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bucky-is-a-hero-fightme · 4 years

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Royals (6/8)

ROYALS MASTERLIST HERE

Pairing: Bucky/Reader

Universe: Mobsters!1940′s!AU

Word Count: 8000 approx. I’m so sorry.

Summary: Weeks after the storm settles and you and Bucky start working together, a visit to Printsessa will bring forth choices to make and past hurts to face.

Warnings: Alcohol mentions, my shitty writing, I think some mentions of physical assault and again, my rusty writing skills after being in a block for so long lol

A/N: I'm alive, surprise! Sorry it took me this long to post this chapter, I just couldn't get my writing motor running.

Hopefully I will continue cranking out updates from now on somewhat regularly. But I don't make any promises because I don't like breaking them.

Thank you so much for giving this story a chance and, if the case, for staying with me for so long lmao.

I could keep writing, but does anyone ever read these? Anyhow, hope you enjoy, sorry if it's shit I am so rusty

Taglist: (Lemme know if you wanna be removed or added, darlings!) @amandamartinez3568 @champagnejoker @lovemarvel101 @itsbuckysworld @mooniightbucky @whimsicalatbest @catvader1o1 @nickyl316h

Once again the thick but calming atmosphere of the bar embraces you as you walk in, and the Bratva eyes following your moves do not feel as constricting, as judging, as those waiting for you in Manhattan.

The cool drink is pressed to your hand as you rest your weight on the counter, looking over the dancing couples, the laughing groups, the quiet but persistent stories taking place before your eyes.

You catch sight of Sam sitting on the other side of the bar, and he greets you with a small nod. You return it, smile curving your lips upwards but it quickly disappears when his eyes focus on a spot over your shoulder, the Bratok standing to full attention and putting you off.

What’s going on?

“Miss Y/N.” A deep voice calls behind you, and you turn to see one of Brock’s trusted men waltz to stand at your side.

Leaning back and schooling your features, you protest, “It’s Captain to you, dear.”

His laugh is dismissive when he answers, but the tremble of his fingers as he orders a drink gives him away. He is very much aware he’s out of his depth, this city not his boss’.

“I am here with a message to relay, from your-…from the Avtoritat.” The ‘slip if the tongue’ is very much intended, and either alternative -calling Brock Rumlow anything of yours or the rightful Avtoritat- is buying him tickets to end up in a ditch, but you let it slide.

He doesn’t say anything else, and instead pulls out a small velvet-covered box from his suit jacket pocket. You know perfectly well the kind of ring that is inside, but you still smile up at the Captain in front of you.

“Brock should know by now to stop pretending this is a lover’s quarrel,” You sigh, shaking your head, before looking him in the eye and asking, even if you do not care for his answer, “Do you have orders to take me home, Captain?”

“I’m afraid so, miss.”

The laugh tastes like poison when it leaves your lips, the siren song guiding your steps as you rest your drink on the counter, looking sideways at Brock’s trusted man.

“Try.” You taunt, the smile on your lips feral even as a couple of men you should have identified as soon as you walked in take a few steps closer to you.

There’s fear in his eyes, you see it, even if he pretends his boss’ influence can keep him safe. You know with absolute certainty, or used to, that Brock would execute to the last of his most loyal men for a chance at putting that ring on your finger.

Despite that, the Captain and what you assume to be his Bratok step closer, menacing, in a stupid display that still unsettles you. If Manhattan Captains cause a scene in the heart of Brooklyn…war will follow not shortly after.

“It will always be my family’s territory, the fact that you blackmailed your way into taking it is n-…” Your words and cut off when your back hits the wall, head slamming forcefully against it, prompting black spots to dance in your line of vision.

Your nails scratch at Brock’s arm as he presses into your throat, taking away your air and making panic flood you. He leans in closer, bourbon-stale breath fanning over you.

“You are loyal to me, little Siren. Aren’t you?”

The sharp thud of the ring box hitting the bar makes you flinch before you can school your features, bringing you out of the memory. And the Bratok notices, because of course he does.

“Please avoid making a scene, miss.” He drawls, as if he’s already won. A smarter man would know better, but then again, they know you through Brock’s eyes, and the brute still thinks a part of you wants to be at his side.

“I believe the correct term is ‘Captain’.” A voice you know too well interrupts, just as you feel the calming warmth of Bucky’s chest as he steps in behind you, guarding your back.

Not even your pride can let you ignore the way your body relaxes, the way you feel so much safer now than a second before, even if you were never truly afraid of the man in front of you.

The Bratok takes a step back instinctively, looking up and down at Brooklyn’s leading Captain. Even he oscillates between respect and ire. The men that accompanied him, you notice, also hesitate on whether to get closer or not.

You hide a smile behind the rim of your glass as you take a sip.

“You already delivered your message, didn’t ya’?” Bucky presses when the man remains quiet, and the underlining anger in his voice makes you realize you should probably step in.

But you want to have a little bit of fun beforehand. And if you manage to send Brock a message in the meantime…well, who can blame you?

You keep your eyes on the Bratok, daring him to react as you turn sideways into Bucky’s side, “Wait now, this gentleman here said he had orders.”

Of course that he knows you are playing him, taunting him to follow through with his boss’ orders in a territory far away from his reach. The Bratok squares his shoulders, looking back at you with a clenched jaw.

“To bring you home, miss.”

Bucky takes a step closer to the man, chest expanding on an angry breath against your back. You do not hesitate when you lean more of your weight on him though, keeping him from advancing on the Bratok without showing your hand.

Still, even as Bucky doesn’t move any closer to the Bratok, the men accompanying him see the threat, and step closer to the both of you.

Your eyes travel between the Bratok and the brutes at his side, to the ring sitting at the bar table.

You feel the residual burn of the alcohol in your throat, the beating of your heart in your ears. You feel Bucky’s hand find its place by your hip, a symbol of protection and support you know you do not deserve. Not after what happened eight years ago, not after the way you turned your back to him and so many others, not after the conditions to send information you agreed a few weeks ago to with Brock.

The conditions that apparently are no longer enough to Manhattan’s false Avtoritat, that sends his men to force your hand into declaring your loyalty to him.

Whispers of questions recent and ancient reach your ears.

“I can’t believe I’m even askin’ this,” Bucky mutters, back still to you as he runs a hand through his hair. When he turns to you, you see a confusing swirl between desperation, betrayal, and anger in his eyes. “Between him and me, doll, who’d it be?”

But you are shaking your head before he is even done speaking.

“This isn’t like that, Bucky. This is not a competition.”

His clenched jaw turns into a sneer quite quickly, though.

“Really? Then why does it feel like I’m tryin’ to convince my girl to stay with me?”

His words hit you harder than you anticipated, staggering the breath out of your lungs as you stumble to find the words you want to say.

But your silence bears more of an answer than anything, and your pride keeps you rooted in your place as he stalks to the door of your apartment.

“You made your choice, Princess. When you leave with him tomorrow-…” Your back is turned to the door, so he doesn’t see the tears trailing silently down your cheeks, but you can hear his words stumble, his breath catch. Finally, Bucky sentences, “You made your choice.”

You cannot take your eyes of the extravagant ring on the bar counter, feeling the eyes of so many people, past and present, set on you, on the choice you have to make.

A question earlier tonight, that you should have answered.

And would ya’? Betray him, I mean.

Your eyes travel up to the Bratok, and if your heart is as quick as a rabbit’s, if your hands tremble a little, you don’t think anyone could blame you.

Still, your smile is genuine when you answer,

“I am home.”

Yes, I would.

The Bratok hesitates, blinking past his stupor and looking back at you with widened eyes. If only Brock had taught him the Game, he wouldn’t have shown his Boss’ hand so easily.

They wanted to lure you back to Manhattan, hoping it would be incentive enough to start a war either by Bucky lashing out against your city or Brock claiming your betrayal of Brooklyn as enough.

That, or Rumlow truly believed you could stay with him out of anything but convenience.

The Bratok’s eyes remain on yours for a second too long, enough for your smile to start turning cold and threatening. He decides not to take the bait, nodding respectfully once before turning to leave.

Your eyes return to the ring, still on the bar table, for a few moments finding yourself stuck on the what ifs before you call out,

“You forgot something,” You say, noticing how your voice wavers a bit as the weight of what you have done settles upon you. Still, the Bratok says nothing, taking the box and pocketing it before walking out of the bar.

