your lips said it before your mind caught up with them, and his smile widened into a grin, as brief as it was.

“Then, dance, my dear.”

His own dancing was rigid, but he kept beat. Small movements which would not draw attention from anyone, yet were somehow the barest ability required to be considered dancing. As if he had little experience dancing to club music like this, though you couldn’t be sure. It was almost comical, yet no-one could laugh at him, since he miraculously managed to pull it off.

Well, you, at least, were able to bite back a chuckle at the sight of him. Something about it, about him, in that moment, dancing so awkwardly yet with so much confidence, brought a genuine smile to your face, as you danced alongside him.

And when he gestured in a round motion with his hand for you to spin, you did that, too, without a second thought. It was easy to forget, for only a second, when your eyes caught his in the strobing light and the smile upon his face, his hands coming together to clap for you in time with the pulsing beat between you, just who he was, and what he’d done.

Far too easy to forget.

But one glance towards the edges of the dance floor has you remembering, as you caught the movement of Bucky and Sam following after the slip of Sharon’s form. Bucky’s eyes bored into you, his jaw clenched. Displeasure written on his face, and you don’t think the sake of blending in would be enough to excuse your dancing with Zemo, or the enjoyment with which you’d done it.

“Perhaps, she has found our missing Doctor Nagel,” Zemo’s form was too close, all over again, and this time you do step away from him, if only a single step. It’s enough to breathe, to clear your head of whatever had overcome you moments before. He’s too busy looking after their three retreating forms to notice the guilt catching at the back of your throat, suffocating you for barely a second.

You ensure any proof of the feeling settling in your gut was gone by the time he cast his eyes towards you, the brown of his irises nearly black in the lowlight of a High Town party, but you didn’t keep his stare long, “Let’s find out.”

The sun was dawning when you emerged onto the street, and reached over your heads by the time you made your way to the water-side lot filled with shipping containers. Sharon’s intel had led you to it, and container four-two-six-one had come to your knowledge with little questioning on Sam and Bucky’s part, if only because she was an old friend.

You still wondered who would give her the location of such a prize as this, and what it had cost her, since you were slowly learning that nothing in Madripoor came free. Regardless of where she had received the information, it had been where Nagel was hidden, along with the remainder of his serum research.

It had also been where the bounty hunters of Madripoor descended upon you.

Dr. Nagel was a young, lanky man who had barely finished his exposition of where to possibly find the Flag Smashers who had stolen his serum when the very man you had danced so happily with not two hours before shot a bullet right through his heart. All you could think, in the stunning moment of realization that Nagel had been dead before he even hit the ground, was how stupid you were to ever let your guard down around this man--- this killer.

“What did you do?” Sharon’s cry rang in your ears as the gun clattered to the ground from Zemo’s hand, jolting you into action from staring at Nagel’s body to turn on them. Catching Zemo’s cold eyes--- no remorse within them--- as Sam and Sharon struggled to pin him to the grated shelves of Nagel’s lab. You think you might hate him, just in time for the blast of an explosion to push you face first into the metal slatted floor of Nagel’s bunker.

That hate was all you had left to fuel you from getting up off the floor, bones creaking as flames danced in your peripheral, a hole blown through the side of the crate. That anger, and the grasp of Sam’s hands on your forearm, pulling you up after he got his own footing.

Zemo had been gone by the time you had enough sense to scan the area, but there would be no searching for him this time, either, as the bounty hunters descended upon your location with the ease of wolves circling their prey. Shooting out from cover, you knew the bullets of your pistol weren’t enough to last you for all of them, and they had you pinned.

Part of you still hated him, even when he saved your asses. Another part wondered why he even bothered.

You hoped you radiated that hatred when you got into the back of that getaway car he’d found, too sullen to even wish Sharon a farewell, let alone offer a smile at the cheeky attitude Zemo had pulled up in it with. After everything, it only made you stew more--- his nonchalance. If you were being truly honest, you were angrier still at yourself, and the thought that he’d played you like a fiddle. If you had kept your guard up and kept an eye on him, perhaps Nagel would still be alive. Perhaps you wouldn’t feel like Zemo was playing this two steps ahead of the rest of you.

Even on the plane out of Madripoor, you had sat in sullen silence, refusing so much as to look at Zemo, even when he offered you food.

You hoped your sharp, “I’m not hungry, thanks,” cut deep, as childish as it may sound. You didn’t bother to look long enough in his direction to see if it had. Speaking exclusively to Sam and Bucky, even when Zemo changed your course to Latvia, you had not spoken a word to him until you landed in Riga, and his conversation turned towards Sokovia.

“Erased from the map,” he clicked his tongue, but his pace didn’t slow, when he spoke in what was as much an accusation as a question, “I don’t suppose any of you bothered to visit the memorial?” Met with silence when he looked upon Sam, he turned his eyes toward Bucky, then you, and it was the longest you’d dared hold his gaze since he killed Nagel, when he scathingly said, “Of course not. Why would you?” Nodding towards an old set of double doors, he drops the subject as suddenly as he’d brought it up, “We are here.”

Your traitorous heart clenched as you watched him disappear beyond them, Bucky remaining by your side while you lingered at the bottom of the steps leading into the residence.

“I’ll be back,” Bucky murmured, glancing your way, to which you silently nodded, too troubled by the fact that you felt anything at all akin to pity for that horrible man to worry where your friend might have to wander to in the middle of Latvia. Zemo was, undeniably, horrible, wasn’t he?

A huff of annoyance blew past your lips as you marched the steps towards where Sam and that man had disappeared beyond. Maybe you were just getting soft in your old age, or something.

Yeah, that had to be it.

What you hadn’t expected was for Sam to meet you at the doorway to Zemo’s… loft? Loft.

“I’m gonna’ hit the corner store, if you’re alright to watch you-know-who,” Sam murmured low, and you scrambled for words to say aside from the hell no which threatened to spill from your lips. “He’s in the shower, so maybe he’ll be a while anyway.” Glancing over your shoulder, Sam’s brow furrowed, “Where’s Bucky?”

“Said he’d be back,” you looked behind yourself, as if expecting to find him there. “Don’t know where he ran off to, though.”

A questioning breath was sucked through Sam’s teeth, before he let it out in a sigh, affixing you with a, “You good?”

With babysitting Zemo?

No.

“Yeah, go,” you had ushered him out the door despite your current feeling towards the subject, and by the time you shut the door behind him and rummaged into the kitchen area to ransack the refrigerator, you realized why Sam was going to the corner store. This place was positively barren of the necessities. Groaning in disappointment, you lean your head back in a silent cry to the heavens. Why was nothing going right on this mission? You were starving, and hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep on the plane over.

Standing there for a moment, you let the cold air hit your skin, daring it to keep you awake.

The door to the washroom pushing open grasps your reluctant attention, head lulling to the side slightly as you shut the empty refrigerator. There he was, the bastard, clad only in a robe and lounge pants, pushing a folded towel along his neck, catching the water there which dripped from his semi-dry hair.

Footsteps softened by the slippers at his feet, he asks upon taking a look around the room to find only your presence there, “And where have your soldiers run off to?”

You grit your teeth, forced to answer him, “Sam went to the store, because you don’t keep your safe houses stocked with food.”

“This is not a safe house,” he murmurs, coming close enough that the sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows catches along something gold glinting at his throat. Large hands lower the towel and fold it neatly, as your gaze lingers, observing the necklace where it delves into his chest, a view allowed by the robe’s relaxed fit, just open enough to reveal the soft hairs there. You snap your eyes back up before you can stay there for too long, and Zemo is smiling slightly. Bastard caught you.

“What is it then?”

“A vacation home.” For a pitiful instant, your mind sent you images of the family he’d lost in Sokovia. The last thing you needed was to feel sorry for him, so you clear your throat, shaking off the thought of what was missing. What had led to who he’d become. Your pity thankfully didn’t show as he moved ever closer into the kitchen, feet stopping just before your own so that he could look you down. You couldn’t help but grasp the counter you leant yourself upon until your knuckles blanched under his scrutiny, nearly on the verge of demanding he explain what his problem was, until he nodded to the cabinet beside your head, “Excuse me.”

You almost jumped out of his way.

Watching, desperately clawing for the anger that had been so comfortingly oppressive in your chest earlier in the morning, because anything was better than lingering on the cut of his jawline, or the way his robe dipped as he reached for that very cabinet you had been standing in the way of a moment before. Anything else, focus on anything else.

When he opened it, your eyes snapped to the few jars within. Olives and fruit lined the shelves in twistable jars, flanked by large bottles of that same dark liquor he seemed to favor, and a tin of coffee beans. In the back, nestled away for a rainy day, was a box of Turkish delight.

“Ah,” he breathed pleasantly, shooting you a cheshire grin, “so it is not entirely as empty as you thought.”

Bastard, bastard, bastard---

The word rings in your head like a mantra as you feel the anger crumbling, fading away with each second he looked at you like that. What was wrong with you, to be this easy? Something had to be.

His eyes were thankfully torn away when he looked into the cabinet once more, plucking the fruit--- peaches, looked like--- from the shelf, along with the coffee and candy, “I doubt you would like to eat pickled olives alone.” He says it, right before he closes the cabinet, and reaches out with the jar of peaches towards you.

Blinking up at him, you don’t dare take them, genuinely curious, “They’re not for you?”

“You did not eat on the plane, and it has been hours, now; you must be starving.”

You’re surprised he even cared, or made the appearance of caring, but that shrivel of spiteful anger you clutched onto with all your might refused to take them from his hand, despite the growl in your stomach, “Sam will be back soon enough with food.” Turning on your heel to keep yourself from going back and snatching them away like a starving animal, you move to the other side of the kitchen.

His jaw is set when you look back at him at the sharp tap of glass and metal along the countertop. Zemo’s fingers clutched the jar and coffee tin with a fury that was only revealed in the depths of his dark eyes, watching you move across the living room without so much as a word.

Until you sat down, and he breathed calmly, so calmly, that you knew it was the calm before the storm, “Am I to expect you to act as a petulant child for the remainder of the mission, or shall I ready myself for you to come to your senses?”

You scoffed at him, “Excuse me?”

“Please do not make me repeat myself, my dear.”

“I’m sorry, Baron,” you grit with as little remorse as possible, that once-simmering anger nearly boiling again, “that I don’t want to trade peaches with a man who murdered someone not two feet from where I stood.”

“Try again.”

“What?”

“Try, again,” he breathed slowly, as if he had to do so to keep himself from breaking into some fit of rage. You’d never seen him enraged, even when he fought and killed, he was always a deathly calm, and some sick, twisted part of you wanted to see him truly, frightfully angry, “You don’t treat Wilson and Barnes with this childish disdain, despite them killing countless people in your presence.”

“Don’t even compare yourself to them. You killed an unarmed man!”

“I do not wish to litigate the details of what may or may not have happened---”

“‘Litigate?’” you rose to your feet from the couch, not even realizing that he had half-way crossed the room by the time you did, “Do you even hear yourself? You put a bullet in his heart! What is there to litigate?”

“He was a threat.”

“He could have been arrested, or---”

“Criminals can escape prisons,” he bit, nearly in each other’s faces by the time you laughed at your own bitter answer.

“What? Like you?”

“Precisely,” he agreed, and you met his glare with one just as heated, until something shifted in his gaze. A sort of dawning understanding that muddled his glare, until a raise of his brow accompanied the easing tension in his shoulders, and you already knew you weren’t going to like what he was going to say before he’d even said it, “Is that what bothers you?”

“What?” you ask warily.

“That I am considered a criminal.”

“You’re a killer.”

“My question stands, regardless.”

“I’ve worked with criminals before,” you shook your head, making to turn back to the couch, but a fast grip at your upper arm stopped you in your tracks, and he was far too close all over again. Suffocating you with his closeness, with the oppressive cleanliness and water his scent still carried from his recent shower. Ungloved, his fingers were warm, radiating through the sleeve of your shirt, digging firmly into the pliant flesh of your bicep.

His breath carried the faint smell of mint that comes after a fresh brushing as it wafted past your skin alongside his demanding amusement, and your stomach dropped dreadfully when he teased, “Ah, but you danced with me.”

Have you ever let someone you didn’t trust get too close?

The question seemed to dance in the black endlessness of his dilated pupils, rimmed with the deceptive warm brown of his irises. You were so close that you could notice the gold flecks in them which caught in the sunlight streaming from the window, something you otherwise would have missed. A dare in the dangerous flick of his lashes, he glanced to your lips and back; was he all too aware of your closeness, too?

The reflexive dart of your tongue to wet your lips gave you away, face burning hot with anger and embarrassment, and you ripped yourself from his grip, “I don’t know what you’re implying.”

“I’m sure you’re clever enough to figure it out,” is his sarcastic counter, a satisfied smirk which said he had all the answer he needed already left you wishing there were some way to rip it from his face, because were you really that obvious? Or was he just that good at reading people?

This time, when you headed to sit back on the couch, he simply stood there, allowing you to be unobstructed. You plopped down upon the couch with all the defeat you felt at his satisfaction, lying down in the hope that if you ignored him, he’d simply go away.

When you hear the sound of his slippers along the floor, signaling his departure from your side, the distant shuffle paused in their tracks when you couldn’t help yourself from asking, “Why did you come back?”

“Hmm?”

“When we were in Madripoor,” you breathed slowly, curiosity overcoming your anger, “you had escaped us twice. It was the perfect chance to run for your freedom. Why come back?”

You don’t dare open your eyes, even with the length of his pause, before he answers, a solemn honesty in his voice, “This is not a mission which I can abandon. I must see it through.”

You almost asked him why, once again, but thought better of it. Something told you he wouldn’t have given you a straight answer, either way.

Just when you think he’d gone on his way, the shuffling sound of his slippers closed in once more. Tempted to look, your curiosity at his approach was answered with the sharp sound of glass clicking against the wooden coffee table.

“Feel for me as you will, but eat,” his voice is low, soft. You don’t know if it was the straining of your ears to make up for what you would not see, but you could have sworn you heard an apologetic tone when he added, “You’re no use if you lack the strength to fight your enemies. As you are now, anyone could overpower you if they wished.”

That earns him a peek of a glare from out of the corner of your eye, and you earn a stern look in return as he nods towards the canned peaches on the table.

You couldn’t help yourself from asking sarcastically, before cracking a small smile, “So, are the Flag Smashers about to propel from the ceilings to catch us unaware, or is it you I should be worried about overpowering me?”

No apologies, from either party, but his dark chuckle is enough to set your soul aflame when he teases, sounding too much like a promise, “I would only overpower you, should you to ask me to.”

And that was when you realized how your question had come across. The burning in your face only increases as you sat up sharply at his words, about to protest that it had not been what you meant by them, but the doors to the loft opened, saving you the embarrassment of that conversation.

“Where’s Sam?” Bucky asks, and Zemo leans away from the coffee table, freeing you from the sweltering scrutiny of his gaze.

“I’m afraid we are running low on groceries, and he was so kind as to do the shopping for us,” Zemo explained innocently enough, but Bucky’s eyes narrowed at him regardless.

“Speaking of going out,” you reached for the jar of peaches, feeling Zemo’s glance upon you as you popped the top open, “where’ve you been?”

“I saw an old friend,” Bucky grumbled, shrugging off your question as he moved towards the washroom, “I’ll tell you when Sam gets back.”

The door closed behind him with a certain finality on the subject, at least until Sam returned. By the time you looked back towards Zemo, he was fiddling with the box of candy.

“I shall put the coffee on,” he announced, glancing to catch your eye with the flick of a candy wrapper glinting between his fingertips, offering, “Turkish delight?”

Upon Sam’s return, the news that Bucky’s old friend had been a warrior of Wakanda was a bad one, at least for Zemo. But with bad news came good news, and soon enough you were following the trail of the Flag Smashers once again, even if that meant the Wakandans were following your trail.

Hours turned to days, and by the end of a weeklong trek across Europe filled with close-quarters and even closer encounters with your Sokovian prisoner, you were standing in front of the dingy warehouse which had found you in this final, terrifying predicament.

Wondering if it had all been pointless, to be snuffed out at the hand of the supersoldier above you, pushing you into the dirty concrete. He wouldn’t need a gun to end you, and you both knew it. So you might have been panicking, with how savagely you pulled in his grasp. A trapped animal, fighting to get free.

Blood rushing to your head fills your ears, catching the first sight of the man pushing you into the ground just barely out of the corner of your eye, and the dark mask covering his face with a handprint. You could make out that he was light-skinned, dark hair pushing down past his chin, young enough to make you wonder just how old he was, and if yours would be the first life he’d take.

His voice is softer than you expected, for someone who sounded so terrifying when he began his order of, “Stop struggli---”

The bullet that rips through his neck tears his grip away from your body, ringing off the hollow echo of the room for just the moment it took the eyes beyond the frame of his mask to widen and dilate as they looked into your own. Green.

His eyes were green.

Silence far too sudden for the adrenaline of the close gunshot not to shake you to your core.

The supersoldier is dead before he hits the ground, and you’re pushing yourself up on aching joints to get on your feet as quickly as possible, until the familiar voice of your companion meets your ears in a thick, Sokovian accent, “He did not hurt you.” It’s flat, not hitching into a recognizable question at the end, but the dark eyes of your savior seem to question you despite the cracking disinterest of his tone.

There was no denying you were happy to see him.

“Zemo,” it’s breathless, and sounds too much like a hoarse relief for your own liking, so you focus instead on rolling your bruised shoulder and avoiding the searing gaze upon you, trying not to appear as shaken as you truly were, “Not anything I can’t walk off.” The sound of something muttered in Sokovian under his breath brings you to look upon him again, finding that his gun lingers along his hip, locked in the tight, leather-gloved grip. He looks displeased, lips set into a tight line that suggests he’s angry, even, but not in the same way he had been in Latvia. This was worse, a colder, solemn anger that threatened the fire behind his eyes, threatening to burn this whole place to the ground, and you can only question, “What is it?”

“Undoubtedly any others remaining here have been alerted by the noise,” Zemo says curtly, turning towards the hallway from whence you came. He is angry, you manage to confirm, when he bites across his shoulder, “Mind your surroundings this time, so that you don’t find yourself pathetically helpless again.”

His words were scathing, but they’re meant to be. Even worse, you know he’s right. This dead one, whose blood was splattered over the top half of your tactical gear, had crept up on you too softly, and was too strong to shake off once he’d gotten hold of you.

Constructed to kill, thanks to the serum.

Even going into a fully aware fight, you were at a disadvantage, especially in close quarters. It was something he understood. Something he used repeatedly in his own strategy against opponents which were physically stronger in every way.

Your only hope of an upper hand had to come from either distance, or subterfuge. At least, if you weren’t accompanied by Bucky or Sam.

You’re lucky, despite the burning ache in your side and back, that it hadn’t been worse than it was, and that Zemo had come upon you as he did.

“Remain close,” he murmurs, as you emerge out into the hall, and you don’t dare to argue with him on it, even if you might have had the situation which just transpired not done so. Clearing the upper west floors were methodical, swift, and it became apparent by the third that whoever had been here was gone, either before or after Zemo’s gunshot had rung true.