You can hear nothing past the beating of your own heart in your ears, but you keep your eyes trained on the back of those men’s heads until the doors close behind them, as if a part of you waits for them to strike back, to drag you to Manhattan kicking and screaming.

Made aware of Bucky’s presence still at your back when his hand squeezes your hip lightly; you turn around to face his grey-blue eyes.

“You okay, doll?”

You nod numbly in response, your mouth dry no matter how hard you swallow past the knot in your throat, and it is mostly muscle memory when you turn around in his arms, still leaning against his chest.

“He’s going to kill me.” You mumble.

“He can try.” He promises, but you shake your head, panic finally settling in.

“You don’t understand, Brock has the power to ruin me. Everything I have is in Manhattan, my contacts, my reputation,” A chocked sound leaves your lips, “Natasha was right.”

“About what?”

“She warned me I was pushing too much,” You mumble, jaw tight as you recall so many of the late-night encounters with the so called Widow. “I tried for too long to buy time, to stall him from moving into a full out war.”

“Why?”

The question is barely anything more than a whisper, his eyes intensely searching yours as a few breaths go by between his question and your answer.

“You know why.” You bite out, and you could swear something akin to regret shines behind Bucky’s grey-blue eyes.

“Y/N…” He starts, but you shake your head, angry and disappointed, as soon as the words leave your lips, taking you gaze away from his.

“But I was stupid, I was careless and I…” You stop yourself, swallowing your words. I would do it again. “I was taught better. My mother married off for the Bratva, why shouldn’t I accept that fucking ring?”

Your words are bitter, a rebellion against what you were told and shown all through your upbringing, but the meaning is not lost to either of you, for a second sending you back to tearstains on your face and a cracking voice around a sentence that so long ago sent you into a city of lies to become nothing more than Nayada, the Siren, the one forced to work in the shadows.

The mantle of the Captain falls over Bucky’s shoulders so fast a part of you doesn’t recognize the change for a moment. Shoulders straight, eyes cold again and already turning away from you, he signals for another drink that he is almost instantly served.

Downing it in one gulp, he smiles your way, but the gesture is nothing but another play in the Game.

“Already regrettin’ it, Princess?” He teases, the venom in his voice impossible to miss, and he knows it, because you both notice the distance between you being more than the step you take away from him.

Still, because you were taught to, because your pride doesn’t let you do otherwise, you hold his gaze, chin raised and eyes firmly on his own, even if the coldness in his grey-blue eyes hurts you more than you would want to admit.

Deserved, you ponder, that you have to stand in front of Brooklyn’s Captain, when so many times the Siren almost led him to the rocks. Still, you grit your teeth, and the words escape your lips before you can think twice about it.

“Don’t play the Captain with me.”

Bucky merely lifts his eyebrows, that damned mocking smile still on his lips. When he answers, he leans even closer to you, and you hate how he towers over you, you hate that you can still catch the faint scent that it’s just him, and above all else you hate how your heart quickens its pace in your chest.

He licks his lips before speaking, letting you for a second consider you may not be the only one not playing the Game, “Or what? You’ll put that ring on?”

The Game lets you put a smile of your own on your lips even if your throat feels dry and your pulse that of a teenage girl with too much hope. You force your eyes to stay on his as you return the mocking glare, “Why would you think me not going home has anything to do with you?”

A breathed laugh, and Bucky’s lips are grazing your ear, his breath with a hint of the smell of whiskey as it trails a hot path down the side of your neck, leaving goosebumps behind.

“Ya’ said it yourself, doll: you are home.”

You can hear the smile playing on his lips, and whether it is mocking or proud or something else, you do not care to know right now. Because at his words you realize how much of your hand you have shown, betraying that you never agreed to Brock’s terms because you couldn’t assure yourself of their safety, being stupidly naïve and light and agreeing to that dinner at the Barnes household almost a week ago, being so unguarded in all the meetings since then that Peggy, Steve, Bucky, Sam and you have been taking part on to get to know Brock’s true reach.

You have let go of the Siren without realizing, and it was the lack of her shield that made you make what probably was a horrible mistake: turning your back on Manhattan.

Either at your silence or the new tension in your body that leaves you as stiff as a board, Bucky takes a step back from you. Your eyes are narrowed and distant when they meet his, but you do not say a word.

“Let’s continue where there’s no audience, Captains.” Sam Wilson interrupts, a hand on your back as greeting and his voice and words reminding once again what’s expected of you. Bratva Captain, Heir to Brooklyn and Manhattan, Princess first, Y/N second.

With a deep breath, you agree, “You’re right. Brock never let me out of his sight, he definitely has people…around.”

You watch as Sam’s dark eyes scan the room quickly, before returning to yours. The method, the tenacity of a soldier shines through the civilian clothes, you think to yourself.

“You think they oughtta try somethin’?”

You shake your head, downing the rest of your drink. “No. But let’s not give them anything to report home about.”

Bucky interrupts with a side smile and that mocking shade in his grey-blue eyes you have learned to hate.

“’Fraid he’ll get jealous?” He teases, but you reply with nonchalance, refusing to give him another inch.

“Love, I let go a long time ago. Although clearly, I was the only one to.” You pointedly trace the letters on the napkin under your glass with a manicured finger. принцесса.

A small muscle jumps on his cheek, and you hold back a triumphant smile as you slide past both men and into Bucky’s office.

As you walk in, you catch Peggy hanging up the office phone, eyes wide and her red lipstick uncharacteristically smudged where she was biting her lip. With only Steve, Peggy, Sam, Bucky and you in the room, the silence that follows after the door closes and the line is dead is deafening.

“Doll?” Steve asks, reaching for her shoulder, but Peggy walks through his touch like he’s a ghost. Her eyes are on you.

“Peggy?” You try, gauging her reaction.

“That was an informant from Manhattan,” She explains, and even if her voice is even her eyes still look a little crazy, “Word is already running that you turned your back on Rumlow. With no games, this time.”

The words make something in your chest tighten both in apprehension and adrenaline, but you still bite out, “He wanted to put that damn ring on my finger, Peggy, there was-…”

She gives you no time to finish your sentence, her strong arms wrapped tightly around your back as she hugs you with what feels like the glee of forgiveness and the nostalgia of a reunion.

You return the hug without hesitation, closing your eyes.

The last of the bags is in the car, and the driver awaits your signal. For some reason, even if you feel your mother’s eyes on you, even if you know you have nothing to hold on to here anymore; you find yourself unable to say goodbye to this house, this city, just yet.

“Leaving without saying goodbye? The Firm kills for lesser offenses.” An accented voice you know well states, and when you turn around Peggy Carter stands before you, red hat and blue suit at the entrance of the manor.

“Peggy.” You breathe out, and even though it breaks your heart even more, you smile.

“A lifetime side by side deserves a proper farewell.” She promises swiftly, but years of friendship let you see the crack in her armor, the tremble in her voice, the smudge of her lipstick signaling she bit her lip too many times.

And it’s all those years, all those memories and all those secrets shared, that make you let go of the mask for a moment, that make you not hesitate as you cross the distance between you.

You wrap your arms around her tightly, trying to pretend you do not feel the wetness around your eyes, the tremble in your hands as they curl into fists.

“I’m sorry, Peggy.”

A moment of silence, and then,

“I wish things were different, Y/N.”

You pull back from the embrace, eyes wide, and face Peggy. She bears a similarly shell-shocked expression, but still a smile teases at her red lips.

The weight of what you have done settles on you like a deadweight on your chest, robbing you of air and making your pulse more frantic than ever before.

“What did I do, Peggy?”

She punches your shoulder lightly, the smile widening, “What you should have done eight years ago.”

Still, the fear will not let go of you.

“Peggy, he’s going to-…”

“We will handle it.” She promises, and something in her smile is a little too feral, but neither of you say anything.

“You have been waiting for this.” You state, lifting an eyebrow. Her expression sobers a little, and she nods once.

“We need to talk, you and I.” She promises, before stepping back and taking a hold of the papers she was scribbling on as she took the call.

“What else did your…informant tell you?” Sam asks, taking a seat in one of the sofas and with Steve following his lead.

You take a seat too, next to Sam and accept the drink he hands you silently with gratefulness. Peggy leans back on the desk, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Not much. The news are still fresh, but here in Brooklyn word of what she chose are outweighing what she left behind.”

Shit.

Even though the prospect of making Brock angry enough with the rumors of you choosing Brooklyn -or Bucky- over him terrifies you a little bit, the proud smile on both Peggy’s and Steve’s lips keep you from saying anything.

“How fast do you wanna bet this reaches your mother?” Steve teases, and you lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees.

“How fast do you wanna bet Brock throws a tantrum and tells her?” You shoot back, feeling strangely and suddenly unbothered by what the unlawful Avtoritat of Manhattan chooses to say or do. “His men probably did some digging as to why I’m meeting with you lot, and when he hears about it…”

“He probably knows already.” Bucky promises, and before the words are past his lips you are already frowning, set on edge at the possible implication of you having planned this or having told Brock any of what has been happening these past weeks.

“If you are implying what I think y-…”

He interrupts you, shaking his head, “I’m not. But he has men in the city, doll, has for years.”

“Oh, I know,” You acquiesce, before recalling with a light chuckle, “Their men stumbled upon mine a couple of times.”

Peggy clears her throat, dark eyes still running over the words scribbled over the papers in her hands, “Actually, as far as Brock’s men know, those men are working for me, not you.”

“You tricked them?”

She finally lifts her gaze from the page, sharing a glance with Bucky you do not miss, to which he answers with a shrug. She turns back to you and offers an uncharacteristically sheepish smile, “Not exactly.”

You narrow your eyes at your friend, “Exactly how many of my men are working for you, Carter?”

She laughs, but doesn’t say anything, and that is answer enough. Rolling your eyes in response, you try thinking when was the last time you felt this safe.

After a few minutes of casual conversation with Steve and Sam while Bucky and Peggy study whatever her informant from Manhattan told her, you are all interrupted by a loud sigh.

“I want a drink.” Peggy exclaims, moving naturally to sit on Steve’s lap. He pats her head comfortingly and offers her his glass, but she shakes her head, turning her eyes to you.

“Want to go to the pier? For old times’ sake?”

The smile turning your lips upwards is instantaneous, and a mirror of it appears on your best friend’s lips, her dark eyes shining in excitement.

“Are you going to tell me now you can hold your liquor, Carter?” You tease back, already standing up from the couch and grabbing your coat, although it may not be enough to hold back the biting cold of Brooklyn’s pier, considering you are still on a skirt.

“She can’t,” Steve promises, brushing off Peggy’s glare with a breathed laugh of his own, his arm going around her shoulders with easy affection. Steve’s eyes turn to the figure hunched over the desk, the nonchalance in his voice so forced that it makes something within you flinch, “You coming with, Buck?”

When Bucky lifts his head from the documents before him, his eyes do not search for Steve’s, but instead focus on you with surprising speed, the hesitation, the accusation wrapped in a question clear in his gaze.

You try offering a smile, but you don’t think it looks half as confident as you want it to. For a second you ponder if you should resent those damned eyes for the way they make you feel as excited and light and hopeful as you did so many years ago.

After a few moments, he acquiesces, “Sure, can’t leave her to be third wheelin’ with you two saps.”

“Like you two did to us.” Peggy points out, eyebrow raised and a knowing smile on her face as her words make your cheeks grow hot.

Bucky and you share a glance before he argues, “We weren’t that bad.”

“Yes, you were, pal.”

“Oh, you so bloody were.”

Peggy and Steve answer at the same time, prompting a laugh out of you. After Sam declines the offer, looking very pointedly at Bucky probably relaying a message that goes secret between the two, judging by the way the brunet flips him off and rolls his eyes; the four of you start a leisurely walk towards the pier.

Unwilling to let the previous argument go, Bucky grumbles, “I wasn’t as doll dizzy as you are, though.”

Steve just laughs, “Try selling that lie to someone else, jerk.”

“He has a point,” You defend with a smile, feeling more at east with the group since maybe before you and Bucky even started going steady. “The only reason Bucky and I spent so much time together in the first place was to get you two to smooch.”

“Way to hit where it hurts, doll.”

Hearing him joke around with you, even if you don’t deserve nor his smile or his humor in the slightest, makes warmth spread through your chest. You turn to Bucky with a smile so big your teeth hurt, and it is with a laugh quite reminding of your teenage years that you bump your shoulder with his.

“Shut up.”

The moon is so up high you have to crane your head all the way back to see it by the time the topic of Brock Rumlow comes up, so you count your blessings and face the music.

A small frown forms between your brows, and you cock your head to the side, explaining slowly, “I have him under control, if that’s what you’re going at, Peg.”

She crosses her arms, red lips pursed, “What I’m going at, darling, is whether or not you were going to share with us how he stopped shy of strangling you a couple of days before you came back.”

“He what!?” Steve jumps up, lifting his head from Peggy’s shoulder with a scowl and shock written in his baby-blues.

You catch your name said in a voice you could never forget, and out of the corner of your eye you seen Bucky’s left hand lift and move towards you, before stopping midway and falling back into his lap, curled into a fist.

“I’m alright.” You promise, both to her and any who thinks a brute trying to beat you into submission is all it takes to shut you up.

Peggy shakes her head obstinately, eyes alight with a fury you have not seen many times in your life. You would be lying through your teeth if you said it doesn’t terrify you.

“Why did you hide that?”

“Because it was not important, Peggy!” Her eyes widen in disbelieving rage, a part of it directed at you, and you rush to explain, “He has been on very unstable ground for a few months now, he wanted to try and intimidate me into swearing loyalty to him.”

“Did you?”

You just smile back at her, cocking your head to the side, letting her know she is fully aware of the answer. After a few seconds, Peggy blows out a breath, leaning back against Steve’s chest and looking out at the sea, gathering her thoughts.

“You could’ve. Sworn loyalty, I mean. The whole of Manhattan knows he wants his ring on your finger. You could’ve had it all.” She argues, still not looking at you. You have a feeling she’s not talking just about what happened in Manhattan so many weeks ago.

You shrug in response, “I had my reasons.”

“Which were?”

Whispers of dreams, traces of a future you could never have had as you and Bucky lay side by side, the dead of night making it easier to pretend you could be free. You hide a nostalgic smile by looking down at the label in your bottle.

“Promises I made, promises I intend to keep.”

She knows, what she’s doing, of course she does, you realize as she pushes, “To your father.”

You keep your eyes on hers, defiant, because you know you want to face the grey-blue eyes that have been searching yours since this bizarre conversation started.

“Among others.”

Conversation flows into some business topics, and you cannot help but notice how uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn Bucky grew since Peggy’s admission. After a few minutes, he breaks the silence,

“He tried to kill you.”

“He didn’t.” You argue back, mechanically.

Pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger, he growls, “That’s not the point! You would still stay with that-…Ya’ know what? I’m done. Cheers.”

He downs the rest of the bottle in one gulp and stands up, walking tensely and briskly away from the small group. You cannot keep your eyes from following his figure though, even as silence stretches and his form disappears in the dark mantle of the night.

Steve stands up, always the best friend, always ready to have Bucky’s back, and you catch Peggy’s eyes as Steve shrugs on his jacket to follow Bucky down the dark street.

Peggy probably sees something in your face, and when you meet her gaze her smile is the same secret one you used to share when you helped her sneak out of your house so she could meet with Steve, or when she would pretend to know nothing when your mother asked her about what was going on between you and Bucky.

She takes a hold of Steve’s hand, and you take a second to admire with a happy smile how his focus completely shifts to her the moment she touches him, the adoration he holds for your best friend clear as day in his baby-blue eyes. She leads him away from you with whispered words, and one last glance towards you tells you she knows quite more than she lets on.

With a deep breath you gather your courage and start walking, quickly finding the man sitting alone by the pier, gaze on the ocean that now shows the same grey-blue murkiness as his eyes. You take a seat silently on the ground next to Bucky, keeping your eyes on the horizon as well, unsure what to say.

Either way, he breaks the silence first.

“You do regret it, don’t ya’.” His words are not even a question, and the bitterness in his tone is so heavily outweighed by hurt that you cannot bring yourself to be affronted by them.

You know he means refusing Brock’s offer earlier tonight, the thorn on his side ever since the confrontation in the bar earlier today. You wish you could tell him you are certain you did the right thing by your family, you wish you could be confident and stoic like your mother and stand by each and every choice you make.

“Can you blame me?” You answer instead with a sigh.

“What?”

“He may be…whatever he is, but at least I know what Brock wants out of me. I-I-…Bucky…” A frustrated breath leaves your lips, and too late you realize your hair will be a mess as you run your hands through it. “You used to tell me you didn’t care for the Bratva. Hell, I know the reason you got into working as a Bratok is because you needed help paying for Steve’s hospital bills. And now…now you want to wage war on the off chance you can take Manhattan from me?”