Bucky and Sam appeared winded when you regrouped at the designated meeting point, and you didn’t have to wait for Bucky’s explanation to guess what had occurred, “We tangled with a few of them. They got away, but we got another lead from what they left behind…” Bucky trailed off, swapping a glance with Sam at the sight of your disheveled state.

“What happened to you two?” Sam’s eyes dart between your torn clothes and the scrapes along your skin towards Zemo’s tense, rigid frame.

“I was jumped by one,” you grit, embarrassed enough that he’d caught you off-guard without even verbalizing it, “he had me on my stomach, but Zemo, he---” you clear your throat, remembering the vacant green stare and splash of deep, vibrant red that had accompanied your rescue.

“It has been handled,” Zemo supplies for you, and before Sam could question him further, he adds, “the man is dead.”

The blood along your black tactical gear has dried by now, but it’s black stickiness must be ever apparent for them now, as Bucky sighs a weary, “Well, shit.”

“Are you okay?”

You open your mouth to answer Sam, but Zemo gruffly responds, “She’ll live,” before brushing past the two of them towards where the car which would take you back into the heart of the city was waiting.

“What’s wrong with him?” Sam wonders, when Zemo is far enough ahead that he can’t hear the question.

“You want a list?” Bucky grumbles dismissively, stretching his metal arm in a wide circle that suggested it had set peculiarly after his last fight.

Your throat tightens, and you try your best to keep from remembering that helpless, desperate feeling which had drenched your soul as the supersoldier pinned you to the concrete.

Forcing a humorless laugh, you offer up a half-hearted explanation, daring it to sound as unbothered as you wished you truly were, “Maybe he regrets the bullet he spent saving me.”

Bucky’s exhale is somewhere between a bitter laugh and sigh, “Who knows, with him.”

As much as you wished for it, you couldn’t be sure if those words you’d spoken didn’t ring true.

“Whatever,” Sam agrees, dismissively rubbing the back of his neck. Redirecting back on the target of chasing the Flag Smashers, you hoped you’d get a step ahead of them soon when Sam instigates your following of Zemo to the car, “We’d better get back to the motel and regroup. Got an early day ahead of us tomorrow.”

The, “yeah,” you supply the back of their heads with, finding yourself following after them, is almost as distant as you felt. Internalized, and thrumming with the melting adrenaline which made way for exhaustion to settle into your bones and take hold.

Yet, you can’t get that deathly, dilating green out of your mind, or the ghost clinging to the ache in your back, where murderous weight had been.

Zemo did not meet your eye the whole ride to the motel--- and it was nothing like the dazzling vacation home Zemo had introduced you all to in Riga. Complete with plain walls and shuttered windows, the view of Prague you received from the window set in the dead center of the narrow bedroom was that of the wall of the building opposite. Utility, over luxury, but privacy had been key, as well.

He had retired to his own room just as soon as you’d set foot before it, bizarrely silent in that same way that you had come to realize could never be a good thing, because it meant Zemo was lost in his own head. Neither Sam nor Bucky made note of it, at least aloud, and so you held your tongue as well, rather than acknowledge the dark cloud which seemed to follow the man as he disappeared beyond the click of the motel room door.

“We can trade,” breaks you from your intense scrutiny of that door, key card clutched firmly in hand as you glance towards where Bucky stiffly supplies, “I don’t blame you if you’re not okay with it. You can stay with Sam instead.”

Your heart clenches, and for a moment you’re brought out of your remembrance of the Flag Smasher’s body atop your own by the offer, somewhat touched that he would take your place as Zemo’s keeper tonight at the sacrifice of his own comfort. Even after all that Zemo had done to him, he would take the bed which you had agreed to sleep in earlier, when the motel owner had explained the issue of limited capacity.

You can see the apprehension behind his eyes, despite his generous offer. He was still unsettled by Zemo, and, if you were being honest, so were you. You won’t make him do that for you, all so that you can avoid whatever tension lingering between you and Zemo.

Instead, you pat Bucky in the chest gently with the palm of your hand and swallow down the nauseous churn of your stomach, forcing a light tone, “I’m a big girl, Bucky, but if he gives me any trouble, I’ll shout for you guys. How’s that sound?”

“If he gives you a chance to shout,” Bucky frowns.

“Well, if he suffocates me in my sleep, I’ll haunt him forever,” it’s meant to be teasing, but it comes out dry.

“Our side will be unlocked, just in case,” Sam mentions, lingering in the open doorway of the adjoining room, “might wanna’ unlock yours, too.”

“Or else I’ll just have to break through it if anything happens,” Bucky’s tone is just as dry. Tired. This chase was wearing on you all, and you could only hope that tomorrow would be different than today.

Slipping the key card along the door, it whirs to life with a click. The acceptance of your entry indicated by the green glow of the lock’s internal light. Slipping into the room, you rest your back against the shut door, willing the green remembrance of your attacker’s eyes to shake from your head.

Your death-grip on the key card doesn’t ease as the bathroom door opens, and you catch sight of Zemo. He’s shed his jacket, left in that dark turtleneck and slacks. His hair had fallen, ever so slightly, from its perfected part against his forehead. The tips of a few strands there are dark with a dampness which evidenced the water he must have splashed his face with before emerging from the restroom.

His hands are free of his gloves as he flexes them at his sides, pausing for but a moment of acknowledgement at your presence before he goes further into the room, towards the full bed near the window which he must claim as his own. The jacket lies there, until he retrieves it to hang in the closet on one of the wooden hangers provided within.

Not a word. You don’t know if it should make you relieved or concerned, but truthfully, it makes you feel nothing. Because you’re still standing at the door by the time he turns from the closet, staring unfocused at the floor before you and screaming internally to pull yourself together when he does it for you.

“Are you going to stand there for the remainder of the night?” Curtly, “If my presence has you so paralyzed with fear, you may as well take up your soldier’s offer to switch rooms.”

His voice holds an edge, despite the deceptively smooth calmness to it. A taunting, instigating bait hung there. As if he were still angry at you.

And for what? For getting attacked?

The thought sends white-hot, simmering rage swelling in your own chest. Did he think you a nuisance, after having to save you from that brute of a supersoldier this evening? It had been a sneak-attack! You doubt even having your wits about you would have helped catch the silence with which you’d been crept up on in that warehouse, now that you’d had time to replay every second of it in your mind twofold.

Glaring at him with that fire in your eyes, was better than that frightfully distant look you’d held a moment before, he thought.

“What do you want from me?” comes biting from your teeth, bared at him as you bristled under the cold anger of his own stare.

“There is nothing you could possibly offer me that I would want,” he strikes back.

Snake, meet wolf.

“As if I would offer you anything at all after the way you’ve acted,” it’s an effort to keep your voice from rising. You want to fight; to feel something other than the crippling terror that had nearly killed you this evening--- that panic, which had gripped your heart until it felt like it bled.

“The way I’ve acted?” Zemo’s demeanor changes, flaring rage in his eyes as he stalks across the room. It takes everything you have not to wilt in his approach, but to instead glare right back at him, even when he crowds you up against the door, palm coming flat against where your head resides. His voice doesn’t rise with his seething fury, but rather, lowers into a tone that turns your blood cold as it rushes through the heat his closeness spreads through you, “I am not the one who almost got myself killed.”

“Well,” you struggle to remain even, as you breathe all the disdain you can muster into your words, “I’m not going to apologize for you having to save me.”

His head tilts to the side, snarling through his thick accent at the thought, “I do not want an apology for that.”

Standing straight from your leaning on the door, if only to feel as if you were invading his space rather than the other way around, you find that he leans away ever so slightly when you snap, “I’m not going to thank you for it, either.”

“Thank me for---?” he stops himself with a clench of his jaw, breathing slowly through his nose, as if to calm the crackling fire behind his eyes as his glare burns into your own. Too close; he’s still standing much too close.

And he moves so quickly you have zero chance of escaping his path. The hand he didn’t have laid flat on the door pushes you roughly by the shoulder, into it. By the time your mouth is open to even yelp in surprise, it’s suffocated by the hasty press of his lips against yours. Searing, pressing the length of his body firm against your own as he kisses you with all the wild fury his eyes betrayed. Nothing was left of the collected calmness of his posture or voice from before, as his hand on your shoulder digs into the hair at the nape of your neck, tugging you into him.

Not that you needed to be coaxed, with the way your fingers dig and scrape into the fabric along his chest, his shoulders, his throat, his hair. Digging in, his part is destroyed as you nip at his lips, teeth and tongue distracting you from any fragment of sense that was left screaming at you to remember it. To remember who he was, and how things are supposed to be between you.

Which was definitively the opposite of this. His hands were never supposed to find themselves fistfuls of your hair, your hip, your flesh, as they did now. You were never supposed to know that he tasted like something sweet, or felt soft beneath the hard lines of his turtleneck.

He was dragging, pulling, tumbling with you away from the door, as anger and fury melted into a complex, sweltering mixture of something else entirely, heat burning through your core when he tugged at the buckles of your tactical gear.

The world turns sideways, and then you’re falling upon something soft--- the mattress creaking beneath your weight and the weight of him kneeling atop you as you dragged him down to your lips once again. Rough, not gentle, as you arched into him and tugged at his hair, a breathy groan escaping into your mouth from his own.

He inhales sharply, as if suddenly realizing the position you were both in, as his fingertips grazed the bare skin of your waist, where your shirt had become untucked from your pants.

Breaking, parting, breathless, he stares down at you. Brown eyes blown wide and dilated, staring at you like a deer in the headlights--- perhaps the most honest expression you’d ever seen on Zemo’s face.

You were no better, sprawled along the comforter and trying to catch your breath. A single question ringing around your brain in search of an answer, any answer.

What are you doing? What are you doing?

“I,” he breathes softly, in a lilting apologetical tone, and you realize he’s between your legs, hooked along his hips precariously. Your anger dissipates, evaporating like it had been burned away with the roaring flames he’d ignited within you, and he clears his throat slightly. Troubled is how he looks, when his eyes become incapable of holding your own, “I can’t do this.”

No apology, though it may as well be there, in the way he said it.

Though you know he’s keeping you from a terrible mistake, part of you is lying when you murmur, “It’s okay,” back up to him.

“Yane mogu etogo sdelat,” he leans down, as if collapsing under the pressure of whatever he was feeling, right into the curve of your stomach. Sokovian, you register faintly, as another reverent, “I can’t do this,” falls from his lips to be muffled in the fabric between you.

Your hand finds his head, fingers carding through his hair reflexively, and you don’t know if it’s from the shock of your situation or a genuine desire to comfort him, when you repeat, even softer, “It’s okay, Helmut.”

It’s the first time you’ve called him by his first name, you realize.

Maybe it’s the fact that he was still tangled up in you, or the fact that you’d been mere moments away from letting him have his way with you, but you don’t dare move from this spot. From pushing your fingertips against the crown of his scalp, or the weight of him against you. Neither does he, as he breathes raggedly for a moment against your stomach, face buried there.

Breaking the silence almost feels wrong, but you do it anyway. A compulsive, desperate need to do so crawls up your throat, until you can’t contain the words any longer.

Reaching down, finding the curve of his jaw, you pull, until he lifts his head enough to peer over the curve of your chest to meet your eye, questioning after a moment of peering into the lingering want, and tragic grief of his stare, “Are you okay, Helmut?” But you already know the answer; you finally understand that this man is far more broken than you’d ever realized.

“Is anyone ever just, ‘okay?’” is his evasive answer.

You say it before you can think better of it, offering him another piece of you with which you probably shouldn’t have, but you were already neck deep in possible regrets, so what was one more?

“People’ve said I’m a good listener before, if you need to talk about whatever it is that’s troubling you.”

You liked to think he owed you some kind of explanation for all this, but if he’d asked you for the same, you don’t know if you could give him one, either. It had just… happened. No rhyme or reason, but some bizarre, broken part of your own soul had called out to whatever was cracked and frayed in his own. It was all the answer you could think of, for why you were flat on your back beneath him still.

“I would not bother you with my troubles,” Zemo starts, attempting to piece back that calm, collected mask which kept this fragment of him that you had bore witness to hidden.

“If not me, then you should bother someone with them.”

And maybe it’s the soft, bittersweet smile with which you look up at him, or a deep craving to be understood by just one other human being in this world, but his chin remains firmly planted against your chest as he says quietly, sadly, “I have no one left. They are all gone.” He doesn’t flinch away when you brush the hair from his forehead, out of his eyes, catching sight of the confusion, the trouble in his soul.

Trouble, indeed.

Stormy, dark, he stares a hole into your soul, and you ache with the hollow tragedy of it, when he murmurs as firmly as he can, almost worse than if his voice had cracked with emotion, “I have lost them all.”

You want to tell him the reflexive compassions that come at times like these, but sorry feels cheap, and you could never understand the pain he must feel. You hope you never do.

So you breathe out slowly, one word at your lips, “Sokovia?” as if you didn’t already know. As if you had not read his file, years before he joined you for this mission. Back when he had terrorized the Avengers and murdered diplomats at the United Nations hearing. You tried not to think of it, now, when he looked so vulnerable, and sad, as the slight nudge of his chin into the flesh of your skin is all that’s required to acknowledge your question.

“You already bother me enough, Zemo,” you try to add a joking hum to your voice, as you sigh beneath him, but even that sounds bittersweet, “so feel free to bother me more with your troubles, if you like.”

There’s quiet for what feels like a long time after that. Your words permeating the space between you, and you don’t know if he watches you like he does to gauge your sincerity, or because he simply likes looking at you like this.

He gives you a fragment, when his body shifts, and his weight moves up just enough to catch your eye from where you were left staring at the ceiling in this thrumming silence, your fingers slipping from his hair to his shoulder, “I…” he clears his throat softly, “saw you underneath that supersoldier, and I just… could not lose one more.” Zemo doesn’t say he cares about you, not explicitly, “He was going to kill you.”

“I know,” it tastes hollow in your mouth, as you do your best not to go back there, to how he’d found you.

“It,” he breathes, searching for the right word, “frightened me, and so I was furious. Not entirely at you, but because…”

He trails off, and you supply instead, the similar feeling which had buried itself in your own chest, “Because of how it made you feel?”

Zemo nods, his hands smoothing down your back, catching at your waist, “I did not like the way it made me feel,” his gaze flicks along the planes of your face, before returning to your own, that want-mixed-grief once again swirling within them. “The way you make me feel. It is like… a betrayal.” His voice does shake this time, when he breathes, “It is too soon since… I lost my whole world.”

A betrayal, he had called the feeling.

It felt like that for you, too. This swirling, guilty want in your bones for him, when you know it’s the last thing you should want. That he should be the last thing you want. If Bucky or Sam saw you like this--- you think they might hate you for it.

For wanting him.

Your hand rests at the curve of his neck and shoulder, thumb close enough to feel the short stubble which threatened to peek through at his jaw with the late hour of the day, and you agree, “I was angry, too, because of this feeling.”

“The feeling of wanting something you cannot have,” he chuckles, a truce, offered from his body to yours in the vibrations of it which resound in your chest.

“You could say that.”

Perhaps, in a different world, things could be different.

Maybe, if you’d met him at a different time.

But as things were, you were just two broken people, seeking solace in one another when every fiber of your being told you not to. That it was wrong--- despite how comfortably right he felt against you here and now, lingering between your thighs and against your body for as long as he possibly could, despite the guilt that you’d shared, without even knowing it.

It’s not your place, but when he sits up finally, his weight lifting off of you and somehow leaving you feeling more suffocated than when it had been there, you catch his attention with the sound of his name, “Helmut?”

“Hmm?” he wonders, knees pressing into the mattress as he’s halfway detangled from between your legs.

Catching his eye, you hope you look as sincere as it felt within you, the ache in your chest for him, “Anyone who could have loved you, would have wanted you to be happy.” It sounds cliche and generic, but you don’t dare mention his wife specifically, or the terrible emptiness that comes with the loss of a child. Still, you see it in his eyes, in the way he observes you with increased curiosity, that he knows it to be true, despite that desperate, clawing pain you know he must feel within his chest.

Zemo’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes, “That is a sweet sentiment.” And he’s gone, leaving you spread there to watch after him as he crosses the room, towards the restroom, probably for a moment of privacy. Stopping in his path, he glances at you, hand resting on the doorframe, “But they do not have to go on living without them.”

The bathroom door shuts behind him with a definitive click, and you’re left reeling as you piece together the facts of the night. The pieces of his grief, and want, which you’d witnessed. The fragments of yours which only seemed to swell with his own.

A miserable, self-pitying groan slips past your lips.

You were truly in trouble, now.

#baron helmut zemo fanfic #zemo fanfic #marvel fanfic #marvel female reader insert #fanfiction #fanfic by me #author meg #female reader insert #newstuff female reader insert

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doshmanziari · 3 years

Text

Musical Offerings for the New Year || What is “Radical Music” in 2021?

Near the end of 2020, a bunch of musicians populating a chatroom, including myself, each submitted ten minutes’ worth of our work to another musician, Chimeratio, who generously compiled it all into a set totaling nearly ten hours.¹ The work didn’t need to be new; just what we thought might best represent our abilities/style(s) and/or perhaps what we were especially pleased with. The set premiered in late January. Since I have some tentative plans for reorienting Brick By Brick this year, while not overriding its emphases, I wanted to share that music with anyone who’s interested.

I compiled the four videos into a playlist, although you can also access them individually: here (1), here (2), here (3), and here (4). If you care to, and are on a computer, you can also view the accompanying chatlog and read people’s responses from when they were listening to the live broadcast.

The compulsion for this project was sparked by excited discussions over and usage of the term “digital fusion”, most helpfully propagated by Aivi Tran, designating a computer-based body of work that for years lacked the rooftop of a commonly agreed upon genre-name. While describing my music has never been a big concern, even if it’s usually felt impossible (what, for example, is this? or this? I dunno!), I’ve appreciated how the spread and application of this term has brought together people who may have felt isolated.²

As “digital fusion” gained designative traction, I witnessed the activity in the aforementioned chatroom explode over the course of a few days. Before, a day’s discussion might’ve been a few dozen messages; now, there were dozens of messages every half-minute. This had positive and negative ramifications, the negative being that conversations often proceeded at a pace of rapidity which precluded concentrated thought. Eventually, I bowed out because the rapidity exceeded my threshold for meaningful interaction; but I was glad that significant invigoration was going on.

I wanted to share this music also because it intersects with thoughts and talks I’ve been having stemming from the question, “What is ‘radical music’ in 2021?” This was stimulated by a 2014 talk given by the writer Mark Fisher, wherein he contends that, were we to play prominent “cutting edge” music from now to people twenty years ago, very nearly none of it would be aesthetically shocking, bizarre, or revelatory (think of playing house music to an audience in the early 1960s!). Fisher also observes a trend of returning to music which once was seen as the future -- as if, deprived of a shared prograde vision, imaginations turn hazily retrograde; ergo, genres such as synthwave or albums like Daft Punk’s Random Access Memories.