As the words leave your tongue you are faced for what feels like the first time with the reason you have been so angry with Bucky for so long now, and even if your voice cracks and your eyes sting you keep talking, your gaze stubbornly set on the horizon.

“I’m not tryin’ to take anything from ya’, doll.”

“What you have been doing for these last months, or even years; says otherwise, Barnes.”

Bucky sighs next to you, and only when his shoulders expand with a deep breath and brush against yours do you realize how close you are to each other.

He runs a hand through his hair, conflicted and frustrated, “I have my reasons, even if ya’ don’t believe me. Ya’ want me to trust you without you trustin’ me?”

“I trust you! I have been working with you for weeks, Bucky. If I had wanted you dead, hurt, or worse, you would be.”

You ignore the part of you that reminds of how, at least until earlier tonight, Brock was certain you were still working for him. You ignore the reminder that useless, pointless, and even false information was delivered to Manhattan with your name on the back.

He doesn’t answer right away, his jaw set tight and his left hand clenching and releasing multiple times in what looks like a nervous motion. After a few moments with only the sounds of the waves to accompany your loud thoughts, Bucky turns to you, grey-blue eyes almost soft, as soft as you have seen them since your return.

His voice is quiet, but it manages to silence the thoughts of having betrayed your cause, of still being too naïve.

“If I want to take Brooklyn is because I want it to belong to you again, Y/N.”

“Then level the playing field. Don’t play games, don’t put on masks.” You beseech, your eyes searching his with a hint of desperation, a hurt and pain you weren’t expecting. And you know you are pushing your luck, you know the right to demand equal honesty you lost a long time ago.

Any softness that could be in his eyes vanishes like sand between your fingers, and you know exactly why, already regretting the words after they leave your lips.

Bucky lets out a bitter chuckle, and a mix of anger and hurt curls at your insides.

“Like it was ever even, doll.”

He does not believe you. Not about the present, the past, or the future.

You let out a groan of frustration, angry and hurt and tired of this. You let your body fall backwards, laying down on the pier and looking up, trying to blink past the memories that try to resurface and make you soften.

The gentle murmur of the waves against the shore lull you into an almost slumber, your eyes closed but the stars still shining under your eyelids.

“Stark says we are goin’ to visit the moon soon.” You are startled awake at the rumble of Bucky’s voice in his chest, and you lift your head sluggishly from his shoulder to look at him. He offers you a sheepish smile, “Sorry, doll.”

“What are you talking about?” You mumble back, blinking awake and not bothering to resist pressing a soft kiss against his cheek when you see how adorable he looks with his eyes shining in wonder as he stares up into the stars.

“Howard Stark, I read on the ‘paper he said they will invent somethin’ to get us to the moon soon.” He explains, and you cannot help the giggle that builds up in your throat.

“You want to have another date on the science fair, don’t you?”

“If you insist, babydoll.” He teases, but the bright smile on his lips and the excited way he turns to face you tell you another story.

You kiss your own smile into his lips, and burrow back into the place where his neck meets his shoulder, closing your eyes and inhaling his scent as you let yourself be lulled to sleep again.

“Fine, but next time it’ll be Coney Island again.”

You keep your eyes on the sky and force your words out past the knot of memories clogging at your throat, “Then what am I doing here, Bucky? Why am I working with you, why do you say you want to trust me if you are not willing to believe a word I say?”

He turns sideways to face you, leaning back on his elbow so you are face to face. You try, you swear you do, not following with your eyes how the fabric of his shirt tightens around the muscles of his arm. You try, and fail.

Bucky gestures with his free hand as he accuses,

“You are the one that came back, and now you act all high and mighty expectin’ everything to go back to what it used to be-…”

“That’s not what I’m doing!”

But he shakes his head, insisting, and if his eyes show he is a little lost, a little fragile, you do not mention it.

“Yes, you are! Th-the outings with Peg, jokin’ with Stevie, getting along with my fuckin’ sister; you…you left, things cannot- just-” He groans, frustrated at himself and dropping to lay on his back as well, his eyes on the stars. You wonder if he too sees the memories of so many nights spent in this very same pier in what feels like a lifetime ago. “I don’t know what the hell ya’ are playin’ at, Princess, but I’m not gonna be stupid enough to fall for it a second time.”

“I’m not ‘playing’ at anything, Bucky. I’m trying to keep the people I care about alive and safe.”

“Too little too late, Princess. Shoulda thought about that when you left us.”

The words feel like a knife in your chest, and for a moment you feel your air lacking as if truly were embedded there, between your ribs. The girl you were before would’ve listened to her aching throat, her burning eyes; but you were taught to be the Siren first, Y/N second.

After all, that’s what Bucky sees too, isn’t it? He doesn’t trust you, he doesn’t believe a word you say; because what you are to him is the Siren. The girl that loved him died eight years ago, and he acts like it.

The thought shouldn’t hurt you like it does.

Clearing your throat, you nod firmly, standing up and keeping your jaw set tight and your hands curved into fists to keep them from shaking, “I’m going home.”

For a moment Bucky looks like he wants to say something, maybe apologize, maybe explain, maybe keep you there for a while longer. But he doesn’t, answering instead with a sigh and standing up too, “I’ll walk ya’.”

“Aren’t you afraid I will take my chance and stab you in the back?” You spit out in response, eyes narrowed, “I’ll pass, Barnes.”

But he doesn’t let you walk far, falling into s quick stride with you with no problem, with those damn long legs of his. You refuse to look at him, even if you feel his eyes on your face and his itch to say something.

With a huff, he admits, “You ain’t the only one with people you-…you want to keep safe, okay? I’ll walk ya’ home.”

___

The walk is quiet, but the silence is not as angry anymore as it is tired, hurt, yearning. There’s this wound you yourself created, and yet for so long haven’t been able to stop from bleeding.

Being back in Brooklyn made all this mistakes and old pains and memories and…and this old you come back, or at least try to, like a song you hear from a faraway radio, that gets louder and louder, harder to ignore, the closer you get.

The streets leading to your apartment and the façade of the building have never looked so cold and ominous before. You stand there in silence, looking up at the place you bought after being made Captain, the porch where you spent all those late nights whispering promises and dreams and hopes, the windows that became witnesses to the times you felt the most loved, the most worshiped, the most wanted.

When Bucky murmurs a goodbye, you cannot bring yourself to let him go.

The words are leaving your lips before you are even done turning back to face him,

“You let me go.”

His shoes as he stops in his tracks make a sound in the gravel that seems to echo through the streets.

“What?”

“You keep saying I’m the one that left, and yes, I did, but you let me.” You explain, standing your ground in the stairs even as he gets closer, even as your legs beg to walk closer to. You stand your ground, because you were taught to.

“You chose Manhattan, Y/N.” Bucky grits out, jaw set tight.

Looking up at his stormy eyes, you cannot find it in yourself to hold yourself back when you explain, “I chose what I was taught to choose! I wanted to…”

The words die at your throat though, the courage and the freedom short-lived, as the Siren’s teachings reach for your conscious mind, reminding you of how wants are not of importance when it comes to the Bratva, if how love is not of value in the Game.

Bucky doesn’t let you keep that particular thought to yourself though, walking even closer to you, so close you can feel the warmth of his body in this cold Brooklyn night.

Even if his breath is quickened, even if his eyes are dark, his voice is merely a whisper, “What? What did ya’ want?”

You shake your head, “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it matters a hell of a lot, doll.”

There’s something in his expression, something both hopeful and broken, something both angry and hurt. Something that reminds you of the man you love.

So, you take a deep breath, and force the truth to leave your lips.

“I wanted to stay. I wanted you.” You breathe out, not giving your heart to dwell on Bucky’s soft gasp before you bite out, spite and hurt in equal proportions clear in your tone, “But you let me go.”

When you walk up a couple of steps to set distance between you, Bucky lets you, taking a step back himself and facing you with wide eyes.

“Let you go!? I didn’t have a choice, Y/N!”

Your eyes narrow and your voice rises to match his before you can remind yourself of what is proper, “What are you talking about? I asked you to come with me, I asked you, begged you, to join my family so we could stay together, and you said no! I deserve my answers too!”

The brunet runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it, and he turns his back to you as he paces, letting you see the tension in his muscles through the dress shirt.

“I said no because I knew I couldn’t keep you, Y/N!” He exclaims, and the pain in his voice alone could forever sentence you into silence. “Why do ya’ think I was never made Captain while your father was alive, huh? Why do ya’ think I never joined a family? Why do ya’ think I never joined yours?”

“Bucky…”

This time he walks closer, eyes set on yours, jaw set and lips tight, the face of determination, “Do ya’ really believe I wanted to see the woman I love go off to Manhattan and marry Brock fuckin’ Rumlow? No, but I had to sit back and watch it happen because it was the only choice I got.”

The pieces fall into place, the questions that have been running through your head way before the dinner at Winnie’s where you learned Bucky knew of your parents arranged marriage even before you did finally have an answer, and like a doll whose strings have been cut off, you let yourself fall to the steps underneath you, sitting numbly on the stairs.

“That’s why Father told you about his arrangement with my mother. He was counting on my marrying…who? Fucking Rumlow?”

You wonder if you should sound more hurt, more betrayed. You wonder if you shouldn’t feel like you have known of what your father was capable of, and willing to do, since before you even left Brooklyn.

Bucky sighs, but you can’t look at him, you just do your best to look ahead without letting tears flood your eyes, as the realization of what your family did to you sets in your stomach like a dead weight.

You feel his warmth next to you before you can understand he took a seat in the stairs by your side, “He was tryin’ to protect you, in his own way.”

“I kn-…” You stop yourself. You don’t want to give the answer you were taught to give, you don’t want to accept it because that’s what the Bratva is supposed to do, because that’s what the rules are. You may have been taught the rules, but you were raised to push past them. May the Queen overthrow the Game. You stand up, fists clenched tight and expression firm even if your eyes still shine a little too much, “It doesn’t matter, it…it shouldn’t matter. That’s not how things ought to be done, I cannot make a choice if I don’t know what I’m choosing.”

The man before you shrugs, still sitting in the stairs, “You did choose, though.”

It’s just then that pain lacers through you like a knife, leaving you bleeding with whispers of could have been’s and wonders of what if’s. The first sob leaves your lips before you can think of holding it back, tears overflowing your eyes and racing a burning path down your cheeks.

Bucky’s arms wrap around you and you cannot bring yourself to pretend anything anymore, hiding your face in his chest and somehow feeling the ache deepen, the wound blister and burn at the reminder of what you lost, at the warmth you missed and left behind.

“I’m sorry.” You gasp through a shaky voice, but his only answer is to bring you in closer, chin resting over your head and his hands soothing as they travel up and down your back.

Your toes lost sensation by the time you bring yourself to pull back, and you wipe your hands across messy cheeks and stare up at him.

The smile Bucky offers you is a little sad, a little encouraging and it somehow makes you all the more courageous.

“Come upstairs with me? We have a lot to talk about.”

___

After washing your face and tying back yourself in your bathroom, you walk out with a new determination in your step. This time, past the hurt, past the bleeding heart, you promise yourself to find healing.

And it starts by admitting to all wounds. So, with a deep breath, you start,

“What my father did, how he handled business and…family, I don’t want that,” Bucky doesn’t say anything, sitting in your couch, hands clasped together and forearms resting on his thighs. You try telling yourself it’s the best choice when you admit, “Just when I had gotten back to Brooklyn a month or so ago, the day I ran into Becca…I…Brock called me, he knew too many things about what had been happening. And to ‘prove’ my loyalty, he wanted information, whatever I could get you to tell me. Well, whatever the Siren could.”

If the man before you is surprised, he doesn’t show it.

His voice is gravely when he states, his question not even truly one, “And ya’ did.”

“I did, dead trails and some other useless information to keep him off my back. I wanted you to know, because…I want to start over.”

Itching with uncomfortableness, you switch from one foot to the other as the silence stretches into awkwardness. After a few moments of watching you squirm, Bucky leans back on the couch, a hint of a smile playing at his lips and hand inviting you to sit.

You do, hoping your eagerness was not so noticeable.

“Fine. Why are ya’ here in Brooklyn, doll?” He asks, and thought the question has been asked before, you fear this is the first time the answer will be truly, undoubtably honest.

“To take it back, even if it has to be from you.”

The smile now fully tugs at his lips, both a promise and a secret as his hand closes over yours. The touch startles you,

“Ya’ won’t have to.” He whispers, and although the gentle hold of his calloused hand of your own startles you, you still return the gentle squeeze when you whisper back,

“I know.”

___

Did you like it? Please tell me what you think, I'm seriously squirming because it has been so long I fear to have lost my touch when it comes to these character's voices and this story I wanna tell.

Btw, in case you caught it, in neither of those times were Bucky or the Reader character supposed to speak in past tense, it wasn't a typo ;)

Please tell me what you think!

Love, Luce.

#bucky x reader #mobster!bucky #mobster!bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mobster au

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wintersxsoul · 5 years

Text

The Night We Danced

Summary: Two dorks in love that have to wait to get drunk to confess their feelings.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: Maybe some language, drunk people and I think mentions of sex??

A/N: This is my entry for my dearest @writingsoftheloser 1k historical writing challenge! I got the Victorian Era, so I came up with this longass nonsense. I hope you enjoy and as always, feedback and reblogs are free and make me really happy and motivated <3

Bucky Barnes was a dancer.

He sometimes had flashes of his old life in the late 30’s and 40’s, long summer nights dancing with beautiful dames, little Stevie by his side laughing and stepping in the ladies’ shoes. Everything was much more simpler, happier, but war happened and the dances turned into battles, the warm hands that he was used to hold became rifles and glocks. The jazzy tunes turned into gunfire, dates turned into risky missions and the thought of a long happy life turned into dust when he fell off that train.

Bucky Barnes stopped being a dancer to be a soldier, a spy, a deadly assassin.

They had taken all he was away, all his memories, his hopes and dreams. Everything was wiped but not his motor skills or knowledge. They turned him into the most efficient soldier, cold and calculating, his only motive in life was completing his missions. He had killed mercilessly, not questioning even once who was in front of the gun, he just knew he had to pull the trigger.

Everything changed the moment Steve Rogers, his best friend since childhood, found him 70 years after being used and tortured. Steve saved him from the claws of Hydra and gave him the opportunity to gain back his own self, to finally give his life meaning again.

His life changed drastically when he joined the Avengers, he could use his unrequired skills to help people, to save lives. He had his closest friends, Steve of course, Sam, Nat and then he met you. Once he was able to recover almost all his memories, he had a long heartfelt conversation with Natasha since she had suffered in similar ways. The brainwashing, the body killing training, the horrors of the Cold War and the cruelty of the Red Room.

You and Nat were inseparable, both becoming SHIELD agents the same year. You were a freelance hitwoman, both of your missions were to kill the same target. But before you could kill each other, SHIELD stepped in and rescued both of you, seeing your potential and the ability to do the missions other agents weren’t able to. When Bucky first came to the compound, you were away because your last mission went badly and it almost killed you, so Fury and Steve decided it was better for you to lay low for a while. Months went by and Bucky’s curiosity only grew, he really wanted to meet you, since everyone talked about you like you were an angel. When the time came to finally meet you, everything he ever heard about you was not nearly accurate to him. You were as much of a mystery as Nat, but unlike her, you opened up to him fastly, trusting him blindly. You both held each other on your worst nights and were also there for the other when you needed a good laugh.

You could have never imagined that the infamous Winter Soldier could be such an absolute dork with such a pure heart and soul. At first he was a bit sulky and moody, he was like a ghost around the compound, but months of therapy and help from his friends turned him into the man he was today, the man you loved deeply, even though you lied to yourself trying to make it seem like a platonic feeling. For years you remained as best friends, until the masquerade ball Tony organized for Natasha’s birthday.

“So, what are your plans for the party?” You asked Bucky nonchalantly while you looked for costume designers online. He looked up from his book and shrugged, he really didn’t know what you meant but he knew you would elaborate. You closed your laptop and placed it on your nightstand, all your attention on your friend now. You laid across the bed, resting your head on his lap. You were staring at the ceiling so you totally missed Bucky’s adoring gaze.

“Well, apart from getting hammered with Thor’s Asgardian alcohol, I don’t really know.” You rolled your eyes internally at his comment. You laid on your stomach so you could face him, your chin resting on your hands on top of his chest.

“Obviously you are doing that, but it’s not what I meant.” Bucky chuckled and you rolled your eyes. You weren’t sure about asking him to be your partner, maybe he was planning on going with someone else, maybe he wanted to go on his own. You cleared your throat while reaching out to fiddle with the laces of his hoodie nervously.