It isn’t my goal here to argue about the “end of history.” Fisher’s time-travel hypothetical, however, rings loud and true to me. Visible musical radicalism has, for at least a decade, been strictly extra-musical, in the sense of songs like “This is America” or “WAP”, where one’s response is primarily to the spectacle of the music video, the performer’s identistic markers, and/or the manner in which the lyrics intersect with (mostly US-centric) ideological hotspots. Musically, there is really nothing radical here. Any vociferous condemnations or defenses of a song like “WAP” deal in moralizing reactions to semantics or imagery: how progressive or regressive is the political aspect? how propelled or repelled are we by the word “pussy”?

It would be a mistake, and simply wrong, to assert that the only music one can enjoy escapes the parameters outlined above; and my inability to coherently categorize some of my own music hardly raises that portion to the status of radicality. But the question here pertains to what is being made, and I think that if we’re going to seriously consider the nature of truly radical music today, we do need to question if such a quality can prominently exist when our hyper-fast consumerist cycle seems to forbid not just sustained, lifelong relationships to artwork but also the local, unhurried nourishment of creative gestation. Now, in my opinion, there are good, even great, examples of radical music still being made in deep Internet-burrows, and for evidence of that I would offer some of the material contained in the linked playlists. Moreover, I’d say that this quality can exist in part because these little artistic communities are so buried.

Let me share a quote that another person shared with me recently:

For culture to shift, you need pockets of isolated humanity. Since all pockets of humanity (outside of the perpetually isolated indigenous people in remote wilderness) are connected in instantaneous fashion, independent ideas aren’t allowed to ferment on their own. When you cook a meal, you have to bring ingredients together that have had time to grow, ferment, or decompose separately. A cucumber starts out as a seed, then you mix it with the soil, water and sunlight. You can’t bring the seed, soil, water and sunlight to the kitchen from the get-go. When you throw those things in to the mixture without letting them mature, the flavor cannot stand out on its own. Same thing with art and fashion. A kid in Russia can come up with a new way to dance, gets filmed on a phone, it goes viral quickly but gets lost in the morass of all of the other multitudinous forms of dance. Sure it spread far and wide, but it gets forgotten in a week. In the past, his new art form would have been confined locally, nurtured, honed, then spread geographically, creating a distinct new cultural idiosyncrasy with a strong support base. By the time it was big enough to be presented globally, it was already a cultural phenomenon locally. This isn’t possible anymore. We’re consuming too many unripened fruits.

The main impression I have here is that radical music today will, and must be, folk music. Our common idea of folkiness might be the scrappy singer strumming a guitar, but my interpretive reference rather has to do with the idea of a music being written, first of all, for one’s self, and then shared with a small-scale community, which in turn helps the artist grow at their own pace. This transcends a dependence upon image, the primacy of acoustic instrumentation, or the signaling of sincerity versus insincerity. It is a return to the valuation of outsider art, so rare nowadays. As someone who I was recently in dialogue with wrote, “Where can you find new genuine folk music? Pretty much just with your friends, imo. Even then, the global world is so influential and seeps into any crack it can find. I think vaporwave was radical and folk for a while. Grant Forbes made that music way before the world knew about it.”

Sometimes, a lot of fuss is made over what’s seen as “gatekeeping” within certain communities. It can be, depending on the context, justifiable to question and critique this behavior. At other times, the effort of maintaining a level of exclusivity, of retaining an idiosyncratic shapeliness to the communal organism, can be a legitimate attempt to protect the personal, interpersonal, and cultural aspects from the flattening effect of monoculture. Hypothetically, I welcome the Castlevania TV series and Super Smash Bros. Ultimate having introduced new and younger demographics to Castlevania. In actuality, stuff like “wholesome sad gay himbo Alucard”, image macros, and neurotic “stan” fanfiction being what’s now first associated with the series makes me want to put as much distance as possible between my interests and those latecoming impositions.

The group-terminology David Chapman uses in his essay “Geeks, MOPs, and Sociopaths in Subculture Evolution” is kinda cringey, but some of the cultural/behavioral patterns he lays out are relevant to the topic. Give it a look. If we cross his belief that “[subcultures] are no longer the primary drivers of cultural development” with our contemporary consume-and-dispose customs, we’re left with the predicament of it’s even worth attempting to bring radical/outsider art beyond its rhizomatic habitat. This is troubling, because it would mean that artistic radicality no longer might not only refuse to but cannot encompass cultural upheaval. It would be like if dance music were invented and -- instead of progressively permeating nightlife, stimulating countercultural trends, and ultimately being adapted as the basis for pop music globally -- only were listened to via headphones by a few thousand people on their own, stimulated a group meeting once a year or two, and never affected music beyond a niche-within-a-niche. That’s a very sad picture to me.

⁂

¹ Chimeratio has also maintained an excellent blog on here dedicated to looking at videogame music written in irregular time signatures, far preceding higher-profile examinations like 8-bit Music Theory’s video on the same topic.

² For myself, creative isolation has had its uses, because it has led me down routes that are highly personalized. The isolation can be dispiriting too. Although a lot of my music is videogame-music-adjacent, almost none of it uses “authentic” technology, such as PSG synthesizers or FM synthesis; and the identification of those sounds is fairly important for recognition.

#music analysis #radicalism #digital fusion

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elizabethemerald · 3 years

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Water Heals; Chap 4

AO3

Today was another of Katara’s visits. Azula felt like she was getting better at telling the days apart, and keeping track of the weeks as they passed. Katara had said that she would bring a guest this week. It would be the first time she had seen someone other than Katara, her brother, or the staff since she was admitted to the hospital. Azula had promised to be on her very best behaviour.

She smiled her own private smile when the door to her room opened to show Katara, though she kept her face otherwise schooled. As a princess of the Fire Nation she wouldn’t let herself show all of her real emotions to outsiders like Katara’s guest.

Behind Katara entered her brother, Sokka. Katara has talked quite a lot about her brother and what he had gotten up to recently. It would be interesting to meet him face to face, and for once, not on the other side of a conflict.

It certainly seemed like peace was suiting him well. Sokka still had the build of a swordsman, though now he was really hitting his growth spurt, he was going to be tall, possibly even taller than Zuko. He had a slightly nervous air about him, though he was masking it well. He smiled a wide, easy smile upon seeing Azula. Her spine stiffened for a moment, fearing he was smiling because of her bonds. Before she could snap at his insolence he clapped Katara on the shoulder and took a seat. Perhaps he was just in a jovial mood?

Katara took the seat next to her brother, returning his smile. Azula felt a hint of color rise in her cheeks. Katara’s smile never failed to bring some warmth to her face, and set Salmonflies fluttering in her stomach. For some reason Sokka’s smile widened, his earlier nervousness dissipating.

“So Azula!” He said. Azula was suspicious of his friendliness, but she supposed Katara had brought him along first for a reason. “Katara’s told me a lot about her visits with you. How have you been liking them?”

Katara had side eyed him at this question, but Azula felt their mutual companion was a safe enough conversation topic.

“Her visits continue to be the highlight of my time here. Even at my most dower Katara’s smile brightens my day.” Azula said stiffly, as if she were giving a report to the war council. Her eyes flicked to Katara, and she couldn't help but notice a faint blush dusting Katara’s cheeks, her eyes down cast as she fiddled with her hair. She decided to quickly change the subject, not trusting Sokka not to stray too near sensitive topics. “And how about yourself? Katara has kept me informed on some of the inventions you have made.”

“Oh she has!” Sokka immediately pulled a sketch book out of his satchel. Azula leaned forward as close as she could to look at his drawings. Some of the sketches seemed almost infantile in quality, but as she was able to parse the information she could see he was trying to figure out a way to trap a fire bender’s lightning, so it could be used to power other inventions. “You see, if I can make this work we can create other things that could wildly improve life for the people of the world. I’m just trying to find some way to replicate the lake of Chi a fire bender uses to control and redirect lightning. Though its really hard to get a hold of some lightning to test my theories.”

“It should not be that hard to get.” Azula said with a smirk. “Would you like a free sample?”

Before he could respond Azula took a deep breath, pulling on her own lake of Chi and spat out a flash of lightning. Sokka jumped back with a yelp as the lightning flashed wildly around the room. Without the use of her hands to control and direct the lightning, she didn’t have any where near the control she usually did. She released the rest of her breath as a short pant of blue flame. Lightning bending was far harder than fire bending without hands.

Katara jumped up, water flying to her hand from the pitcher in the room. Azula couldn’t help her flinch, still battling the fear that Katara was going to turn against her one day and try to kill her. Instead of forming a whip the water around her hands glowed with a strange light. Azula watched, her eyes wide in awe, as Katara used the water to heal any slight mark Sokka may have received.

“That was rude Azula!” Katara said. Azula couldn’t help but feel a rush of guilt. She had promised Katara she would be on her best behaviour. She couldn’t stand the idea that Katara would take this as a sign to stop visiting her.

“I’m sorry Katara.” Azula said, her eyes down cast.

Katara was about to reply in her usual huff, but Sokka, now settled from his surprise, spoke.

“You know Azula, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you apologize to literally anyone. I didn’t think you knew how to.” HIs words, heavy with sarcasm were at least a game Azula knew how to play.

“I prefer to reserve my apologies for those who mean the most to me. Not water tribe peasants like yourself.” Azula said, putting her nose up in mock disdain, though she met Katara’s gaze, attempting a small joke based on their first conversation. Katara’s smile showed that the joke had landed, and again there was a dusting of a blush across her cheeks. “Though I guess since the war’s over, I should make right with those I can. Is there anything I should apologize to you for?”

“Suki.”

With that single name, Azula felt her hard won control slipping. The leader of the Kyoshi Warriors. She had taken great pleasure in ensuring she was imprisoned and in making sure her incarceration was as unpleasant as possible.

“Do you know what happened to her?” Azula asked, her voice sounding lifeless and mechanical even in her own ears. All she could remember was defeating Suki and shipping her off.

“Yeah, me and Zuko broke her out of the Boiling Rock.” Sokka said. His voice sounded like it was coming from a cave.

The Boiling Rock. The start of her fall. She had tried to kill her brother again there. Mai and Ty Lee had turned against her there. Not only had they shown their true colors but she had shown hers as well, first by trying to kill them, then by having them arrested. From there she had known that there was no one she could trust. Eventually everyone would betray her. And she deserved it. She was a monster after all.

Azula was fading fast, her grasp on the moment slipping as her mind spiraled into the memories of her many failures. She was only distantly aware of a rapid yet hushed conversation between Sokka and Katara. They were probably discussing how to punish her for imprisoning Suki.

“Did Katara ever tell you about the time I drank cactus juice?” Sokka said. The surprise of the strange sentence shook Azula from her dark spiral.

“Isn’t cactus juice…” She was trying to focus her brain on the bizarre statement.

“Hallucinogenic?” Sokka laughed. His laugh was loud. Different than Katara’s soft laugh. “Oh yeah it is. I spent a few hours absolutely out of my mind. I remember seeing a giant mushroom that I was sure was going to be my friend.”

Azula felt a crooked, broken smile creep up her face at the idea.

“Or there was the time Toph trapped me in a hole in the ground. It felt like I was stuck there for hours. I promised to give up sarcasm and eating meat if I was able to get out. That didn’t last very long.” He said sarcastically.

Her broken smile crept higher on her face, feeling less broken and more natural.

“How about the story when me and Katara got sick, I spent the entire time thinking I was an earthbender! Then guess what the cure was?” He didn’t wait for Azula to guess instead continuing on excitedly. “Sucking on frozen frogs! Aang had to go fetch them while we were resting in our sleeping bags!”

Azula could see Katara’s own smile creeping higher on her face as her brother brought back some pleasant memories from their time traveling the world during the war. Azula could feel her own smile grow, a soft huff coming from her nose at the thought of Katara with a frozen frog on her face.

“Oh or the time we tried to convince those guards that I was an earthbender!” Katara said.

“That was a good one! Especially because that one guard thought that Momo was the earthbender! Not the brightest guard.”

“Can’t forget the whole adventure in the secret tunnel! I thought you would have a handprint on your forehead from facepalming for a week!”

Azula let out a short bark of a laugh. She felt more herself, like her mind was back in her body where it belonged and less like she was going to start sobbing.

“It seems traveling with the Avatar wasn’t all hard work and battles.” Azula said. Her voice still sounded a little flat, but it was coming back to her regular tone.

“It was a lot of work. And there were some things that are going to be in my nightmares for years.” Sokka said, his tone more serious than it had been since he arrived. “But that doesn’t mean it was all bad. Aang’s a fun loving guy. He wouldn’t let us stay to serious for to long.”

“When we first met him, he immediately wanted to go penguin sledding!” Katara said, her smile now her usual full faced and spirit-blessed smile.

The conversation continued, Sokka carrying most of it, for the next hour or so. By the end Azula was exhausted from the social interaction, but she was happy. Sokka had caused her first genuine laugh in what felt like months, though she couldn’t tell exactly how long it had been. Katara had also seemed to enjoy having her brother there. She fell into good hearted bickering so easily with him, her smile brightening up the entire room, causing even more Salmonflies to buzz wildly in her stomach and a warm feeling to fill her chest.

When it was finally time for Sokka and Katara to leave for the day, Azula stopped him. He stood at the door, Katara behind him in the hall looking over his shoulder. It took Azula a few moments to gather her words and force them out.

“Sokka… I’m sorry.” The words felt painful as she pushed them out past the lump in her throat. She wanted to apologize for everything. For the harm she had caused during the war, for the harm her people had caused, even for throwing lightning at him just today, but she couldn’t get all those words. He seemed to understand the enormity of what she apologizing for and gave her a solemn nod. “Please tell Suki...I’m…”

“I will.” He nodded again, that same seriousness from earlier in his voice.

With that the two Water Tribe siblings left. Azula was exhausted. Her body drained like she had fought for the entire afternoon. However her mind felt like it was fully active. They had given her much to think about.

She had been inclined to dismiss Sokka, as a non bender, and as an oaf, he was never the same threat that Katara was. However he had clearly earned his place among the Avatar’s closest. He was cleverer than she had ever given him credit for, and he had the ability, almost uncannily, to switch between lighthearted and serious at a moment’s notice. She would have to think more about him. About his ease in forgiving her. About his inventions and ideas.

Thinking of Sokka was significantly harder considering something else occupied her mind. Katara’s smile. Katara had seen her slipping, had noticed her reaction to the mention of Suki and the Boiling Rock. She had encouraged her brother to joke to offset the tension and help ground her back in her body. Katara had seen her, and seen through her, and some how still visited again and again, and still smiled and laughed with her, not at her, but with her. It was a lot to think about all at once.

#atla katara #atla azula #Avatar The Last Airbender #writing emerald

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brief-candle · 4 years

Text

ᴡɪᴛɴᴇss - Yoshikage Kira.

this has been a hiatus and a half, huh?

first of all, i'd like to apologise for the wait on this. and a couple of other requests that i've yet to do, but this in particular. because this is a good couple of months old and,, omg i can't believe it. i'm so so sorry

a lot has happened. college is back, unfortunately, and i've just been taking a lot of time to myself to avoid writer's block! as well as having wrote like 3000 words for this chapter and hating it all so then purging the vast majority of it to make it like twice as dark and gritty. kinda. still kinda iffy on most of it.

hope it's at least passable, and apologies that my long hiatus resulted in,, this.

anyways! here's wonderwall everyone's favourite hand fetishist!

series: jojo's bizarre adventure.

notes: yandere, choking, minor character death, general lack of niceness here.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───── ⊰

Work wasn't exactly stressful, but by god it was boring. Day in, day out; nine until five, nothing was ever different. Not that you'd expected anything different. It just came with the process of being an adult.

You almost snorted sardonically, thoughts wandering back to school. Back then, your head was full of dreams of grandeur, of something far better than some dead end job sat in an office, achieving nothing before death finally arrived. However those ideas were little more than delusions that would never be given the chance to develop to fruitation. Such were the realities of life, that childhood dreams very rarely were given the chance to become a reality. A truth. Something more than an unachievable, faroff pipe dream that could only be experienced through hard drugs or strange dreams that one would shrug off or forget by the time that a coffee is poured. Ah, speaking of, you could really do with one of those right now.

It was like he had read your mind, as per usual you'd found with him, as a cup of coffee exactly to your tastes had found its way onto your desk.

"Ah, thanks Mr. Kira."

You'd found yourself coming almost quite close with the man, despite him usually keeping to himself and separating home life from work. Well, as close as one could get to someone who seemed to distance himself from those who worked with him, anyway. In a way, you'd found it rather admirable. Some colleagues may have thought the same, or disregarded it entirely, with how they fawned over him. It was pretty gross to watch, but you tended to keep such thoughts to yourself. Life was easier that way, as less drama came from it.

Besides, you could see where they were coming from in a way. It was clear to anyone with functioning eyes that Yoshikage Kira was attractive, with immaculate taste that only seemed to compliment naturally good looks. Especially with his smile, which seemed so broad and genuine. You envied him in a way, with beautiful features and a smile that could make many a heart skip a beat.

Though you supposed that you were no exception.

Even now, after so many coffees brought to you and so many small sessions of idle chat, you could practically feel your cheeks redden as he spoke. Voice like honey and smooth as silk, with such a charming expression to match. You could only hope that your cheeks weren't as red as they were warm to the touch. As long as no one noticed, it would be fine. You feared you'd die of embarrassment if your little schoolgirl crush on your coworker was exposed, even at this stage in adulthood. It truly was a pathetic situation. Especially when you couldn't even dream of calling him by his first name else you'd immediately regret it from the sheer embarrassment it could bring upon yourself. Besides, no one called Yoshikage Kira by anything but his surname, seeing as he tended to keep to himself and no one was close enough to acceptably use his given name.

Then that smile emerged, and the revelation that your heart was not immune to the effects of his charm made itself known like a slap in the face. Oh, how the mighty do fall. Or how the pathetic fall further.

"You're welcome."

Just those two words, spoken like they were imbued with the very essence of charm itself, and he was gone. You almost sighed, whether from relief for your heart or some sort of wistful longing was beyond you. Perhaps it was even a combination of both, seeing as that would most likely be your only conversation with the man that day. Maybe even for the next couple of days.

That said, your cheeks felt like they were on fire. This interaction had been different, shockingly so, as there was something more than words there.

It was almost funny how things so quickly changed. From there you'd ended up in what felt like some sort of alternate dimension, as strange and silly as such a thing sounded.

"Don't kill me...! Please- please! I won't tell a soul, I swear!"

It was just a drunken night out; the first in a while and a chance to catch up with some old friends for the first time in a long while. Your separate careers had prevented you doing so for a good few months at the very least. And oh, how you'd wished it had been delayed for a few months longer. How nice it was to imagine how differently it could've all gone, to find comfort in the infinite possibilities of 'if', to seek shelter in it away from the harrowing present splayed out in front of you.

Or the lack of things splayed out in front of you, that is.

You were just a normal office worker who liked their morning coffees a little too much. This sort of strange, otherworldly phenomena were way beyond you. Was this some sort of dream? A sick joke that life had decided to play on you?