“Are you going with someone?” He frowned, realizing that you didn’t assume (like he did) that you were going together. Maybe you were planning to go with a date? He knew it had been more than a year since you had dated someone so maybe you wanted to use the party as an excuse to do so?

“What you mean with someone? I d-”

“You should ask Sarah from Forensics, I’ve heard she has a huge crush on you. She’s sooo soft and pretty. I have her number if you wa-”

“Okay, Y/n stop right there. I am not going with Sarah or with anyone else but you.” His eyes widened at his own boldness but he quickly found a logical explanation.

“I mean, we always go together to this kind of shitty parties we both dread. But if you are going with someone else is fine.”

“Yeah, yeah I just thought that maybe you wanted to go with an actual date and not your best friend.” He tousled your hair and you whined jokingly. He mumbled “dork” and you stuck your tongue out.

“My best friend is pretty cool and when she gets drunk the party starts, so I am not missing that for Sarah from Forensics.”

“Oh god James, and I am the dork? You absolute dumbass.” You shook your head in amusement and sat on the bed, putting your disheveled hair in a low ponytail. You slapped him lightly on the right shoulder and got down of the bed, gathering your stuff.

“I can’t stand to see that beautiful stupid face right now, I have to look for a fucking dress. You better wear something in dark red cause, you know it-”

“it’s my color” he mocked you using a high pitched tone of voice and laughed at the face of disgust you jokingly pulled off.

“Fuck you.”

“Why don’t you f-” His sentence was cut off by the bang of his door closing but you already knew what he said. You rolled your eyes and made your way to Nat’s room since you needed to organize shopping days and all that stuff.

Bucky Barnes was a dancer and fortunately he still had some moves, but waltzing was out of his league. He knew what a masquerade was of course, so the fact that he had to learn how to dance a completely different style was...frightening to say the least. He talked about it with Steve so they both were headed now to a masterclass while their dates were out shopping. Nat had asked Steve as her date because she wanted to go with his best friend. Their friendship was the most platonic you’ve ever seen and watching them flirt and banter was the highlight of your days. Nat was a fantastic dancer of course, she used to be a fucking ballerina, so she offered to teach you some moves. She was the only one who actually knew your feelings towards Bucky because you had confessed them one night you had drank your weight in vodka and when you saw Bucky’s text asking you to please be careful, you laughed and told her. You didn’t remember that conversation and when Natasha tried to ask you, she realized she shouldn’t bring up the topic until you were ready to believe it yourself.

“Ooof Nat, should I really buy this expensive dress?” You asked her while checking yourself out in the mirror. The dress was absolutely stunning, made of a dark red taffeta or a similar material, short sleeved and a beautiful v-neck, not very revealing but enough to make your babies pop. The bodice hugged your curves and the skirt was puffy.

“Listen, Stark is paying for everything, that includes our dresses. So yes, you are going to buy it.” She stood up and lead you back to the changing room so she could purchase both of your dresses.

Steve sighed heavily at Bucky’s complaints. They’d been dancing for four hours straight and they weren’t getting any better, or at least that’s what they thought. Bucky really couldn’t believe he had been dragged into this mess just because he loved getting drunk with you under any circumstances.

“Come on Buck, don’t worry. You two will probably be too drunk to even stand, why bother so much in learning this shit?” Bucky rolled his eyes and nudged his friend on the shoulder.

“Listen pal, I wanna do this right. You know how much I love dancing so this is just an excuse to learn something new.” He could almost believe his own lie, but Steve knew better. He knew Bucky better than himself, so he obviously knew the unspoken thing that was going on between two of his best friends.

“Okay buddy, whatever you say. I just hope Y/n appreciates all this instead of laughing at you like Sam and Nat are probably going to do.” He muttered something to himself and left the room without saying a word.

“Fucking idiots, I hope they fuck soon.” Steve said to himself before turning around and smiling at the dance teacher.

“Let’s do this Janet, I have a very dangerous woman to impress tonight.”

“I really, really, really, really regret the day I gave you access to come into my room whenever you want to.” You told Bucky, who was laying on your bed on his stomach, his face buried in the pillows. You slumped next to him and buried your face in the pillows as well. You really thought you looked like idiots but you couldn’t care less.

“Can we stay here? We can watch one of those victorian romantic movies you love and get wasted on our own.”

“You know I would love to, but Nat would kill us. Besides, you hate those movies.”

“I was just trying to persuade you Barnes, you don’t need to be so rude.” You stood up and opened your first drawer, pulling out the two masks you had bought throwing Bucky’s to his head and he responded with a fake “ouch”. He sat on the bed and looked at you amused, the small mask in his hands.

“And you have the nerve to call me rude. I already have my mask and I won’t show it to you until tonight.”

“Wow, sorry for thinking about you and your shitty memory, old man.”

“You know what Y/n? I’ll see you tonight before I throw myself out of that balcony.” You giggled at his fake tantrum. You really loved your friendship with Bucky, because even though you were always joking around each other, you had your backs. He was always there and so were you.

“You want me to walk you to your room?” He frowned at you but his eyes widened when he realized what you were about to say, but you said it before he could cut you off. “In case you don’t remember where your room is at.”

“That was one time Y/n, please let it go.”

“Never.” And with that said, he left. You giggled remembering the first night you two got drunk together. It was the first time Bucky had tried Thor’s alcohol so he was excited to finally get drunk after all those decades. He drank by himself almost three flasks and encouraged you to drink a bottle of vodka on your own, so at 6 am, you were stumbling through your room floor because Bucky had forgotten where his own room was, so he wanted to sleep at yours.

You took a last look at yourself in your mirror and placed the mask in its place. It was a shame that Bucky had decided not to wear the mask you’d bought for him, but his taste was pretty great so you knew it was going to be amazing.

When you reached the party the place was already full of people. Everyone was dancing to the slow melodies or drinking at the bar. You noticed that Tony had removed all the furniture from the room so it looked like a grand dance hall, the usual modern lamps he owned were replaced by huge golden crystal chandeliers, the windows were covered by thick curtains that looked like the ones European palaces had. The cream and golden tones of all the decoration gave a really regal look to the party, the soft glow of the candles in the bar and the sound of champagne glasses relaxed your senses.

You fixed your long silk gloves and sighed, moving through the crowd towards the bar, where Nat stood chatting with who you assumed it was Steve, Sam was behind the counter pouring alcohol to his half empty glass.

“You mind filling this lady’s glass?” Sam smirked and you winked at him. He raised his eyebrow under his cream and red mask and he took out a tall glass.

“What would the lady like to drink?” He rested both of his palms in the counter, looking at you with an amused look in his eyes.

“Vodka on the rocks, s'il vous plait.” You heard Nat choke on her drink and Steve turned to look at you while Sam just poured your drink, a smile playing on his lips.

“Aren’t we starting a bit early, Y/n? Your date is not even here.” You shrugged at Sam’s comment and took the glass when he handed it.

“Since you all seemed so surprised with my drinking choices, I’m going. I need an unjudging friend right now.” You waved your hand gracefully and moved towards the centre, trying to find Bucky. After five minutes and an empty glass, you saw his bulking figure talking to some woman. You needed a moment to gather your thoughts because he looked absolutely sinful with the outfit he was wearing. The black pants marked all his muscles, specially his thighs, those fucking thighs that drove you insane and his ass...you shook your head trying to stop your mind. You needed another drink.

“Wow look who’s back and empty handed!” Steve said to the small group. You nudged him in the ribs and asked Sam for another glass of alcohol.

“Why are you this flustered Y/n?” Nat asked you when she noticed your flushed cheeks. You fixed your mask trying to hide your nervousness and failing miserably.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” Your three friends shared a knowing look and you rolled your eyes, finishing your drink in two sips and encouraged by the burning liquid, you went to where Bucky was. You could now see his whole outfit perfectly and your heart swelled. He was wearing a black ruffled shirt with a black and dark red embroidered vest and a black tail coat. His face was covered by a simple half Venetian mask, decorated with the same colors as the outfit’s. He was chatting with some agent you couldn’t recognize and you felt a pang of jealousy at how he was looking at her, smiling and touching her. At that moment you realized the alcohol was kicking in and that’s why you were having those stupid thoughts. You approached your friend and placed your gloved hand to his shoulder, indicating him that you were besides him and waiting for him to pay attention to you. You catched a part of the conversation and they were talking about one of the last missions the undercover agents did, so after a court nod from Bucky and a brief goodbye from her, his eyes were on you.

“Well, look at you!” He smiled at you warmly and you felt something flip inside you. “How did you recognize me?”