It was easy to believe that. Much too easy to fall into disbelief. And yet you couldn't do it, with your throat feeling like it was being constricted torturously slowly, closing in on itself little by little. Fraction of a millimetre by fraction of a millimetre. Tear ducts had long since dried up in your panic and sheer, unbridled fear. How useful they'd be now, adding any sliver of extra punch to your last resort: begging for your life from what you had believed to be your just-as-normal coworker.

His gaze was cold. Sharp as it seemed to pierce you completely, and only further convinced you that it was over. Useless to do anything but sit there on your just as useless, quaking legs and take the death he'd grant and hope to any and all forms of God that it'd be quick. Hell, maybe he'd just erase you completely. Like what had happened to the rest of your friends, drunkenly foolish in their suggestion to follow your coworker for the sole purpose of revealing your mundane, fruitless crush. How childish it was, and how unfathomably huge the consequences were. How what you'd stumbled in on, little more than a hand with no body in sight that he grasped so tightly onto, with a strange smell and thickness to the air. How quickly his head had snapped around as you'd all turned around the corner into the apartment's living area, bumbling and brainless as you'd almost literally stumbled upon such a horrifying sight.

The screams bounced around your head, echoing off each wall of your brain and skull and everything. Vibrating and reverberating through your skeleton, before crashing to a sudden, incomplete halting.

"You weren't meant to be here."

His voice was smooth as always, icy as it never was. You would've described it as uncharacteristically so, if you weren't so firm in your realisation that the Yoshikage Kira that you'd known was little more than a façade for this...

Whatever this was in front of you.

His eyebrows furrowed, perfectly groomed in their shape like every other immaculate thing about him, and you briefly wondered why he hadn't spoken about his obvious displeasure. You would've asked if you could, but the heaving movements of your body quickly told you the reason why.

You were laughing.

"Don't you think," and, as if you weren't already convinced your grave had been dug there and then, you decided to pipe up with your foreign, cracking and hoarse voice, "that I'd love to be anywhere but here, too? You think we followed you asking to..."

Asking to what? To continue that question, rhetorical or not, it'd require you to have an ounce of knowledge as to what was going on. You didn't even have a fraction of a fraction of a clue. And so, hysterical laughter finally grinding to a slow and weak halt, just like the rest of you, you abandoned that train of thought and speech completely.

"Just get it over with."

He was still silent, as if listening to the heightening of pride and lack of fear many humans seemed to have when realising that death at the hands of another was inescapable.

"I mean-" it wasn't even a laugh, more of a dry and desperate huff than anything else, "what are you even waiting for? I bet you're enjoying this, aren't you, you disgusting fuckin--"

Then you were cut off, a force akin to a truck at full speed crashing into your neck and

tightening

its

hold.

The prior panic and fear reared its head again in full force, limbs thrashing and clawing at thin air. You could feel the imprints of ghostly fingers around your neck, silently gasping in a greedy attempt for air and out of groundless shock as they pushed and slammed your already disoriented, powerless form into a wall and pinning you there. It was confusion, panic panic panic panic as you continued to struggle.

Air came just after the darkness threatened to invade, and your aching lungs welcomed it with open arms.

Whatever invisible, untouchable hand had grasped your neck was still present, if the grooves threatening to choke you within an inch of your life again were anything to go by.

"Now, now, now," he'd said, moving closer. Each step seemed to bring the already very present threat of immediate death closer, as if even one step into his shadow could wipe someone off the face of the Earth without a trace nor second glance. And, at this point, you'd believe it.

His mouth was moving, words spoken but drowned out by endless roars and waves of deafening white noise. You had to crane your neck to look at his face, and the hand around your throat used its thumb (? did it have a thumb? you didn't know, and didn't care to know at that point) to do so after noticing your lack of effort to do so. His eyes were daggers, and lip curled in disapproval.

You were looking at him, but all you could see were your friends becoming less than dust.

How their eyes, dull and lifeless, blamed you wordlessly with oceans of contempt. It was your fault for not stopping them, for having such feelings for such a monster. Even if you didn't know; you must've known! It was impossible for you not to notice something so inhumane lurking under that mask of pleasant smiles and warm small talk.

Even sharper than his gaze was the pain in your scalp as he wrenched your head to the side. When had he kneeled down? You weren't aware; you weren't present. But you were. Were you? Through his staring, you could see their tears and the unclosed eyes, wide and frozen in time. Doomed to shock and fear for an eternity.

"It'd be wise for you to start listening." They screamed at you, for you. To join them, that you would join them. To run, to lie down and just let him off you already. To scream for help, as if anyone who'd have offered help in the first place wouldn't have come running by now.

"What's the point?"

You were still snappy, it seemed. As if begging him to send you to meet your friends. Maybe you were. It would probably be better than teetering on the line of panic and terrifying calmness, seesawing between them with too much ease and swiftness.

"This is why you should've been listening."

He released your hair, cool and unsettlingly neutral eyes wandering to one of your hands. They were lay by your side now, having given up on your struggling some time ago. You didn't struggle when he picked one up, either, cradling it and rubbing soft circles into it. There was no reaction from you. Just apathy, letting him continue as he liked. It was easier that way, and would bring a less painful fate.

"It seems your manners need some work," neither of you were sure if you were even listening anymore. You doubted he even cared either way, with the way he tended to your appendage, "but there's time. We can improve it, can't we?"

Surely not.

Absolutely not.

If he was meaning what you thought he was meaning, you suddenly found that death seemed much more favourable. Desirable, even, rather than a resignation of yours.

"Don't stare so dumbly."

Yoshikage was quick to chide you there, and even quicker to strike you not-too-gently upside your head. Not quite enough to black you out, but definitely enough to daze you for a good while. Not that it mattered too much if you weren't fully unconscious; your chance of escaping was incredibly slim to none even if you did know the way. After all, Yoshikage's routine was perfect. Always followed meticulously. All he needed to do to make sure you didn't wander was to slot you in there as well.

Your hands weren't the most beautiful. Definitely not when compared to prior girlfriends of his, but (strangely enough) they weren't his main focus for once. It was everything else, too, from the curve of your smile to the lightening up of your eyes, to the way you styled your hair and the scent of your perfume. A combination of the small, meticulously analysed details that made you... you. And this strange fascination made you one of a kind. Dangerous, really, yet he couldn't yet bring himself to be rid of you.

Maybe one day. It would be easier to continue living that way, without you to confuse him so after a lifetime of being certain about everything he'd done. Having planned his whole life, only for you to upset it all and throw off the delicate balance.

He'd make it work. Until the day he could bring himself to rid himself of you, you'd stay no matter what. Even moreso after what you'd witnessed, after you saw what he hadn't planned you to.

Though you won't be seeing much of anything anymore, really. Three rooms maximum don't really offer much in terms of variation in sights.

#yandere #yandere kira #yandere x reader #yandere yoshikage kira #yandere jjba #yandere jjba x reader #x reader #yandere jojo's bizarre adventure

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the-hidden-writer · 3 years

Text

I’ll Remember You This Way

Chapter 1: 2,857 words Read on AO3! (check reblog for link)

The story of one unsuspecting man named Edwin Jarvis and how his life and legacy are carried throughout the universe.

Edwin Jarvis -> JARVIS -> Vision

Snippets of that legacy include Tony Stark carrying his butler's words in his heart for his entire life and Wanda Maximoff sensing an unfamiliar presence in Vision's mind.

Chapter 1 : sun is shining in the sky

There’s something quite unnerving about the night sky.

The chill of the night is brisk, and he knows that, logically, he should head inside to avoid catching a cold (and consequently facing his wife’s wrath)... but he can’t find it in himself to move.

Edwin has been intrigued by the stars as of late. His employer tells him to, as Mr Stark so eloquently put, “get his head out of the clouds and focus on Earth's problems”. And, once again, this should logically make Edwin lose interest and obey. Deep down, however, he knows there is more. So much more. But it probably won’t be discovered in his lifetime.

Ms Carter has told him of her missions working alongside Captain Rogers, and their discovery of the mysterious glowing cube that had fallen into the hands of Hydra which was most likely of extraterrestrial origin. Edwin felt it was quite the honour for her to trust him enough to tell him (what he thought were) rather classified details- that was actually what prompted him to impulsively ask her what exactly she thought of him. Ms Carter had not hesitated in labelling him as her best friend.

She had then burst into quite an uncharacteristic bout of laughter at the expense of his own embarrassment, and at the time Edwin had felt very much like they were school children giggling over a fellow classmate’s mishaps.

Who could have predicted that it would become quite an accurate description when a rather scandalous newspaper article was released the following day regarding the rumour of an affair between the esteemed Agent Carter and Howard Stark’s butler. For the benefit of both Mr Carter’s reputation and his and Ana’s own privacy, the pair had decided to keep their friendship as "their little secret” and maintain formalities when in public. But even with that and Mr Stark himself publicly denying any truth behind the rumour, it still took a few weeks for it to dispel.

Ana had teased the two of them for many more weeks after that.

As for the cube itself, there is something Edwin finds very strange about it. Mr Stark had been studying it relentlessly since it fell into his hands. Edwin had assisted as per usual and nothing was out of the ordinary, sans perhaps the secret behind its origins and abilities.

No, the strangeness began when Mr Stark asked him to continue studying it alone after Edwin had forced him to rest after over 24 hours of working in the lab. Howard had only agreed to do so if Edwin (who had the sense to stay well-rested) continued to work on it. So he did just that.

Mere moments after Mr Stark had left, Edwin felt himself being... drawn towards the enigmatic object. It was an extremely odd sensation. Though he knows it is impossible, it was almost like it was… beckoning him. Beckoning to come closer. To touch it. To hold it.

To break it.

Now Edwin had the sense to ignore whatever otherworldly temptations the cube was attempting to inflict on him and had simply continued to work as instructed. Yet despite that bizarre event, the thing that unsettled him the most was when Mr Stark denied having ever experienced such a feeling apart from the natural curiosity of an inventor to learn more.

They have worked on the cube many times since then, and every time Edwin would sense that strange calling only when he was alone. He’d worried at first that it was some form of hypnosis but Ana had assured him that he hadn’t changed in the slightest.

However he now found himself enthralled by the night sky, and what unquestionably lies beyond it.

Planets, stars, galaxies, life. The infinite possibilities of space.

And he is just one insignificant man within it all.

“Edwin?”

He is pulled out of his thoughts by Ana calling him from behind. Her face is stern but her eyes are concerned as she approaches him, wrapping her soft burgundy shawl tighter around her shoulders. Edwin immediately feels guilty for causing her to venture outside in such cold weather.

“You need to come inside now, dear. The stars will still be here tomorrow.”

He shoots her an apologetic smile and his heart melts at the way her pink lips part slightly as she lets out the smallest of laughs. She was probably waiting for him to come to bed as evidenced by the fact that her divine red hair is loose and flowing behind her in the wind.

It truly amazes him how beautiful his wife looks even in the most unflattering of situations.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he truly means it, “I was lost in my thoughts.”

Ana tilts her head up towards the sky. “I know they are beautiful, but surely your wife is too?” she teases, and Edwin finds heat rushing into his cheeks.

Smiling, she untangles one arm from within her shawl and offers it to him, but the second his hand touches hers she lets out a small gasp.

“Your skin is freezing!” She exclaims. “Buta emberem, come inside before you catch a cold.”

He wordlessly allows her to usher him inside as she mumbles in her own tongue about how her husband puts others too far before himself.

Ana was right. Ana was always right. She was more beautiful than any star could ever dream of being and he was well aware that he was blessed to be her husband and to have her in his life.

And yet… that night he still found himself dreaming of the stars.

~-.-~

“Am I doing the right thing, Jarvis?”

Howard’s words startle him just as he is about to leave the workshop.

Confused, he turns to face his employer. “What do you mean, Sir?”

Howard’s hands clench into fists at his side as he struggles to find the right words. “I don’t know, I just-” he sighs and looks up at Edwin almost desperately. “I climbed up from practically nothing to get here… what if settling down screws all that up? Screws up the company?”

Ah, Edwin understands now. He knew that Maria was different from the second she scolded Mr Stark without hesitation. She is so different from all the other women, and though Edwin knows that she would never use him he can also understand why his friend is worried. He does have a legacy, company and reputation to maintain, and tying the knot with the wrong person could hypothetically ruin all that.

But Edwin trusts Maria, and Maria loves Mr Stark.

“I think,” he begins, uncomfortably aware that Howard is clinging on to his every word, “that you should follow your heart. Maria is a lovely woman and everyone can see that she makes you happy.” He notes how Mr Stark smiles at the thought of his girlfriend. “But I’m not sure if you should be asking me for this sort of advice, Sir.” He adds.

“Are you kidding?” Howard scoffs. “You and Ana have the best thing going that I’ve ever seen. The two of you are so sweet it makes me sick.”

Having perfected the art of not taking offence at Mr Stark’s offhand remarks, Edwin just brushes the comment aside and speaks to his employer slowly and calmly. “If I know you, Sir, that’s not the sort of relationship you’re looking for.”

Howard Stark has been involved with woman after woman, scandal after scandal, leaving his poor butler to deal with the aftermath of each one. So yes, Edwin knows all too well that the man would struggle with the commitment of marriage and the tower of responsibilities that comes with it.

“See, that’s my point!” Howard exclaims, throwing his hands up in frustration. “I don’t know if I can do it!”

Despite the seriousness of the conversation, a small smirk tugs at Edwin’s lips. “Oh, I was under the impression that the great Howard Stark could do anything.”

It was astounding to watch as pompous a man as Howard Stark, with an ego as large as the sun, crumble with insecurity. It was an extremely rare sight to behold and Edwin has the feeling that he is the only person to whom Howard would reveal his inner vulnerabilities.

“You think so?” He asks.

Edwin’s snarky smirk is replaced by a genuine expression of reassurance. “That’s what people say, but I have to say that the man I know personally isn’t perfect. But I also know that Maria makes him whole, and that he needs someone to anchor him before he loses sight of what’s truly important.”

“Steve-”

“Yes, I know Captain Rogers is important,” he interrupts, “but you need to live in the present. He was in the past. I think that Maria could be your future.”

Mr Stark looks up at him for a few moments, presumably allowing his words to sink in. Then all of a sudden his eyes harden with an all-too-familiar determination.

“You’re right!” He cries. “I’m great- I can do this! What’s another challenge to me, right?”

Edwin resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“Follow my heart? Well in that case it’s settled. I’ll propose to her tomorrow!”

“Wh- tomorrow?!” Edwin splutters, his calmness shattering with the shock of the preposterous statement.

Howard snorts and holds his hands up in surrender. “Just messing with you. Sometimes your advice is so good that I gotta make sure you’re not a robot or something.”

Edwin chuckles nervously.

“But seriously,” Mr Stark continues, closing the gap between them, “thanks, Jarvis.” He wraps his arms around Edwin’s torso (it’s an odd, childish position but it’s what suits their height difference the best) and squeezes him in a tight hug. Then his playful voice drops into a smaller, more serious tone. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He then pulls back and both men take a moment to adjust their clothing.

“You’re gonna be my best man, right?”

“Perhaps you should propose to her first before you get ahead of yourself, Sir. Take things slow.” Edwin decides to neglect mentioning how improper it would look for Howard Stark’s butler to act as best man and, as utterly flattered as he is, promises to himself to argue the point at a later date.

Mr Stark proceeds to practically hop back to his worktop to continue tinkering with his latest invention. It is a remote control of some sort and thankfully not that blasted cube. However, Edwin knows him well enough that his mind is elsewhere and is practically swimming with proposal ideas- which he will, eventually, end up asking for his help about too.

He doesn’t mind. Edwin just feels happy to help.

~-.-~

Edwin nearly jumps out of his skin as a slender hand taps him on the shoulder.

“Oh! I’m sorry to startle you, Mr Jarvis. I just… I was wondering if I could pull you aside for a minute. In private.”

Mrs Stark’s eyes are wide and alert, and she looks up at him with an air of emergency she’d never admit to having.

Being the ideal butler, Edwin obviously agrees. “Of course. Where would you like to..?”

“Our bedroom,” she supplies all too quickly, “if that’s alright with you.”

It’s not a question. All Edwin can do is nod politely, set his feather duster down, and follow Maria through the hallway and up the elegant main staircase of Stark manor.

Luckily, they don’t pass any of the staff on the way up. And since Howard was away on another of his business endeavours (which had become more frequent) there was no worry of bumping into him, either. Not that Edwin has any clue why Maria was being so insistent on secrecy.

Still, he would try his best to keep it. For her sake.

Once they had reached the large, extravagantly-decorated room and Edwin had locked the door firmly behind him, Maria let out a long, shaky sigh.

It’s only when Edwin turns to look at her does his worry start to sink in.

Her eyes are tired and her glorious brown hair is ever-so-slightly tousled. She still looks like a model, of course, but the fact that any imperfection is noticeable means that something must be terribly wrong.

“Is everything alright?” Edwin asks quietly once he realises that she won’t speak first.

Maria nods unsurely. “I… I don’t know.” She says, and Edwin can hear the lilt of her original Italian accent clipping her words- an occurrence that happened only when she was very stressed.

Unsure how to prompt her for more information without seeming rude, Edwin smiles comfortingly. “Is there anything I can do for you, Ma’am?”

“Edwin-” the use of his first name surprises him so much that it wipes the smile off his face- “you know Howard well, don’t you?”

Edwin is too busy worrying about where the conversation is heading to consider the question too deeply. “W-Well, yes, I suppose I do.” He stutters. “More than any of the staff, most definitely.”

Maria sighs again and moves to sit down on the bed. Edwin, having no idea if he is welcome to do the same, just stands awkwardly on the spot.

She twists the magnificent ring on her finger as she speaks, not looking Edwin in the eye. “…Do you know whether he wants children?”

“W-Well, I- um, i-if, erm-” Edwin stammers incoherently.

Maria holds up her ringed hand to silence him and finally meets his panicked gaze.

“I am pregnant.”

For a moment, Edwin believes he heard incorrectly. His expression doesn’t change as he waits for Maria to repeat herself. When she doesn’t, and the truth finally settles in, he feels the biggest, most-unprofessional grin slip onto his face.

“Oh Maria,” he says, forgoing all formalities as he quickly moves to sit beside her on the bed, “that’s absolutely wonderful!”

Rather than be offended, she seems to appreciate the use of her first name. She smiles in relief at Edwin’s positive reaction. “I only found out a few hours ago, you’re the first to know.”

“That’s amazing!” Edwin’s smile falters slightly. “Is it..?”

“Yes, it belongs to Howard.” Maria assures. Not that he had any doubt, of course, he simply just had to make sure in case she needed any support.

And, just to be extra sure, he cautiously asks another sensitive question.

“…Are you happy?”

Maria tenses for a moment, her eyes frantically scanning over Edwin’s face for… something. When she presumably does or doesn’t find what she’s looking for, she relaxes again.

“I’m overjoyed,” she says, her voice barely a whisper as she idly rubs her stomach, “but Howard-”

“Don’t worry about Howard.” Edwin cuts off firmly. “He is a grown man who adores you, he won’t run off when he hears- I’ll make sure of that. And though I can’t be certain what his initial reaction will be like, I can be certain that he will be every bit as happy as you are.” He smiles a little sadly. “I can only presume fatherhood does that to you.”

The fear doesn’t leave her eyes. “But how do I-”

“I can tell him, if you’d like, but I think he’d much rather prefer to hear it from you.” He interrupts again, reading her mind. “And I think it would be wise to wait until he returns tomorrow, otherwise he’ll grumble about unfinished work.”

Maria lets out a small, dainty laugh. It doesn’t sound entirely natural which does mean that she’s feeling more like herself. Then they fall into a comfortable silence, Maria twisting her ring absentmindedly as Edwin tries to settle his own giddiness from the wonderful news.

He truly feels ecstatic and over the moon for Mr and Mrs Stark. They are going to have a child! A small part of him can't help but feel jealous that he can never have that for himself.

He hates Whitney Frost with every fibre of his being.

But he and Ana have come to terms with the fact that they won't be able to have children, so instead he tries to channel all of his sadness into joy for his dear friends. Besides, he is sure that Mr Stark will let him babysit the child with Ana on occasion. The pair of them would do it for free without a second thought.

Suddenly, Maria shifts her position on the bed to face him before clasping his hand with hers.

“Thank you, Edwin.”

It is said with such sincerity that the use of his first name doesn’t make him even bat an eye this time. In that moment, it wasn’t a wealthy lady thanking her husband’s butler. No, it was an anxious woman thanking her friend.

“My pleasure.” He replies on instinct when she releases his hand.

“I’m sorry for keeping you.” She adds, and Edwin knows that’s his cue to leave. So, with one final smile of reassurance and glee, he leaves her to her own devices.

It isn’t until late that night, as he lies awake in bed with his wife beside him, that it occurs to him as odd that Mrs Stark told him first.

#marvel #mcu #agent carter #the avengers #edwin jarvis #ana jarvis #peggy carter #howard stark #maria stark #tony stark #i'll remember you this way #fic

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readyplayerhobi · 4 years

Text

Flower | 07

; Hoseok x Reader

; Genre: Fluff, angst

; Word Count: 3.2k

; Warnings: Discussions of death, car accidents, self-destructive behaviour

; Synopsis: You finally decide to take a dip into the world of online dating and find the Flower dating app. One of the top matches for you proves to be a guy who looks to be your complete opposite; tattooed, pierced, a metalhead and oh…incredibly handsome. What happens when you throw caution to the wind and reach out to him?

; A/N: I hope you’re all still enjoying :) This series is incredibly easy for me to write due to the short length of each chapter. I love Hoseok in this too! Please reblog and leave me comments/asks if you enjoy it! i want to hear your thoughts on them!

; Flower Masterpost

You felt sick. You genuinely felt like you were going to throw up what little you’d eaten while at work today and you couldn’t tell if it was nerves from tonight or anxiety over having your routine interrupted. Work nights were for going home to your small apartment and curling up with your cat, not going out.

But Hoseok had asked if you’d come over to his tonight and you’d been so flustered over the invite that you’d said yes before even thinking.

Going over to his was something that you’d been lowkey excited about and hoping for for the last two weeks. The two of you had gone on another three dates; bowling, the movie theatre to watch 21 Bridges and then to the theatre again to watch Frozen 2. Which he’d obviously been just delighted to watch.

He’d finally decided that it was time to start having cheaper dates, which meant hanging out at each other’s place. You didn’t know if this meant you were officially dating, like boyfriend-girlfriend dating or that weird adult form of dating where neither of you say anything but it just slowly happens. It kind of felt like number two was happening.

So here you were, stood outside his apartment door at 5:47pm. He’d said to come over for 6, but you didn’t want to knock and look like you were being too eager. As much as you like being early to things, you personally hated it when people were early in turn to you. It stressed you out too much.

Chewing on your lip and fidgeting quietly, you look at your phone screen once more and wonder how long it would be okay to wait before finally knocking. And then suddenly the door was opening, the movement causing you to jump slightly as you shuffled backwards with a hot face.

Hoseok was stood there, grinning at you with grey sweatpants on and an oversized white shirt covering his torso while a black snapback was turned backwards on his head. It made him bizarrely look more frat boy than it did metal head, but the colourful tattoos pushed that impression away.

Actually no, it combined fuckboy and metalhead together until you were suddenly faced with a lethal combo. He should not look that good, really. And then you realised that you were staring, that you had been staring for far too long in fact, as he lets out a quiet laugh.

“How long are you gonna stand there for? Or would rather come in?” He points behind him and you peer around his body, taking in the oddly neutral colour scheme of his place. You weren’t entirely sure what you expected it to look like, but the boring beige he had wasn’t it.

Glancing back, he looks back at his own place before sighing and gesturing you inside, closing the door behind you and taking your coat. “It’s not very interesting to look at but I’m one of those people who’d rather spend their money on other things.”

“Can’t relate. It’s not a home unless it’s filled with a million things for me. Even my desk at work looks like Disney and Pokémon had a baby which then threw up Studio Ghibli.” Hoseok looks at you strangely for a moment before grinning and gently pushing you through to the living room. It’s open plan with the kitchen to the left, the space divided by his large corner sofa while a huge television screen took up pride of place on top of a sleek black glass counter.

You could spy a Playstation 4 beneath and your brow raised momentarily, wondering why he’d never mentioned playing any games. But you didn’t get chance to say anything as he gestured for you to sit on the couch, the plain black pillows looking out of place on the grey fabric.

“What do you want to drink? I got beer...well I got beer and water. So I guess you’ll want water.” He said, more to himself really and you couldn’t help the small smile as he heads back in, a glass of water in his hand and an opened beer for himself. You take a small sip before leaning forward and carefully placing it on his coffee table, looking at the CD coasters in amusement.

“Sorry, I should have something nicer for you to drink.” Hoseok apologises, flopping down onto the couch next to you with a huff and giving you a twisted smile. Shaking your head, you place your bag on the floor before leaning back against the comfortable cushion as well.

“No, it’s okay. I drink water at home too. I know. It’s not interesting.” You shrug at him, biting your lip.

“Doesn’t need to be. If that’s what you like then at least it’s cheap, right?” Snorting, you nod and grin at him shyly, looking down at your hands. Despite getting more comfortable with him over the last two weeks, you were still awkward and didn’t really know how to talk to him properly. It was probably even worse with him than with your friends, because you felt a level of expectation on yourself given the attraction you had to him.

Hoseok doesn't seem to notice though, his attention focused on the remote in his hand as he navigates through his TV to the Netflix app. Glancing to you, he gives a quick smile as he clicks it on.

"Not gonna be too interesting tonight I'm afraid, but I thought we could just...spend some time together and watch some Netflix?" He pauses suddenly, eyes widening as he looks from the screen to you. "I-er-I mean...this is not me trying to like...Netflix and chill or something. It's literally just watching something...call for some takeout, so don't worry."

The horror in his eyes as he evidently realises how his words could be construed makes you giggle lightly, anxiety vanishing for a moment at his blunder. You think it's cute how desperate he is to make you feel comfortable and you find your hand resting on his arm to reassure him.

"I didn't think you were. It's okay. Just...pick something good." He eyes you then, lips pursing before he begins to play with his lip ring. Then he hands you the remote, mentioning to the screen with a gracious smile.

"You can put something on. Though I should make you watch something terrible after you made me watch Frozen last time." You scoff at that, mock outrage as you glare at him before flicking through what's available.

"Riiight, right. Frozen is evidently so terrible that you know all the words to Let It Go apparently. And I didn’t make you do anything! You suggested it because you’d seen everything else"

"...Elsa is badass okay?"

The two of you end up watching a Netflix original film, something that started out okay but ended strange. It had been nice and peaceful though, your random comments and observations causing him to chuckle in amusement rather than annoyance thankfully before he ordered a pizza for you both.

There had been some casual conversation too, spurred on from the film itself and you'd both discussed why it was that so many Netflix films had such terrible endings. Not that either of you had come up with an answer, but it had still been fun.

Even if you'd both had mouthfuls of pepperoni pizza at the time which not only made it harder to speak but also just looked gross. But at least he looked equally gross.

Hoseok had chosen the second film, the time ticking later and later, causing you to glance at the clock in slight anxiety before forcing yourself to stay quiet. It wasn't too late really, and you found yourself unwilling to leave him anyway. You enjoyed being around Hoseok.

It had surprised you to discover this, but he had an easy personality that made it simple to talk to him. He was outgoing and pleasant, willing to engage you in whatever you wanted to talk about while making sure that you were comfortable. You were positive that you somehow hit the jackpot which in turn meant that you were positive it would all go to shit with your luck.

He was slouching down now, legs laid out in front of him as he sat on the bit of the couch that connected to the other half. You were next to him, leaning a little closer than you intended because of his weight causing the cushions to dip.

It gave you a great view of his tattoos though, the arm closest to you bright and vibrant with its colours, eye catching to say the least. You find yourself looking over them more than watching the film curious as to what they were and what they represented.

"You can touch them you know, I'm not gonna freak." Hoseok's voice makes you jerk in surprise, looking up with wide eyes to find him watching you with a carefully neutral expression. You make no movement towards him and he reaches out, resting his hand on your thigh before giving you a small smile.

"I'm serious, I don't mind."

You hesitate for a moment before taking him up on his offer, letting your fingers travel along the intricate art of his arm. It's his right arm, the one with the seeming mish-mash of images and you look each one over in interest.

There's a ghost pirate ship sailing among a sea of ruby red roses with a single gold rose floating amongst them all. The night sky surrounding the ragged grey sails is black, pin pricked with spots of white to signify an array of stars while a full moon turns into a clock, the hands frozen at what looks to be 3:30.

The sea of roses soon shift into a detailed skull, only half of it present while it morphs into a woman's face on the other side, crystal tears dripping down her face that shifts into blood on her chin. Long black hair swooping down past her face forms a lean panther, snarling in a jungle of trees. There's far more detail woven into it all than you’d realised and you admire them with a smile you don't even realise you have.

"These are beautiful. I didn't look too close before, but they're all linked right?" Hoseok is quiet for a moment before nodding, turning his arms to let you see those on his inner wrist. "How long did this take to get all this? I'm guessing you have one on your chest from what I can see and your other arm is gorgeous too."

"I got my first when I was fifteen. Wasn't legal obviously, but I didn't care back then. Didn't care about much to be honest." You frown up at him, noticing the way his face has gone carefully blank and how he stares away from you.

"That's young, right? Isn't the legal age like...eighteen?" He nods in response and you bite your lip carefully. "What do they mean? If you're willing to tell me. You don’t have to, I’d just...like to know?"

You add the last question on quickly, getting the feeling that these tattoos are more personal to Hoseok than you realised.

Sure enough, he stays quiet for a moment before pointing at the half-skull, half-woman. "This represents my sister, Hyeri. The pirate ship is because she was obsessed with pirates back then and the roses because she used to really love them. She thought red roses were romantic but secretly she preferred gold, hence the gold one."

His fingers shifts to the moon-clock. "This...shows the time she died. 3:33pm, September 26th. She was only eleven. I was eight."

You're shocked into silence, one hand moving to your mouth as you feel a wave of sympathy for him that surprises you. He sees your look and gives a half smile shaking his head before he takes your hand and winds your fingers together.

Even with the shock of his words, your stomach flips with nervy excitement at the way he held your hand so easily. It was the first time he'd ever done that, the first time hed extended physical contact beyond the cheek kisses he’d become fond of giving you.

"I got a really shitty tattoo when I was fifteen because I thought it would piss my parents off. I was angry at the world, but it was really because I felt guilty and I was angry that the world wasn't angry at me. You see...I was convinced that I was the reason Hyeri died." You don't have any words to give him then, staring at him in disbelief. He takes your silence as a cue to continue.

"My parents were driving us home from the mall. I was angry because Hyeri had won some stupid toy in an arcade machine and I didn't have anything, you know how it is back then. Kids are stupid over tiny stuff. So I started a fight with her. Mom was leaning back to stop us and dad was shouting...then we get hit by a car. I blamed myself for her dying. Thought it was my fault, because I'd started fighting and distracted my parents." He sighs deeply, squeezing your hand gently.

"I couldn't handle it. I was only a kid you know? I loved Hyeri a lot, looked up to her. And then I had this guilt I'd put on myself. It was a drunk driver who ran a red, it wasn't me but...you can't accept that. Not when you’re that young. My parents weren’t angry with me, kept telling me they didn't blame me and I hated them for that. I didn’t understand why they weren’t angry and that pissed me off even more. So I acted out. I was pretty nasty in school, joined the bad crowd, smoked, drank, did drugs, fucked around. Anything to just...get my parents angry,"

"But they never did. Because they knew that I blamed myself. I refused therapy ‘cos I thought it was lame. Got into college somehow and I started dating this girl freshman year. Older than me, liked bad boys. She was a psych major. I think she liked trying to analyse them or something. But she must have seen I had real issues that could be resolved so she got my friends to encourage me to go to counselling. I did...and I finally came to terms with Hyeri's death. Accepted it wasn't my fault, it was the drunk driver. She would've died even if I hadn’t started the fight. Cleaned up my act after that...apologised to my parents, stopped smoking and doing drugs. Stopped fucking around, discovered computers and metal. Got these tattoos to memorialise her, because I still love her."

A quiet sniff leaves you and he looks up in surprise, face breaking into a gentle smile as he sees the tears falling down your face. You hadn't been able to stop them, the pain in his voice at his sister's death pulling at your heartstrings and then his agony at coming to terms with it all.

"I'm sorry Hoseok, that sounds awful." You get out, lips quivering and he chuckles softly, reaching up and wiping away at your tears.

"Hey, it's okay. I'm at peace with it all now and all that jazz. Now I get tattoos ‘cos I like them. And I have a great relationship with my parents now, I swear." Using your free hand, you trace over the woman's face, his sisters face you presume with a quiet reverence.

"They're beautiful. Really. I'm glad...that you made something nice out of it all." Hoseok snorts softly, letting his thumb stroke the back of your hand while his other hand cups your cheek gently.

The film is completely forgotten in the background, but neither of you seem to care as he stares deeply into your eyes.

"Thank you. I'm glad you like them. My other sleeve is just cos I thought space dragons would be cool." That makes you break out into a series of giggles, bending closer to him slightly from the force of your laughter. Hoseok keeps you there when you try to move back, deep brown eyes staring directly into yours while you feel his warm breath ghosting over your lips.

"You're very beautiful. Have I told you that?" You can feel your body heating, unsure whether to be embarrassed or run away from his sudden compliment. The only response you can do is to glance down, away from his charged gaze.

"You are, really," He whispers and you make a noise, unsure what it was but not wanting this moment to end either. "...this might seem a little weird given the topic we've just discussed...but can I kiss you? I've been wanting to…"

Oh god, oh god. He wants to kiss you. This disgustingly attractive man who could command the attention of any woman if he tried hard enough wanted to kiss you. Was he mad? Had he thought this through? Surely he was going to regret this, there were far better women out there than you.

And yet your head nods of its own accord, movement foreign to you suddenly and it's like you're not in your body. Not aware of the bubbling nausea from the swirling emotions in your stomach and veins, not aware of the tension in your body or the sudden way you feel hot and flustered.

Hoseok doesn't say anything though, just smiles before leaning forward. The space between you both is even shorter than you'd realised and he's kissing you. His lips, so soft and warm, are pressed against your own and you're frozen in shock, desire and indecision.

The feeling of his solid lip ring against your mouth is foreign, and yet it's what brings you back to life. Suddenly you feel everything in your body, too much. Like your mind is being overloaded with sensation and emotions, all focused on the fact that Jung Hoseok is kissing you.

And you like it. In fact, you love it.

Before he can move away, you shyly reach and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him a bit closer. He grins into the kiss, breaking the contact slightly and letting you both breath before he's shifting, tugging you closer till you're laid out on the couch, body pressed to his side.

A gasp leaves you at the feel of his solid, warm body against your own and he takes full advantage of it, slipping his tongue into your mouth with the practised ease of someone who has done this many times. You like that too.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself ignore the stresses, anxieties and worries that plague your mind so often. There on Hoseok's couch, you do no more than kiss like loved up teenagers and yet it's the first time you've had any kind of romantic interaction with someone without the looming dark clouds of negativity in your head.

You purposefully push it away, too desperate to simply enjoy this moment with an attractive man who genuinely seems to like you. And so you do.

For the first time, you simply let someone in.

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justkeeptrekkin · 5 years

Note

If you’re still doing ineffable husbands prompts??? Something with Crowley and being self conscious bout his eyes pls. It’s a weakness of mine lol

I had way too much fun writing this… I hope you enjoy!! Tagging my mate @mikudave, who also requested some snake Crowley.

***

“Crowley, dear, where are you hiding?”

Crowley cracks open one snake eye. Technically, he isn’t hiding. He had been napping, until Aziraphale’s sing-song voice woke him up. Naps are always significantly better when you can be a snake and curl up in some quiet nook somewhere. No bed required. No judgment. Because, unsurprisingly, people don’t tend to judge snakes that happen to be asleep behind a bookcase- they just scream and run away.

Crowley pokes his snakehead around the edge of said bookcase and darts his tongue. He can taste Aziraphale’s cologne in the air. Out of sight, somewhere in the room, Aziraphale sighs wearily, but affectionately.

“Oh, come now, there’s no need for that. If you want to ignore me then don’t go to sleep in my bookshop.”

He stretches his head out further, and he sees him- stepping slowly into the room, looking about the place with a small smile and a twinkle in his eye. His neck craned backwards so he can gaze up into the light that pours through the glass dome above. Bathing in it like the day he was born- how all angels are born, in the light of God’s smile.

All angels including Crowley, once upon a time.

Crowley lets his snake eyes stare at him from afar, just for a moment longer. Then, he gathers his limited energy and slithers into view. He likes a good slither. Slithering is much more satisfying than walking, which involves using too many joints, and hips getting in the way. Just as he’s about to sneak up behind Aziraphale’s back, the angel turns and peers down. He sighs again, straightening his waist-coat thoughtlessly.

“Oh there you are, my love.” Crowley’s cold blood warms at those words. He curls around Aziraphale’s leg like a vine, wrapping around his waist and coming to rest his head on his shoulder. Aziraphale peers over at him with narrowed eyes and raised brows, a furtive smile. “Where have you been, then? Scare any customers away?”

“Yesssssss. Jusssst a couple. One of them almost called animal control.”

“Wonderful. Hang on- actually,” Aziraphale double takes, planted on the spot now that he has a giant python wrapped around him. “Not all that wonderful, Crowley. I do very much appreciate that you’re- uhm-”

“Sssssstanding guard,” he supplies.

“Fine, standing guard, however you want to call it. I admit that it was getting exhausting miracling all the customers away, and I do love you for doing this, but- I don’t know how many times I can convince the RSPCA that ‘no, there’s no python here, everything’s just fine, tickety boo, nothing to worry about, officer, thank you very much, have a nice day’. And all that.”