“Oh boy, you can mask that face all you want but you can’t mask those thighs.” You smirked and he started laughing at your comment, making you feel proud of your wittiness.

“How drunk are you already?” You brought your hand up between your bodies and pressed your thumb and index together whispering “a little” so only he could hear it.

“Lucky for you, I drank almost a flask, so that makes us dangerous already. Wanna dance?” He extended his hand and you took it accepting his invitation. You suddenly felt really nervous since it was the first time you were going to slow dance with him but unbeknown to you, Bucky Barnes felt sick due to his nerves. He wanted this to work, he wanted to show you and the world that he was still capable of being a soft person, not this cold calculative soldier with a dark past.

The feeling of his hand on your waist and your other hands intertwined was intoxicating you, your bodies pressed together, the only thing between you two were your clothes. You spinned around the room for what felt like eternity, time for you had stopped and everyone had disappeared.

You burst the small bubble you were both in saying you needed a drink, Bucky stopped swaying you and with your hands still intertwined, went to the empty bar.

“I’ve always loved the Victorian Era, you know?” He said while giving you a glass full of vodka, and took a sip of his flask. “The clothes, the courting, the chivalry and all that fuss.” He smiled sadly at you thinking that you wouldn’t notice.

“If you could, would you go back in time and stay?”

He took another sip, now longer, and shook his head. “Of course not, you wouldn’t be there.” He blurted out without thinking and you just giggled at the comment.

“Oh Barnes, don’t be so dramatic. I’m sure you would make good friends there as well.” You gave him a sincere smile and he shook his head again, taking another sip of the flask, this time a long one. You looked down at your glass and twirled the straw, looking at how the ice cubes collided with each other.

“I love you.” You jerked your head up and maybe it was the alcohol clouding your mind or the denial of your own feelings, but you didn’t notice his intense gaze, filled with love and adoration.

“And I love you too, you idiot. As my best friend, you should know that already.” You placed your lips around the straw and finished the whole drink, Bucky still looking at you shocked that you rejected his feelings without you noticing.

“No, Y/n, what I mean is that I’m-”

“You are what, Barnes?” Nat cut Bucky off and you threw yourself into her arms, kissing her face and wishing her a happy birthday. “I missed you, Nat. Where were you?” You started talking to her totally ignoring your friend, who got that as his cue to leave the party. He would never blame you for not feeling the same or not even noticing his feelings, that was totally on him, but he didn’t feel well enough to stay in the party. He knew you wanted him there, to get drunk together and then both of you ending up throwing up in the sink and the toilet, but tonight he needed to breathe, he needed to get out of the crowd.

“Hey, where is going Bucky?” Asked Steve while he approached Nat and you. You frowned and looked at the entrance, catching a glimpse of Bucky’s broad shoulders and hair leaving the party. “I’ll be back in a sec.” You said and stumbled down the bar stool, heading towards the entrance half running.

“We both know they are not coming back, right?” Steve said to Nat, a strong nod and a sigh answered his comment.

You ran as fast as your drunken state let you but before you could notice you slipped with the dress and fell.

“FUCK” You screamed to the empty hall and took off your heels and gloves, standing up trying not to fall again on your ass. Bucky was nowhere to be seen so you headed to his room, your head spinning due to the alcohol.

“What are you doing here?” Bucky startled you, making you lose balance but he caught you before you could fall again.

“I was just checking that you got to your room safely, since you know, you get lost and all that.” You laughed at his fake hurt expression and straightened your clothes. You noticed that he had taken off his mask and that you were still wearing yours. “Why did you leave?”

“I’m feeling a bit sick, I think I drank too mu-”

“James, if you don’t tell me what the fuck is wrong I’ll torture you until you do. The drinking excuse is the worst you could’ve used with me.”

Bucky sighed defeated, he knew he had to get it off his chest, after three years carrying this on his own, he needed to let the words out, he needed you to know. He reached for the laces of your mask and took it off, placing a strand of hair behind your ear and cupping your cheek.

“I love you, Y/n.” You rolled your eyes in fake annoyance just to mess up with him.

“Baby, we already established that I lov-”

“Y/n, you are not listening. I am in love with you. I want to be your best friend, your lover, your partner in crime and your drunk buddy.”

You stared at him wide eyed, not knowing what to answer or to do. He caressed your cheek with his thumb and you gasped at the feeling, making Bucky think that you were rejecting the act. You stopped him from moving his hand and he leaned in, his lips brushing yours lightly.

“Either you kiss me or I faint, so make a m-” And just like that, his lips crashed against yours with a passion and hunger you’ve never felt in your entire life. He pressed you against the door, the stupid huge dress stopping you from feeling anything. Your brain finally woke up and you realized what was going on. Bucky Barnes loved you, he was in love with you. And you were in love with him. You pulled away and stopped him, making him step backwards scared that he did something you didn’t want to.

“You love me?” You really asked him, thinking that maybe your brain was betraying you. He nodded and looked away, not wanting to see the rejection in your eyes.

“Hey coward, look at me.” You held his chin and forced him to look at you. “I love you too, always have. I was just too damn scared to admit it to even myself.” He smiled and kissed you again, this time slower, pouring every ounce of love he had for you in the kiss.

“What now?” He asked you once he pulled away to breathe. He had his hand on the back of your neck, caressing your skin with his thumb.

“As much as I’d love you to fuck me against every surface on that room, I am drunk and tired and I need to process everything.” He nodded and waited for you to come up with what you wanted to do next. “So you are going to take this dress off me carefully cause I can’t do it on my own and it’s expensive as fuck, you are going to give me one for your shirts and we are sleeping, together.” He nodded again and smiled, leaning in again to give your lips a small peck.

“Consider it done, asshole.”

#vi1khistoricalchallenge #Bucky Barnes #james barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fluff #the winter soldier #mutual pining #friends to lovers #best friends to lovers #avengers #the avengers #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n

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musicprincess655 · 4 years

Link

Ryuu’s lungs burn and his heart beats too, too fast in his chest. He’s never been the best runner, and running for his life doesn’t offer the same motivation to him as it does to other people. After all, he’s been running for his life for almost twenty years now.

Gin doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at him, but he knows that she knows he can’t keep this up for much longer. No matter how much he wills himself to keep going, his body is going to give out.

Atsushi is keeping pace easily, enough that he can even talk while he runs, and Ryuu hates him for it right now.

“How are we going to escape?” he asks. “We can’t run all the way to the wall.”

No, they can’t. Ryuu and Gin had been hoping they’d have more time to hide out, if their plan to steal a police car didn’t work out. It would take longer to get out of No. 6, and that’s always dangerous, but they wouldn’t attract the kind of attention they would with faster methods.

“There,” Gin says, voice so soft Ryuu isn’t sure Atsushi even hears her, but he reacts when she points. Ryuu nods, ignoring whether Atsushi is on board or not. It’s not a perfect solution, but it sure is a solution.

They’ve gotten close enough to the developed area that there’s a car they can steal.

Well. Car is a generous term. It’s a small truck, probably used by gardeners, but it’ll get the job done.

The door is unlocked, and Gin slides into the driver’s seat while Ryuu and Atsushi run to scramble into the other side. It’s only a two-seater, and Ryuu and Atsushi have to awkwardly perch in the one seat so Gin has the room she needs to drive. The keys aren’t in the ignition, but it takes Ryuu and Gin together less than a minute to get around that. Then they’re off down the road as fast as is reasonable, as fast as will keep them from getting noticed.

And finally, Ryuu can breathe, just a little. He glances over at Atsushi, squished between Ryuu and the door, breathing already recovered. He doesn’t look much different from the last time Ryuu saw him, still unremarkable except for his eyes. They’re somehow both purple and gold, an unusual color that almost looks like sunset.

But more importantly…

“I’m taller now,” Ryuu says. Atsushi blinks those big, stupid doe eyes of his at Ryuu.

“What?”

“I’m taller,” Ryuu repeats. It’s childish and petty, and he knows Gin is rolling her eyes behind him even though he can’t see it. “You made fun of me for being smaller than you last time. Now I’m taller. Aren’t you supposed to be the one with plenty of food? You’re the one inside No. 6.”

“You’re talkative,” Atsushi says.

“I never said I wasn’t,” Ryuu shoots back.

“Why are you back in No. 6?” Atsushi asks, instead of staying on the subject. “And how did you pull this off? Did you know they were going to arrest me?”