The chastising look he’s getting from Aziraphale isn’t very intimidating- actually, it’s a bit comical, particularly with his face this close to Crowley’s. He can only see him with one eye, anyway- the other eye, on the other side of his snake head, is facing Aziraphale’s desk and surveying the half drunk bottle of whisky with interest.

Thinking that perhaps he ought to give Aziraphale a chance to have a real conversation face to face, he makes a sussurating, serpentine sigh and takes his human form. By the time scales have become skin and the tail has become limbs, he’s still wrapped around Aziraphale, albeit with his feet on the ground. His arms are around Aziraphale’s waist, clinging. His face buried in the soft cashmere of his jacket. His breath hot on his face, trapped between the material and his lips. He lets himself hang there.

Aziraphale feels like home.

It makes Crowley angry sometimes, thinking of all the times he could have held him like this, felt like this. All the times he could have been braver and said those three simple words.

“Have you been sleeping all morning?” Aziraphale asks gently, rubbing his back.

“Sleepy,” he grumbles.

“Oh, dear.” The way Aziraphale says this is like he’s consoling a moody toddler.

“S’fine. Just that it’s cold outside and your shop’s warm.”

“Mmm, yes. I turned the heating on the day before yesterday. Such strange weather we’re having at the moment. Do you know, British Gas rang me yesterday and tried to tell me that I haven’t been paying my bills. Can you believe it?”

Crowley snorts, lifts his head up and leans back from their embrace a little. Soft, but stern pale eyes scan over Crowley’s face.

“What did you say?”

Aziraphale blinks at him. “Well, obviously I found my log books and gave them a thorough run down of my payments. As if I don’t keep track of my bills. Really.”

“Really,” he agrees with amusement.

There had, of course, been the time when Aziraphale had been visited by the Tax Man for being so suspiciously good at balancing his books. Truth is, he really is just that diligent. Crowley briefly feels sorry for the British Gas employee who must have been on the other end of that phone call- they must have had their ear talked off. Gotten a proper lecture, just like the Tax Man. And then, Crowley is bizarrely overwhelmed by how proud he is of Aziraphale for being so unceasingly irritating.

This thought process is interrupted as Crowley registers the dreamy look on Aziraphale’s face. A sweet smile and pinched brows.

“What is it,” he asks warily. Aziraphale’s soppy expressions usually indicate when Crowley’s unintentionally done something nice. Or romantic.

Well, at least, it’s very rarely intentional.

“Nothing, my dear.” Aziraphale pats his chest with a coy smile. Implying it’s not nothing at all, and he’s about to expand any second-

“It’s just,” the angel continues, gaze peering at him through his lashes. “You have such lovely eyes. Sometimes, it just catches me off guard.”

Of all the things for Aziraphale to say, he hadn’t expected that at all.

And after all the years that the two of them have known each other, his compliments still make Crowley twitch.

“Don’t be stupid,” he mutters. He hates how he sounds.

And he loves that Aziraphale is unfazed by the sneer that’s most probably on his face right now.

“You do. They’re really, truly beautiful, my dear.”

“Stop it.”

“I am being totally serious.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re right.”

“Oh- I may be a bit daft at times, but I’m right about some things, and this is one of them.”

“God you’re- you’re insufferable-”

“You’re beautiful, Crowley-”

“Aziraphale.”

“Your eyes are golden like Autumn leaves-”

“Jesus. I’m- I am genuinely considering becoming a snake just to strangle you, you do realise that-?”

“Shining like distant suns-”

“I will leave you.”

“Do you not see that you have nice eyes, Crowley?”

“They’re fine. They’re eyes. Serve their purpose.”

“Yes but- they’re golden. They’re remarkable. Some would even say angelic.”

“Except they’re not, are they?”

The teasing smile on Aziraphale’s expression falls a little. The teasing tone in Crowley’s voice turns bitter. And Aziraphale’s hands hold onto the lapel of Crowley’s jacket. The gesture is strangely protective.

“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry, Crowley. I hadn’t realised you were self-conscious,” Aziraphale says quietly. Just for them to hear, even though they’re alone in the bookshop.

And Crowley doesn’t look back, even though he feels Aziraphale’s eyes on him. He refuses to look back. Something in him makes him want to run away. He doesn’t- instead, he grinds his teeth and breathes loudly through his nose, staring at the pile of E. M. Forster books on the table adjacent.

He could stand here silently and ignore that statement, or he could argue (and lose that battle, because there’s no use arguing with Aziraphale). Instead, he sighs.

“They’re not angelic, though, are they. They’re the one thing about my form I can’t change. If I discorporate, I could have any other body, but I would still have these eyes.” And he thinks he’s finished, except he hasn’t, because the words tumble out of his mouth like he’s drunk. “Just- you know, a fun reminder of that little mistake I made, when I was young and reckless- and hung out with the wrong crowd, like any stupid kid does. A warning to everyone else that I’m wily. And bad and cruel and untrustworthy. Because, obviously, you know, people deserve to have their mistakes literally branded on them for the rest of eternity.”

And then he really is finished, so he swallows and sighs, turning his gaze to Aziraphale’s bow tie. It’s not tartan today, but it’s just as poncy. Meanwhile, Aziraphale is quiet. Like he’s been embarrassed into silence for putting his foot so thoroughly in it, Crowley thinks.

But then, Aziraphale always manages to surprise Crowley, just a little.

“I know just the thing.”

With one more comforting pat on Crowley’s chest, Aziraphale untangles himself and disappears behind some bookshelves. The shop feels almost frighteningly large- without Aziraphale’s close presence, without the tight nook of a bookshelf as a bed. Crowley peers over his shoulder to see him fussing, tutting to himself as he peruses a pile of dusty first editions. Moving one pile out of the way to make room for the next, bending down to find something in particular, it seems.

“What you looking for, angel,” he asks, a little gruffly in his confusion.

Aziraphale doesn’t answer, which is his way of telling Crowley to be patient and bear with him. Eventually, he makes a pleased little hum, and pulls out a book from the bottom of the very last pile.

Aziraphale twirls around theatrically to face Crowley, book open in one hand and the other clutching his chest.

“Golden Eyes,” he announces, with his best thespian voice. “A poem by Laurence Hope.”

“No,” is all Crowley says in response.

“Oh Amber Eyes, oh Golden Eyes! Oh Eyes so softly gay!”

“Christ.”

“Wherein swift fancies fall and rise, Grow dark and fade away!” Aziraphale begins to pace the room, book hand extended like he’s reading from a script. Like he’s one of Shakespeare’s actors, only, miraculously, even more ridiculous. “Eyes like a little limpid pool That holds a sunset sky, While on its surface, calm and cool, Blue water lilies lie-”

“You can stop now,” Crowley argues, a smile creeping up on him.

Aziraphale seems to pick up on his amusement, because he bounds over with dramatically wide eyes, and is now, God help him, making whimsical hand gestures to accompany his performance. He’s enjoying this too much. “Oh Tender Eyes, oh Wistful Eyes, You smiled on me one day, And all my life, in glad surprise, Leapt up and pleaded ‘Stay!’ Ooh, now, hang on,” he interrupts himself, “let me just find my favourite bit…”

“You- don’t. You don’t have to.”

“I do, and I shall,” he replies primly, putting on his reading glasses and tilting his head upwards so he can read the pages a little better. “Ah! Here we are- are you ready?”

“No.”

“Ah laughing, ever-brilliant eyes, These things men may not know, But something in your radiance lies, That, centuries ago, Lit up my life in one wild blaze Of infinite desire To revel in your golden rays, Or in your light expire.”

And- yeah, alright, that is quite nice, Crowley thinks. Maybe he can put up with being serenaded every now and then, so long as he gets to roll his eyes and pretend he hates it. And Aziraphale’s bashfulness finally seems to catch up with him as he approaches Crowley slowly, eyes fixed on the book and a small, self-conscious smile on his lips.

He continues, softly.

“If this, oh Strange Ringed Eyes, be true, That through all changing lives This longing love I have for you Eternally survives-”

Crowley reaches out a hand to find Aziraphale’s, to run along his arm.

“May I not sometimes dare to dream In some far time to be Your softly golden eyes may gleam Responsively on me?”

And at that, Aziraphale sighs. He looks away from the page and Crowley takes the book from him, lays it on the table behind him.

“Well?” Aziraphale asks quietly. A little coquettishly. “May I dare to dream?”

Crowley huffs and shakes his head. He lays a hand on Aziraphale’s cheek, watches the angel’s eyes flutter closed.

“You silly sod,” he whispers, just so he doesn’t have to hear himself choke.

With that said, he answers Aziraphale’s question- he answers in a kiss. Soft, sure, and more eloquent than any words he’d ever be able to stumble through.

#good omens #my writing #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #prompts #fic prompt

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randomoranges · 3 years

Text

sometimes my life is an actual sitcom. i wish i could say i made this stuff up, but now, i legit met a guy while selling a shoe rack who came back to chat me up post sale bcs he thought i was pretty. he then proceeded to tell me a million times in one hr and has since been very over the top about being into me. as much as it’s nice to have attention u also gotta pace yourself. hes so over the top it’s ridiculous and also getting more annoying.

also never fucking send ppl semi nude photos unprompted wtf is wrong with yall.

anyways i live vicariously through teacher au and use real life shit to put the characters through the same thing. today i vibed with edward.

this takes place before he and étienne are together

this is a blurb. i just needed to get a thought out of my system

edwards answers are legit what i wrote

the gag of all of edwards exes having names that start with c continues XD

Unsolicited

Edward knows he technically shouldn’t, but he’s bored at work and for once, the kids are actually quietly doing their own thing. He decides against his better judgement to open Facebook and scroll aimlessly for a moment or two, while time goes on. It’ll give him a chance to see what exciting lives the rest of his friends are living and envy those who aren’t stuck at work.

He quickly notices a red little number up on the top right corner to signal that he has one unopened conversation and for a moment, he wonders which of his friends would have messaged him. There hadn’t really been any ongoing chats at the moment, so he’s pleasantly surprised and looking forward to hearing from his friends.

He’s only a little disappointed when he sees that it’s not from any of his friends, but instead from a guy he’d met just last Friday in the most strangest of ways. (His friend had hosted a garage sale and had asked for help. Edward had gone. He’d brought along some of his own stuff. This one man – Charles – had bought his old wooden shoe rack. Charles had chatted Edward up. They’d exchanged contact information and had more or less chatted since then. It was a strange way to meet someone – but, not the strangest.)

Charles is – cute and they had a pleasant chat. Edward certainly hadn’t minded the attention, even if it had come from out of nowhere. He’d been looking forward to meeting up with him again, but as the days had gone on and their conversations had progressed, he’d found himself slowly losing a bit of interest over Charles’ over-eagerness.

There were just so many times Charles could say he thought Edward was attractive in an hour before it got redundant and annoying.

Edward was flattered Charles was interested in him, but Edward didn’t want to rush this either. He’d just gotten out of a serious relationship and with the end of the school year looming close, he had other things to deal with. Once summer break arrived, he would have more time and more energy. In the meantime, however, he didn’t need this stranger he barely knew to wax poetics and tell him he wished to wake up beside him to see how he woke up – or whatever garbage he’d been told. Edward was willing to give this a go, but he wasn’t looking to settle down and get married with Charles after knowing him for three days and it quite honestly felt as though Charles had already booked their venue at times.

He was – over the top and intense. Edward had appreciated the fact that Charles had told him he’d found him attractive when he’d first seen him and he liked that he had actually returned to chat him up. It had been a little weird when Charles had called him his beloved and stranger still when he’d apologised from taking up his time and keeping him away from his friends when they’d talked that first time, but Edward had let it slide and had almost found it charming – in its own bizarre way.

Now, it feels as though Charles is trying too hard, when really he doesn’t have to. Edward thought he was attractive, had even told him so and was more than willing to see where this would lead. but if However, if Charles doesn’t slow down, Edward will back out and move on. (Which reminds him – there’d been that whole other conversation where Charles had told him that he looked forward to living their lives together and that he didn’t want to lose him. To which Edward had politely told him that it would be best to get to know each other first.)

Edward wants some fun – not some intense long-term lovey-dovey besotted nonsense. At least – not after three days of talking with the man.

Still, he opens the conversation, curiosity, and boredom getting the best of him, and at first, it’s nice, until Charles asks him if he could have a photo. Edward lets out a long-suffering sigh and is glad his students are too busy with their work to notice.

Charles has asked to send him a photo right now, of all things.

Edward is so not in the mood for any of this.

“No. I’m in class teaching. My students are taking a test.” He writes out. He doesn’t care if he comes across as annoyed, but this man is being irksome in his own infatuated way and it’s – pathetic. He likes the attention, to a degree, he enjoys feeling wanted, but Charles needs to calm down his ardours.

He leaves it at that and doesn’t bother with Charles for the rest of the day.

By the time Edward’s done, he heads to his car and figures he’ll check again to see if he’s gotten a new message. There is still part of him that is curious about this whole ordeal and so he’s a little bit pleased when he sees that Charles has sent him a few messages after their last chat.

He’s less enthused when he gets to the last one.

The first was in regards to the whole photo debacle, saying maybe next time. The second mentioned that he was going for a jog. And the last message – the kicker really, was a photo Charles had sent of himself, shirtless and thankfully from the waist up.

And to think Edward had nearly sent him a post-work exhausted face selfie for the fun of it.

He grumbles, puts his phone away, and figures he’ll deal with it when he gets home.

It’s not that he necessarily minded the photo – he did find the guy attractive to a point, but – it had been unprompted. Unsolicited. He hadn’t asked for a photo. He hadn’t been expecting a shirtless photo. He wasn’t in the current mood to receive such a photo. He could have been at school on break and gotten this photo.

He’s angry and annoyed by the time he gets home.

Edward putters around and leaves Charles on read. It’s one thing going after sex and expecting these photos and it’s another to get them out of the blues. He lets his friends know of this debacle and relishes in their reactions. He’s glad someone gets it.

Finally, after making dinner, playing a few rounds of video games, taking a shower, getting his lunch ready for the following day, and having a nice chat with his friends, he decides to answer Charles.

“Even if a photo of a woman, man, or person shirtless may be nice to receive, it’s always better to send it with consent and with fair warning. Especially when you’re not expecting one and that with my work, there are often children nearby.”

He doesn’t expect an answer so quickly, especially since it’s been five hours since the photo was sent, but Charles, true to form, answers. Edward laughs out loud when he reads how very sorry Charles is and how he genuinely thought Edward would appreciate it. Edward sighs again and groans, passing a hand through his hair.

He tries to find a polite way of trying to get this man to understand and he’s only a little surprised by how easily the words come to him, “There’s a time and place for everything. You don’t send these types of photos willy-nilly whenever you feel like it. There’s context, time, mood, etc. Consent and fair-warning. Imagine you were sitting with your family, friends, or kids and you received such a photo without warning. You can’t assume that the person on the other side is in an appropriate setting to receive these types of messages and images without checking beforehand.”

It’s at times like these he wishes men could be less – like this. He likes a good shirtless photo just like anyone else who’s into men, but he hates that this seems to be a norm. And at least this was only a shirtless photo! He doesn’t want to think of the number of times when he was having a nice conversation about literally anything unrelated to the human body, only to find himself with a photo of a man’s junk, completely unprompted.

Sometimes, he almost wishes he were into women just to be spared this.

Edward figures he’s given Charles enough etiquette lessons for the night and puts his phone away. He pulls up something decent to watch on television and does his best to forget about the incident for now. If anything, he reminds himself, he doesn’t need to commit to anything with this besotted Romeo.

FIN

#teacher au #pc: edmonton #edward murphy #au #fic

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thethistlegirlwrites · 4 years

Text

OC Enneagram types!

@nade2308 I haven't been able to stop thinking about doing this since the Enneagram conversation came up in the Discord, so here it is! My seven main characters (sorry, Rowan, I'm not confident enough to type a tree just yet) and their Enneagram types, plus a short explanation and some quotes about their basic type and wing!

Robin - 4w3 As a basic type of a 4, Robin sees himself as fundamentally different from other people. He isn't sure how to fit into the world, since his dual fae-human nature leaves him feeling on the outside of all of it. He feels broken and incomplete, and keeps trying to create a place that he fits. The 4 tendency to imagine a world where they can belong led him to idealize the hunter world and want to join it like his father, despite his grandfather's warnings against it. The 3 side of his personality is also involved in the effort to fit in, to make himself into an acceptable version that people will like. “Fours feel that they are unlike other human beings, and consequently, that no one can understand them or love them adequately. They often see themselves as uniquely talented, possessing special, one-of-a-kind gifts, but also as uniquely disadvantaged or flawed. More than any other type, Fours are acutely aware of and focused on their personal differences and deficiencies...Healthy Fours are willing to reveal highly personal and potentially shameful things about themselves because they are determined to understand the truth of their experience—so that they can discover who they are and come to terms with their emotional history. This ability also enables Fours to endure suffering with a quiet strength. Their familiarity with their own darker nature makes it easier for them to process painful experiences that might overwhelm other types.” “Threes learn to perform in ways that will garner them praise and positive attention.” John - 6w5 John is deeply tied to his roots, following the family tradition of becoming a hunter with no question of whether or not that was what he wanted to do. To him, duty is the highest thing to seek after, and individual personal goals must always be secondary to what has to be done. the 5 side of his identity comes into play in his work; John feels a sense of pride in working from the shadows, knowing about vampires but hiding that secret from the larger world for its own protection. Like his great-grandfather, he's the sort of person who seeks out a person to be devoted to. Until his brother died, Gabe was the tethering force in John's life. After his death, John drifted away from his home, searching for a new connection, but struggling to find it. “Sixes are the most loyal to their friends and to their beliefs. They will “go down with the ship” and hang on to relationships of all kinds far longer than most other types.”Wanting to feel that there is something solid and clear-cut in their lives, they can become attached to explanations or positions that seem to explain their situation. Once they establish a trustworthy belief, they do not easily question it, nor do they want others to do so. The same is true for individuals in a Six’s life: once Sixes feel they can trust someone, they go to great lengths to maintain connections with the person who acts as a sounding board, a mentor, or a regulator for the Six’s emotional reactions and behavior.” “Investigating "unknown territory"—knowing something that others do not know, or creating something that no one has ever experienced—allows Fives to have a niche for themselves that no one else occupies.” Kira - 5w4 Knowing she would struggle to fit into normal society because of her deafness, Kira seeks to make herself important to others by making discoveries and creating new things. She often called on the 5 tendency to rely on their knowledge and curiosity in her classes, and made a name for herself as the smart girl, not just the Deaf girl. Her passion for strange and new fields of study allowed her to keep an open mind when she first learned of the existence of vampires, and also helped her delve deeply into the lore surrounding them when she became a vigilante hunter. As she's grown, Kira has become more in touch with the 4 side of herself as well, accepting her uniqueness and seeing that as a gift. “Behind Fives’ relentless pursuit of knowledge are deep insecurities about their ability to function successfully in the world. Fives “take a step back” into their minds where they feel more capable. Their belief is that from the safety of their minds they will eventually figure out how to do things—and one day rejoin the world. Fives are not interested in exploring what is already familiar and well-established; rather, their attention is drawn to the unusual, the overlooked, the secret, the occult, the bizarre, the fantastic, the “unthinkable.” ” “Fours maintain their identity by seeing themselves as fundamentally different from others.” Cody - 2w3 Cody is at heart a giver. He grew up being the friend Robin needed, and that was such a formative part of his identity that when Robin left Rowan House to become a hunter, Cody felt adrift. As the youngest child of his family, he'd relied on his friendship with Robin as an outlet for his need to be useful and needed, since his siblings didn't seem to want the nurturing. Since then, he's channeled that into his work, where he enjoys helping people find the information or books or other help that they need at the library. While he's very selfless, Cody is also ambitious, deeply driven to create stories that he can share with the world. His drive to become a published, successful author is the main evidence of his 3 wing. "Being generous and going out of their way for others makes Twos feel that theirs is the richest, most meaningful way to live. The love and concern they feel—and the genuine good they do—warms their hearts and makes them feel worthwhile. Twos are most interested in what they feel to be the “really, really good” things in life—love, closeness, sharing, family, and friendship. Healthy Twos are the embodiment of “the good parent”: someone who sees [people] as they are, understands them with immense compassion, helps and encourages with infinite patience, and is always willing to lend a hand—while knowing precisely how and when to let go." "Threes are often successful and well liked because, of all the types, they most believe in themselves and in developing their talents and capacities. Threes want to make sure their lives are a success, however that is defined by their family, their culture, and their social sphere. No matter how success is defined, Threes will try to become somebody noteworthy in their family and their community." Maira - 9w8 Maira's basic 9 type has allowed her to navigate her world by finding the paths of lesser resistance. She's wise enough to know when to back down and seek another route to her goal, and this has gotten her far in her world. People respect her shrewd 'chess match' movements, but also like her as a person since she has managed to maintain a reputation of being even-handed, understanding, and willing to seek negotiated solutions. But making the mistake of thinking Maira is a pushover is a dangerous one. Her 8 side is strongest when she encounters an injustice or cruelty. Maira has her breaking point, and woe to the person who pushes her over it. "Peacemakers are the skilled mediators and counsellors in a group of friends or coworkers. They work hard behind the scenes in order to keep the group harmony steady and flowing. As children, they knew how to get along with each classmate, making them a great addition to any group project. They can easily see the many different sides to an issue and tend not to jump to conclusions quickly, if at all. Complacent and humble, Peacemakers are stable and gentle, willing to go the extra mile to avoid rocking the boat. Soft-spoken yet firm in their personal stances, they make an effort to neutralize tension and restore group harmony." "Eights have enormous willpower and vitality, and they feel most alive when they are exercising these capacities in the world. They use their abundant energy to effect changes in their environment—to “leave their mark" on it—but also to keep the environment, and especially other people, from hurting them and those they care about. At an early age, Eights understand that this requires strength, will, persistence, and endurance—qualities that they develop in themselves and which they look for in others." Emma - 5w6 Emma's 5 tendency to acquire esoteric knowledge is one of the reasons she's risen so rapidly in vampire society since her turning. She's learned a great deal about herself and her fellow vampires, and she uses that knowledge to her advantage. She's well known for being not only on the cutting edge of knowing what's happening in the city, but for being able to analyze that information and interpret what it will mean for the vampire community and the wider city population. Her 6 side is evident in her formation of a coven that accepts vampires who were not turned by its own members, giving outcasts or vampires who broke free from their sires like her a place of safety. "Fives think, “I am going to find something that I can do really well, and then I will be able to meet the challenges of life.” They therefore develop an intense focus on whatever they can master and feel secure about. Depending on their intelligence and the resources available to them, they focus intensely on mastering something that has captured their interest. Much of their time gets spent "collecting" and developing ideas and skills they believe will make them feel confident and prepared. They want to retain everything that they have learned and “carry it around in their heads.” " "Sixes rely on structures, allies, beliefs, and supports outside themselves for guidance to survive. If suitable structures do not exist, they will help create and maintain them." Arion - 7w8 Arion is perhaps the poster child of the dangerous side of the 7 type. A hedonistic pleasure seeker, he's driven by filling his life with whatever he enjoys. He has acquired a wide range of talents and interests. But his vampire bloodthirst is his most intense drive. Unlike some vampires who control and manage their impulses, Arion embraces them. He revels in the pleasure of drinking real blood, and sees nothing wrong with seeking it out. His 8 side makes him truly dangerous, because in addition to his craving for a life of comfort and ease, he has a powerful drive to do whatever it takes to attain that goal. While he is fully capable of luxuriating in his pleasures, he is also willing to temporarily put them aside in pursuit of one he believes will be even greater." "Sevens are enthusiastic about almost everything that catches their attention. They approach life with curiosity, optimism, and a sense of adventure, like “kids in a candy store” who look at the world in wide-eyed, rapt anticipation of all the good things they are about to experience. They are bold and vivacious, pursuing what they want in life with a cheerful determination. Sevens are compelled to stay on the go, moving from one experience to the next, searching for more stimulation." "Eights do not want to be controlled or to allow others to have power over them. Much of their behavior is involved with making sure that they retain and increase whatever power they have for as long as possible. They often refuse to “give in” to social convention, and they can defy fear, shame, and concern about the consequences of their actions. Although they are usually aware of what people think of them, they do not let the opinions of others sway them. They go about their business with a steely determination that can be awe inspiring, even intimidating to others."

Taglist: @nade2308 @cmvorra @bands-space-and-monsters-oh-my @catwingsathena @asloudasalone @anguishmacgyver @flowing-river24 @myhusbandsasemni @floh673 @teddythecat1234 @bkworm4life4 @viawrites-andacts @amarilloskies

If you want to be added to or removed from my taglist for Magic & Silver stuff, just let me know! (Type description references taken from https://www.enneagraminstitute.com and https://www.truity.com/enneagram/9-types-enneagram)

#magic & silver #my ocs #robin #angus robinson #john stoker #kira burke #maira lawson #cody dayton #emma cole #arion #enneagram

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depressedoverdrawings · 4 years

Text

Can you hear the tumult of our youth?

KazeKi is the first romance I’ve ever enjoyed, or rather, that I emotionally connected with, as “enjoy” is a funny word choice for a work that made me feel so miserable. Personally, I’ve never enjoyed media that focuses on relationships and love, were they movies, TV, or literature.

But after I discovered KazeKi, I found myself drawn to it, almost involuntarily so. It was as if a spell had been cast. I suppose what superficially drew me in, at first, was the art. It had the charm of retro manga (I absolutely love retro manga/anime looks, IMO they have so much more character than most modern anime and manga), the nostalgic elegance of the idealized upper-class XIX century, and the unrelenting beauty and cuteness of all the boys.

It was mildly surreal and highly entertaining to witness the seed of so many shounen-ai visual tropes: The flower motifs, the flowery poetry, the impossibly pretty boys in dramatic embraces and breathy kisses, the aggressive frenchness of it all. Even it was shocking to me how these elements, instead of striking me as the tired, sappy tropes I saw them as, were now all genuine and beautiful, somehow. Even those silly sparkles around pretty boys seemed fitting. I realized these weren’t tropes back then, but elements of a sincere artistc vision. However, while the art was mesmerizing to me, I came to realize that what drew me in deeper, and kept me anchored to KazeKi, were the themes explored, and the character-based drama, the very stuff I had always avoided.

Without getting far too personal about it, Kaze to Ki no Uta was the first romance that struck something within me, somewhere personal. Now, I certainly have never faced trauma and pain anywhere near to what poor Gilbert and Serge face in their absurdly depressing story, but I definitely wouldn’t call myself emotionally and sexually resolved and healthy, and once upon a time I was a closeted boy in a catholic school, so I guess there’s space for a little bit of self-identification. My coping mechanism to my personal woes had always been to just bottle them up and distract myself with entertainment and art. And that was exactly what I was doing, browsing music on YouTube, when I stumbled upon the KazeKi OVA’s soundtrack.

I found myself listening to this gorgeous arrangement of a Chopin piece, and thought to myself, staring at the angelic figure looking back at me, across the screen: “Gee whilikers, that’s sure is a pretty drawing of a pretty girl”. Then, after reading the comments, I found out that was a boy. As much as the “draw a girl, call it a boy” school of drawing pretty boys makes me groan, I could still feel it, that first hook of interest, stabbing me. As the slideshow enticed me with pictures of Keiko Takemiya’s gorgeous art, I found myself enamoured by it. It was a particular drawing that made KazeKi finally snatch me: that same boy, lounging angelically on some sort of abstract architectural design; in the background, a neoclassical vase flanked by two neoclassical girls, and, above and below, this stunningly beautiful vegetation. So much care, skill, and good taste, concentrated in just one image! I’d have it as a poster, if I could. So, I googled “Kaze to Ki no Uta”, unwittingly throwing myself in a rabbit hole I could not have prepared myself for. Trying to read it was in itself a journey, but, to sum it up: I managed to read it about as well as one can, if they don’t speak japanese and have no access to the spanish and italian translations.

It had been years since I had started feeling emotionally numb. My most extreme displays of emotion came in the form of quiet, teary eyes, reserved for those rare, impactful pieces of art, and those rarer moments of despair-inducing introspection that I couldn’t manage to suppress, but even those lasted little, as I fought to recover my composure. By the end of Kaze to Ki no Uta, I was a sobbing wreck, doing my best (and failing) to contain my ugly crying. Ugly crying, for god’s sake. I was ugly crying, actually sobbing like a kid, because of an yaoi manga. Crying in the shower, even! What kind of weeb had I degenerated into? It hurt. It deeply hurt, in a way I hadn’t been made to hurt in a long, long while. KazeKi had impacted me to the point that I wasn’t just sad, I was scared too, as the waterfall of emotion opened the path for that deeper, personal darkness to come out. And it did.

Now, I admit I’d been a little bit more emotionally fragile than usual right before I read it, due to the effects of the quarantine and the previous consumption of a highly depressing piece of media: Les Amitiés Particulières, which is probably even more depressing than KazeKi as it deals with a much more grounded homophobia-induced tragedy based in real life. Somehow, it didn’t impact me as much as KazeKi, however. Also, it was definitely what influenced my personal YouTube algorithm to recommend me the KazeKi soundtrack, so I wouldn’t know of KazeKi if it weren’t for Amitiés. But even then, it felt unnatural to, well, feel so much. I hadn’t felt this invested in and attached to fictional characters ever since I was a little kid, too young to realize those people in the TV weren’t real. In the following couple of weeks, I was crying over these boys, spending whole days feeling like trash, feeling mild anxiety spikes whenever I remembered about KazeKi, having (even more) difficulty falling asleep, and utterly failing to avoid thinking about my deep-seated intimate issues, all because of these dumb, pretty anime boys. Not even my trusty prayer of “they’re not real people, stop being stupid” worked. In an attempt to stop wallowing in this shounen-ai hell, I decided to consume a whole lot of escapist media while I deliberately avoided any activity related to KazeKi, be it reading the manga, listening to the OVA’s soundtrack, looking at fanart, or even just thinking about it. It “worked” for a month or so, but now I’m back here, wallowing in KazeKi’s painful beauty again, stalking the other seven people in the western world that seem to care about KazeKi, and distilling my thoughts in this bizarre textwall, in an attempt to work it out. If you’re one of those seven people, please don’t refrain from talking to me, if you feel like it! I’ve had just one opportunity to have a conversation about KazeKi, and it was in YouTube comments, for heaven’s sake. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m this afflicted by KazeKi due to its unrelenting, merciless, cruel beauty. Everything about it is presented in this assembly of pure beauty and lost perfection, this painful nostalgia that is present in its aesthetics of an idealized Europe which lives only in its surviving art, that is present in the story which ultimately tells us of the loss of love, and is present in the fact that the whole story is a broken man’s reverie about the past. Tragedy might make me sad, but tragedy with beauty will destroy me. Bittersweetness is just so more cruel than bitterness. And it was this masterpiece of sadistic bittersweetness that permanently broke something in how I deal with my emotions. Kaze to Ki no Uta touched me deeply, to the point of leaving a permanent impression, I’m afraid. I can count in one hand the pieces of art that have punched my soul in the face like KazeKi did. I am honestly flabbergasted over the effect it had over me. At first I felt embarrassed over being emotionally obliterated by a freaking shounen-ai, but I’ve since come to the conclusion that KazeKi is a work of art, a genuine, sincere work of art, deserving of the title. Now I just hope I’m not alone in being emotionally obliterated by this freaking shounen-ai. After everything they went through, the personal fights, the shaky development of their relationship, the undeserved ostracism at Lacombrade, Auguste’s demonic persecution, the escape; how could it be that Gilbert’s life would end in such a horrible way, and that Serge would be left alone to face the full, unbearable weight of his grief! Why?! Keiko Takemiya, you’re a vile sadist. You’re a genius, too, of course. But you’re a vile sadist.

I knew that a happy ending wasn’t going to happen. The horrible ending was a pretty early spoiler, really. Unfortunately for me, I couldn’t stop myself from reading on anyway, and I couldn’t stop myself from having an inkling of illogical hope. Even if my logical self knew a happy ending wasn’t gonna happen, it couldn’t prepare me for just how tragically their love would end, and how awful it all would feel, once I knew their full story.

It’s all the more bitter because of how close Serge came to saving him, too. Having escaped together to a place where they could’ve built the nearest thing to a normal life a gay couple could have, back then. But in the end, not even Serge’s love could mend Gilbert’s mutilated soul. Those boys deserved so much better, especially Serge. Serge, you sweet angel! You were created to suffer.

KazeKi really is a masterpiece in how it explores its extremely heavy themes and the minds of its characters, and how it flawlessly meshes that with perfect art. There are many moments in KazeKi that haunt me: Serge letting that bird go, Serge’s vision of Gilbert at the Lacombrade grounds, Gilbert running into the carriage, angel wings behind him; Serge laying alone on the bed in Room 17. I cannot look at those pages without tearing up and feeling this horrible feeling in my heart, and this feeling is literal: My heart actually feels heavy and constricted when I think about it, it can’t be healthy. Up until now, I thought “cri evrytiem” was just a meme. KazeKi has woken me up to the fact that bottling up one’s own personal issues will inevitably end with them exploding out, leading to something much, much worse. I am scared by the prospect of facing my personal issues. To me, they are horribly strong, and seem incredibly hard to solve, if they’re even solvable at all. I’m horrified by the prospect of facing them, working to solve them. I’m so scared, that simply thinking about it, right now, gives me this awful weight in my chest, and makes me want to cry, again. But I know now that I have no choice in this matter, as the only alternative is that abyss I dare not speak of, and one cannot return from. Melodramatic? Yes. But I did just read Kaze to Ki no Uta.

Thank you for getting this far, whoever you are.

I’m forever haunted by Serge’s words to his long-gone Gilbert, right at the beginning:

“Gilbert Cocteau, you were the greatest flower to ever bloom in my life. In the faraway dreams of youth, you were a bright red flame, blazing so fiercely… You were the wind that stirred my branches. Can you hear the poem of the wind and trees? Can you hear the tumult of our youth? Oh, there must be others who so remember their own days of youth…”

#kaze to ki no uta #the poem of the wind and trees #rant #shounen ai

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write-it-good-imagines · 4 years

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Happiness and sweets - Choi Youngjae

Hello, everyone! It’s your lovely admin again. This was originally a little drabble request but I might be a bit whipped for the sunshine that Youngjae is, so I might have exploited that.

~2.5k words, pure fluff, neighbor! Youngjae

Breathe in. Breathe out.

You couldn’t find the courage to knock on the door. It was unimaginable why. Maybe it was because you had seen the outer part of it too many times you lost count. But the inside… it still remained a mystery.

Why was it nerve-racking? Youngjae was your friend.

Ah, ‘friend’. What a grotesque word.

You had moved into the building where Choi Youngjae lived a couple of months before and a twisted sprinkle of luck made it so that your apartment was right above his. He wasn’t home all that often but whenever he was, he made sure his presence was felt. Heard.

The first few times he randomly started vocalizing in his living room pissed you off. He was a respectful neighbor; he never made any noise during the late hours of the evening, or in the rare mornings he found himself at home. But you did not have an established schedule either. You worked shifts and, although he had an angelic voice, it did meddle with your sleeping pattern.

His dog was often quieter than he was.

Your first encounter was an uncomfortable one. You were hurrying down the stairs after having slept in for your morning shift, and you were so absorbed in your discussion with your friend over the phone that you did not hear Youngjae come out of his apartment, mere moments after you had passed his door.

“Ah, I know, I know, but I couldn’t rest well last night. Just when I managed to drift to sleep, the guy that lives downstairs started singing so loud it basically blew all of my chances of a good night’s slumber. Shit, I forgot the car key upstairs.”

You genuinely felt like disappearing into nothingness when you turned and noticed him staring awkwardly at you. If it wasn’t for the embarrassment whirling in your chest, you might have realized how cute his clumsy smile was.

Youngjae bowed at ninety degrees. “I’m so sorry about that. I’ll make sure I’ll refrain from making noise, from now on. Yes. Excuse me.”

He offered you another awkward smile and hurried by you, his dog leading him out of the miserable atmosphere. All you wanted to do at that moment was die and never come back.

Naturally, you had to repair the situation one way or another. All hopes of making a good first impression flew out the window but there were solutions to problems. You couldn’t afford to believe the third time was the charm. So you pushed it forward for a second.

The next day was clear of any schedule for you, so you decided you would try and buy your image back with a delicious strawberry pie. You woke up early, had a quick trip to the convenience store, and then started the process of baking. You had a lot of faith in your skills. Besides, no one ever refused a warm slice of pie. In your case, a whole inviting one should have done the trick.

However, there was a slight unforeseeable circumstance in your redemptive plan. You suddenly felt less courageous at the thought that he could close the door right in your face. After all, you were kind of rude to someone you had never met before. As a consequence, you decided you’d write a little note to put next to the pie that you would leave at his door.

All was said and done. You looked left and right a couple of times before you actually exited your apartment and dashed over to Youngjae’s floor. You took a deep breath, knocked on his door, left the pie on his doormat, then ran away.

Six months had passed since then and, woken up by a terrible nightmare, you found yourself staring blankly at Youngjae’s door.

Frankly, you did not know who to turn to. It was rude to call your friends in the middle of the night over such a trivial matter; you did not want to disturb them. Somehow, disturbing Youngjae in the middle of the night over such a trivial matter seemed plausible enough. You got all the way there, you might as well shoot your shot.

You cleared your throat that had become dry and brought your hand up to knock on his door. One, twice, even a third time. The seconds that passed after were tormenting. Different ideas started blooming in your mind. What if he wasn’t home? He might have been away. Or what if he was and did not want to respond? Who would want to address such an annoying neighbor—

The small creaking sound snapped you back to reality and you were met by a drowsy Youngjae who was rubbing at his eyes in hopes of erasing the sleep on his eyelashes.

“Y/n? What are you doing here?”

The problem was that you did know what you were doing but were too abashed to say it out loud. Your eyes fell to the giraffe pattern of your pajamas, your fingers tapping against one another. His alluring coarse voice brought a hue of pink to your cheeks.

“I, uh, see… I thought I’d, uh, come… by?”

Youngjae laughed and opened the door slightly wider so he could lean into the frame. “Come by? Did you bake something again?”

You cleared your throat again and tried straightening your silhouette. “I need a hug.”

“You come to my door and wake me up at 4 AM, to cuddle?”

His words convinced you just how purposeless your visit truly was.

“I… I’m sorry. I had a terrible nightmare and I got scared. I guess I’ll just return upstairs.”

Much to your surprise, Youngjae opened the door and stepped aside, gesturing for you to follow him inside. “You should have said so from the beginning.”

You had to blink to make sure your disturbed senses were not playing pranks on you. Youngjae assured you with a soft smile that it was fine for you to come in and his dog waddled over to your feet, inspecting the impromptu guest.

“It’s not much but it’s home.”

You had wondered many times how his place would look like. You did not know what you were expecting to see, giving that he was a person who radiated sunshine as if his whole existence was a form of incandescence itself. You recognized something else, instead: an enveloping warmth. The same kind you felt whenever Youngjae smiled at you.

“The pajama is nice.” Youngjae pointed out and you chuckled at the remark.

“I bet you never pictured the fierce neighbor from upstairs to have a giraffe onesie.”

It was Youngjae’s turn to laugh. He raked through his hair. “Well, now you’re no longer my fierce neighbor from upstairs.”

“True.”

You plopped down on his couch and pulled the colorful hood over your head. Out of all the times Youngjae pictured you finally coming over to visit his apartment, that certainly was not the outcome he expected. He was reluctant to invite you over. Of course, he had tried to muster the courage to do so before but it always ended with one of his loud, awkward laughs and a wave of the hand.

He might have been pining on his neighbor but said neighbor did not have to know that.

Youngjae felt like a fool when he accidentally overheard your conversation six months ago. He heard someone moved above him and, being the excited little bean he always was, he was eager to welcome his new neighbor.

The first shocking matter was that that unknown person proved to be a stunning female. The second shocking matter was that he disturbed that stunning female with his loud voice. He could not do anything about it per se. The least he could do was refrain himself from making any noise and concoct a plan to avoid you for the rest of his living days.

Youngjae was preparing to go for a light jog when the bizarre sound of fingers knocking on his door made him rush to the entrance. He could not see anyone but a sweet smell piqued his interest. Youngjae lowered his eyes to the ground and spotted a pie laying so helpless on his doormat.

He knelt to take it and scanned the hallway to make sure it was not meant for someone else. He spotted the note to the side of the tray and closed the door with his foot, evidently busy to analyze the neat handwriting.

I apologize for being such a rude brat. I hope you like strawberries.

Youngjae burst into hearty laughter that reverberated between the solid walls of his apartment. He quickly covered his mouth but it was not enough to shut his bubbly giggles. You did not hate him.

The next day, he met you at the convenience store in the neighborhood in a completely accidental encounter. He went out to satisfy his ramen cravings and almost bumped into you as you came out from the meat section. Youngjae had a better chance at stealing a look at you, a fact that almost rebuffed his own brain. Lucky for him, you started the conversation, inquiring about the pie.

Then you smiled and all he could do was let out a helpless laugh.

Of course, he liked it. He complimented you on your baking skills and you complimented him on his singing. He must have looked confused, saying that he thought it impeded your resting schedule. You were so flustered by his remark that you almost dropped the bag of groceries.

Youngjae was content to hear you genuinely liked it and you admitted to being inconsiderate. It felt reassuring in a way. Not having a logical explanation of why he was just happy you liked his voice. He laughed with you when you completed that it should not happen when you were tired.

He jokingly suggested that you should stick a note to his door whenever you requested absolute silence. Some days later, he found a sticky note patiently waiting to be picked. Another bit of laughter followed. Youngjae placed the sticky note on his fridge.

As days progressed, he unconsciously became excited about the notes. In just a couple of weeks, the fridge was decorated with a palette of colors, and so started to be his heart. Youngjae studied every letter calligraphed on the tiny papers as a means of discovery. He figured it was rude for you to carry a one-sided correspondence, so he started making little notes for your door too.

“Do you like orange juice?” Youngjae chimed from his kitchen.

“Who doesn’t like orange juice?” you retorted and watched him scoff as he came back with two glasses.

“Fine, maybe I should bring you two oranges to make your own juice.”

You muttered a small ‘thank you’ and tended to your glass. Youngjae seated himself next to you but not too close; at a friendly distance, one might say. He brought his hands together and turned to you. You looked so little and adorable in your giraffe costume that it brought a wide smile to his face.

“What was the dream about?”

“In my dream, someone broke into my house. Started roaming through my things as if he was looking for something. He stormed into my room and then gagged me with some sort of stinking cloth. It was terrifying.”

You shuddered at the unshakable thought that such things happened to a lot of people and you could be one of them. You put the glass down and hugged yourself. Youngjae extended a hand to caress your back and scooted closer to you.

“It’s okay now. Nothing is going to happen to you, Y/n, I promise.”

“You promise?”

Youngjae pushed the hood off your face and looked at you with the softest look he could muster. He was bewildered to see your eyes pooling with tears, scared and insecure, that he did not think twice about wrapping his whole body around you.

Youngjae was devastated to see you like that. The only thing he pictured in his mind whenever he thought about you - which was quite often - was your dazzling smile and the sound of your laughter at each of his lame jokes. In his mind, you were made of the clumsy ‘good morning’, ‘have a good day’ thoughts that you started inserting somewhere along the line in your messages. Or the tasty products you’d always leave desolated on his doormat. The lingering chat the two of you would share whenever your paths intersected in the morning, that one that would always get the both of you late, was his favorite.

You always smelt like happiness and sweets.

“I promise.”

It might have not counted for much but he hoped his words would ease you just a little. He had known for some time that he nurtured an unrequited crush on you. Youngjae used to be jubilant over the little things he shared with you. He was not so sure he could keep the pretense anymore. It used to be easier when you were not enveloped in his arms.

“Sing to me, Youngjae.”

“Eh?” he exclaimed and blessed the gods you couldn’t see the blush on his face. “Sing… sing what? Why do you want me to sing?”

“Shut up,” you mumbled, curling into him, “I mean not shut up. Your voice is so calm and warm, I know it will help me relax.”

Youngjae chuckled lightly and adjusted his body for you to be more comfortable. He could afford to be selfish for a bit, even if he felt like his cheeks could explode. Coco sprung on the couch next to her master and Youngjae lowered a hand to pet her.

The sweet tones of a lullaby echoed silently in your ears, easing your tensed muscles at once. Youngjae’s voice was unique, akin to the lilac and pink sky of a spring morning when the chilly air invites you to hide in the arms of the person you love. Of course, you would never tell him that, but you could afford to enjoy the safe haven that he was for a little while.

The last thing you heard Youngjae humming before you drifted into the depths of the dreamland, although peaceful sleep had long invaded your system, so you would never be sure, was something along the lines of ‘you’re lucky you’re cute’.

#got7 #got7 imagines #got7 imagine #got7 scenarios #got7 youngjae #choi youngjae #got7 fluff #youngjae fluff #youngjae imagine #got7 request #youngjae x reader #uwu guys

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thewitchandtheassassin · 5 years

Text

The Color Green (Natasha Romanoff x Reader)

Prompt: hi there! i real/love all ur works they’re so good!! can i jealous/possessive natasha? take ur time nw!!

Words: 2305

Warnings: Jealousy

A/N: This turned out differently than you probably imagined, anon, but this is what happened. I hope you like it. It’s more jealousy than possessiveness but there is a brief moment of it.

-X-

Strolling confidently through the halls of the Compound, you found the team scattered about the kitchen. Pietro and Wanda were sitting at the counter while your girlfriend was standing in front of the toaster. Sam and Bucky were on a mission so they were absent and you had no idea where Tony or Steve were but you didn’t think too much of it.

They would show up eventually for breakfast.

Stopping beside her, you pressed a kiss to her cheek, sighing internally when she flinched away from the contact.

You didn’t understand Natasha. Sometimes she was so sweet, accepting your love without question while other times she acted cold and uncaring. You hated those days; all you wanted was for your girlfriend to act like your relationship meant something to her – that you meant something.

Was that too much to ask for?

You turned your attention to the twins, watching Pietro devour his food like it was his last meal. You wondered how he never choked. Wanda was staring at you with a sympathetic smile, her eyes full of worry as she took in the slump of your shoulders. She was your best friend; she knew how much Natasha’s attitude bothered you.

Heavy footsteps echoed up the stairs and you glanced over, catching sight of an exceptionally beautiful woman with short hair and a cocky smile trailing behind Steve. She wasn’t exactly your type but if you were single, you probably wouldn’t say no either. Her gaze lingered on you and you couldn’t stop the blush blooming on your cheeks.

You were completely oblivious to Natasha bristling beside you.

“Team, this is Carol Danvers,” Steve announced, stepping aside so the woman could stand beside him.

You pursed your lips thoughtfully. You were fairly certain you’d heard that name before. Why did you know that name?

“She’s a friend of Fury’s,” Steve explained.

Realization rushed over you and you blurted out excitedly, “Captain Marvel.” Everyone’s eyes fell upon you and you smiled sheepishly. “Fury has told me stories about you. You guys worked together back in the 90’s, fighting the Kree.”

Carol grinned, walking over to you and offering her hand. “That’s me. It’s nice to meet you…”

“(Y/N),” you supplied, shaking the extended appendage briefly.

“Oh, Rogers was just telling me about you. I’ve heard you’re the strongest Avenger,” she praised, earning another blush.

You were a former HYDRA experiment that the Avengers had rescued some time ago. Your strength was legendary in the SHIELD Compound. The only person who might be stronger than you was the Hulk, but you’d never tested to see if that were true. You didn’t feel like fighting such a beast. It would only end badly.

“I…” you didn’t know what to say.

“We should train together sometime. I’d love to see what you can do,” Carol said, unfazed by your lack of response.

You nodded, a little starstruck by the notion of training with the Captain Marvel. Fury had told you about her one day when he was feeling a little sentimental and you couldn’t help but be in awe of her. She sounded amazing and to train with someone so powerful…

Well, you couldn’t wait.

Natasha inched closer, a tadbit aggravated by the instant connection you seemed to have with this newcomer. You were almost fawning over Carol and that bothered Natasha more than she cared to admit. She knew she wasn’t always the best girlfriend but she did her best. It was hard forgetting the lessons the Red Room had instilled in her.

She had a feeling she was not going to like this stranger.

Not one bit.

-X-

A few days later, you found yourself in the training room Captain Marvel herself. You were dressed in shorts and a tank top; you were prepared for battle. Carol wore a similar outfit, though her shirt clung to her abdomen, leaving her abs on full display beneath the material. You didn’t know it but it was intentional. Carol liked you – she too thought there was a connection – so she wanted you to be impressed by her physique.

Bouncing on the balls of your feet, you brought your fists up and steeled yourself. Carol eyed you, searching for an opening. Steve had sung you nothing but praises when it came to fighting. She was curious to see what happened.

“Ready?” Carol wondered as she mimicked your stance.

“Bring it on,” you taunted teasingly, rushing at the blonde.

The two of you clashed, fists flying as you attempted to knock her on her butt. She swung her arm at you and you caught it mid-swing, your strength coming in handy as you brought her up and over your shoulder, dropping her onto the mat. You mentally cheered though your face remained impassive. You attempted to help her up, but she easily wrapped her legs around you and dragged you down, straddling your waist.

You laughed, staring up at Carol. “That’s cheating.”

“Never underestimate your opponent,” she warned, getting off your hips and helping you stand.

Nodding, you brushed off your shirt. “I know. Nat tells me that all the time.”

Carol’s brow arched. She’d seen you coming out of the other woman’s room in the mornings but she hadn’t thought much of it. During the day you hardly acted like a couple so she had assumed you were just friends. She wondered if there was more to it than that.

“Ready to go again?” Carol inquired, falling back into her stance.

“Absolutely,” you agreed, lunging at Carol.

What you didn’t know was that Natasha was lingering in the doorway, staring intently at you as you trained with the former Kree. She was disheartened. You were never that free when you fought with her. She knew it was because your strength scared you when it came to her but she wished you wouldn’t hold back so much with her. Ironic, right?

Watching you knock into each other, Natasha sighed. Jealousy wasn’t something she’d experienced before. She knew you cared about her but it was difficult to see you this way with another person.

Actually, she hated it.

Rage bubbled up in her chest when Carol managed to knock you down and straddle you again, her face dangerously close to yours. She looked at you like she wanted to devour you and it drove Natasha crazy. Natasha thought you were gorgeous but apparently so did Carol.

Natasha left the room, her jaw clenched and her eyes narrowed. What made all of this worse was how oblivious you were to Carol’s advances. Because you only had eyes for Natasha, you never paid attention when someone hit on you. You just assumed they were being nice, often forgetting that people might find you attractive.

Growling, Natasha stormed through the Compound. She had to do something. She didn’t know what, but something needed to change.

-X-

Tony’s form of welcoming Carol to the team was throwing an extravagant party at the Tower. Sure, it no longer housed the Avengers but it was far nicer than the Compound so here you were, dressed in one of your nicest outfits, chatting with your friends. Bucky had returned home from his mission with Sam so you found yourself in a deep conversation with him discussing what they’d found at the former HYDRA base.

Bucky was a good friend, second only to Wanda. He was a sweetheart despite what had happened. He was a calm voice of reason when the others fought and he was genuinely a good man. You were the only person who knew about his crush on Steve and you felt bad for him. Steve – as far as you knew – was straight and it broke your heart that Bucky wouldn’t get his happy ending with him.

He’d been through enough.

He caught sight of Steve and excused himself. You weren’t alone for long though. Carol was quick to join you.

“What’s a beautiful woman like you doing all by yourself?” Carol jokingly flirted, glancing over your shoulder to stare at Natasha.

Natasha was in a sleek red dress that clung divinely to her lithe body. You’d practically drooled when you’d seen her earlier but you hadn’t gotten much time with her. Maria had dragged her away the moment you’d stepped into the party and hadn’t let her go since.

She was watching you with a look of thunder marring her features. She seemed beyond pissed and it confirmed what Carol had suspected. Apparently you were coupled with the redhead and while Carol would bow out gracefully, she was still going to tease the woman a little. She needed to get over whatever trepidations she had. You were wonderful and if Natasha couldn’t learn to show you that, then she didn’t deserve you – at least in Carol’s opinion.

You shoved Carol playfully, shaking your head. “That was a terrible line,” you laughed.

Carol shrugged. “It hasn’t failed me yet.”

“Well, it just did,” you grinned, strolling over to the bar with Carol behind you. You had no idea that her gaze was lingering on your backside, earning a scowl from Natasha.

Ordering a drink, your attention fell upon the woman again. “So, how are you enjoying Earth?”

“It’s nice,” Carol replied diplomatically, earning a giggle.

“You sound so impressed,” you smirked.

“It’s…different,” Carol admitted with a lift of her shoulders. “My life on Hala was a lot different from this. And I’ve traveled to so many worlds that it’s almost bizarre to be settling down. I’ll still help other planets but to call Earth home is strange.”

Nodding sympathetically, your hand fell to Carol’s arm. “It’ll get easier and if you need someone to talk to, I’m always here.”

Carol patted your hand gratefully, smiling at you. “Thank you, (Y/N).”

The two of you stood in silence for a moment before a hand found yours atop the bar. Glancing over your shoulder in surprise, you found emerald eyes staring back at you. “Nat,” you greeted with a sweet smile. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything is fine,” Natasha replied, glaring at Carol. “I was just wondering if I could steal my girlfriend away for a dance.”

You were a bit shocked. You’d only danced with Natasha a handful of times and they’d all been in the sanctity of one of your rooms – Natasha found it too personal to dance in front of others – so you didn’t know what to say. Nodding dumbly, you twisted your hand over beneath hers and linked your fingers. You shot Carol a parting smile.

Carol nodded in concession at Natasha and the weight in the woman’s chest began to dissipate. She returned the gesture and led you out onto the floor, sweeping you up in her arms. You swayed together, your arms around her neck as you grinned at her.

“We’re dancing,” you whispered, acting as though it were some big secret.

Shaking her head at your antics, Natasha buried her face in your neck, causing your arms to fall to her waist. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled against the skin residing there.

Brows furrowing in confusion, you continued to dance with your lover. “Why?”

“…I was jealous,” Natasha admitted softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your throat. “Of Carol.”

You leaned back, gazing into hypnotic emerald eyes. She looked so apologetic but you could see the underlying vulnerability staring back at you. “Baby, you have no reason to be jealous. There’s no one I’d rather be with,” you assured her, cupping her cheek. “I love you and only you. Carol’s just a friend.”

Natasha’s smile was watery. “Ya liublyoo tibya. And in my heart I know that, but I was scared,” she whispered.

Sighing, you leaned in and pecked her lips, startled when Natasha deepened the embrace. She’d never kissed you like this before, every emotion she felt poured into it. It was soft, but you could taste residual fear on her tongue. It was obvious that she was trying to reassure herself but you didn’t mind. You’d happily kiss her for as long as she wanted.

“You know she wanted to be more than friends, right?” Natasha asked as her lips left yours with a quiet pop.

Eyes widening, you glanced over your shoulder at Carol. The blonde waved, a cheeky grin splitting her cheeks. “You’re joking.”

Natasha laughed, kissing your reddening cheek. “You’re so cute, my oblivious malysh.”

“You’re serious?” you squeaked, your eyes falling back on Natasha. You couldn’t believe it. You’d thought Carol was just being nice. Had she liked you?

Walking you over to the bar, her arm firm around your waist, she locked eyes with Carol, waiting to see what the other woman had to say.

“You make a cute couple,” Carol acquiesced, lifting her drink in surrender. She could see the love shining in both your eyes and she was happy for you. Truly.

Natasha’s stiffened spine relaxed and she smiled at Carol for the first time. “Thank you.”

“No offense to Tony but this really isn’t my scene so I think I’m going to head out,” Carol announced, finishing the beer in her hand.

“It’s not really ours either,” you admitted, leaning into Natasha. “You going back to the Compound?”

“Probably,” Carol shrugged. “I don’t really know New York that well so…”

Natasha hesitated for a moment before offering, “We know a pizza place that’s open all night if you’d like to join us?”

Carol studied Natasha, trying to see if her offer was genuine. When she was satisfied that it was, she nodded appreciatively. “That’d be nice.”

“C’mon,” you said, locking arms with both Natasha and Carol, “We keep spare clothes in our old rooms for after parties like this. You can change out of your fancy clothes and into something more comfortable.”

Smiling, Carol followed you without hesitation.

She was going to enjoy Earth.

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