Ryuu holds up one of the robots he stashed in his pockets. It’s almost indistinguishable from a real mouse, and that’s what makes it unnoticeable. Only close examination will reveal the tiny whirring sound of its motor.

“We keep an eye on everything in No. 6,” Ryuu says.

What he doesn’t tell Atsushi is that they figured out he was in danger just over six hours ago. It was a tight timetable, and it may or may not have contributed to the plan being less than perfect, but that’s an argument Ryuu isn’t going to lose when they get back, because he’s just not going to have it.

“And you came back to save me?” Atsushi asks.

“I don’t like owing people,” Ryuu says. It’s an understatement. Atsushi doesn’t need to know that, either. “Now we’re even.”

“But why now?” Atsushi asks. “Why would No. 6 go after me now? I’ve been saying stuff like that for years. What changed?”

Ryuu doesn’t answer. He’s not really a big picture kind of guy. Pulling off a plan in less than six hours to rescue an accident-prone idiot that Ryuu just so happens to owe a life debt to? No problem. Postulating on the mentality of an oppressive government? Not really his area.

Gin makes a frustrated noise behind him, and Ryuu finally pays her some attention.

There are cop cars speeding at them, coming from the gate to the outside. It’s a good thing they were never planning on leaving through the gate, anyway.

Gin turns the car sharply, sending Ryuu and Atsushi crashing into the door. Neither of them has a seatbelt on, considering they only have the one and it won’t stretch over them both. And unfortunately, this seems to be the part where they really should have a seatbelt on.

“The sewage facility?” Atsushi asks, realizing a few beats late what the plan is. “We can’t get through the gate without an ID.”

“You have no imagination,” Ryuu tells him, bracing his arms against the dashboard. This is probably going to hurt.

Gin slams the car through the gate, and while the engine makes some very unhappy noises, it keeps running, so she steers them into the facility.

“They’re going into lockdown, we won’t make it,” Atsushi warns. A metal grate is dropping in front of all the windows and doors. Gin guns it.

“Get down,” Ryuu growls, forcing Atsushi’s head down below the dashboard. It’s not the best protection, but when sliding under the grate takes off the top of the car, it also doesn’t take off their heads.

The car is toast, though, and rightly so. Ryuu stands from the wreckage of broken glass and twisted metal, ears only ringing a little. They’re very nearly home free.

“This way,” he says. Gin follows him, silent as a shadow, and Atsushi follows much less so.

“The sewers?” Atsushi asks.

“A perfect backdoor for people like us,” Ryuu says. Luckily, there’s enough of a lip on the side that they can still run. They don’t have to swim through this water.

Alarms blare, and Ryuu can hear people descending into the facility, but as long as Atsushi doesn’t slow them down, they shouldn’t have a problem escaping.

Ryuu and Gin could find their way through these tunnels in the dark with their eyes closed, and sometimes they have to. As far as smuggling goes, sewage tunnels are essential. Ryuu has spent so much time travelling through them that he knows them like the back of his hand.

Atsushi is doing less well. He keeps blinking his eyes, like he’s trying to force them to adjust to the darkness, and even though he would probably be faster than Ryuu if they ran on the surface, he’s not nearly as fast down here.

“Keep up,” Ryuu instructs harshly. “We’re not even halfway there yet.”

The sewers might be the safer path into No. 6, but they’re certainly not the fastest. It’s a long route that involves backtracking and mazes, turns that take them around where on the surface they could just go straight.

It’s more of a relief than usual when they haul themselves out of the sewers, up into the dying light of the day. They’re outside the wall, and that makes them safe, or as safe as anyone can be in a world like this.

Atsushi sprawls out on the ground, the sunlight slanting across his face to match his eyes. Ryuu leaves him to it for just a moment, but staying out in the open isn’t the safest thing they could be doing.

“This is the West Block,” Ryuu says. Atsushi’s eyes blink all the way open, and he stands to look around. His eyes widen at the warren of shacks that make up this slum. “Welcome to reality. Good luck in it.”

“What?” Atsushi’s eyes are still wide, but fear has suddenly crept into them, and Ryuu hates him for it. That fear he holds inside is so obvious, and it’s like he’s begging to be killed.

He won’t last a week out here, but that’s not actually Ryuu’s problem.

“I’d say stay out of trouble, but I don’t think you actually know how to do that,” Ryuu says. “So have a nice life, whatever’s left of it.”

“You’re just leaving me here?”

“You saved my life, I saved yours,” Ryuu says. “Transaction complete. We’re done here.”

“No, wait-”

“Making new friends now?”

Ryuu closes his eyes and only just barely keeps from screaming in frustration. The absolute last person he wanted to run into right now.

Dazai surveys them coolly, no emotion other than amusement leaking through. Chuuya sits on the wall behind him, leaning back on his hands casually.

“What are you two doing here?” Ryuu growls.

“You and Gin left so quickly, and I was curious,” Dazai says. “You usually plan so carefully when you go into No. 6. I wanted to see what was worth the risk.”

Of course Ryuu couldn’t hide this from Dazai entirely. Dazai knows Atsushi exists, and knows that Ryuu wants to square things with him, knows how badly Ryuu hates owing anyone. Not that Ryuu’s actually told him any of this. Dazai just knows things.

“Just tell them you were worried about them,” Chuuya growls. Ryuu believes that Dazai worried about Gin, but he probably would’ve been thrilled if Ryuu hadn’t come back. “Shitty Dazai.”

“Dazai?” Atsushi pipes up. “As in Dazai Osamu?”

Ryuu wonders if Atsushi realizes the danger he just walked into. If he can see the way Dazai’s face changes, morphs from simple amusement to something much colder. It’s not an easy shift to spot, but Ryuu’s had six years to learn Dazai’s moods, and six years to fear the darker changes.

“Who’s asking?” Dazai asks. His voice is light, airy, and a lesser man wouldn’t notice a difference. Ryuu might not have to wait for the West Block to kill Atsushi. Dazai might right now, if Atsushi can’t explain himself.

“My dad has a file on you,” Atsushi says. “He never let me look at it, but that’s the name on it. Dazai Osamu. A suicide victim.”

Dazai’s mind works faster than anyone else’s, which means he gets to his conclusions before Ryuu realizes the train wreck that is coming to destroy his life.

“You’re Fukuzawa’s kid?” Dazai asks. “Adopted, I’m guessing, since I would’ve known about you back then.”

“Yeah, that’s…you know my dad?” Atsushi asks. Damn it all. Ryuu will never be rid of him now.

“He used to let me hang around the detective agency,” Dazai says. “Gave me a place to hide from my guardian.”

“Then you…you weren’t a suicide victim,” Atsushi says. Ryuu can practically see him putting the pieces together. “That was faked. Because…you did something, and No. 6 came after you.”

“And he’s clever,” Dazai says, approval obvious in his voice. Ryuu bristles. He works so hard for the slightest glimpse of Dazai’s approval, and Atsushi gets it just for showing up?

“It makes more sense that you’re alive,” Atsushi says. “I think he always wondered, you know? He’d always pull that file out when he had a rough day. Or when he had to deal with Mori-san. Which I guess made it a rough day.”

“Ah, so you’re acquainted with my guardian,” Dazai says, voice gone cold. Ryuu just barely fights down a snarl. Of course they’re already getting along like a house on fire. That’s not fair, but Atsushi has already proven himself luckier than Ryuu, not that he appreciates it at all.

“Guardian?”

“Yeah, he’s…” Dazai trails off, apparently lost for words to describe Mori.

“He did a less than stellar fucking job of instilling a moral compass in Dazai,” Chuuya gripes in the interim.

“Slugs should be seen and not heard,” Dazai singsongs at him.

“Mackerels should be fried and eaten,” Chuuya shoots back, kicking Dazai’s shoulder so hard he stumbles. Chuuya jumps down from his perch on the wall. The dents his feet make don’t seem to line up with his size, but Ryuu is used to that by now. “Let’s take this inside. If you’re keeping that kid, we should get him out of the open for now.”

Ryuu tries desperately to signal to Chuuya no, please don’t because if they bring Atsushi inside, he really will be here for good, and the only thing Ryuu will be able to do is kill Atsushi himself.

“Oh, we’re keeping him,” Dazai says. “I can’t wait to hear how Fukuzawa’s kid ended up out here.”

“Come on, let’s get inside,” Chuuya says. “Ryuu, where’s your sister?”

Ryuu looks around for Gin, but she’s nowhere to be found. She’s probably already inside, though. Ryuu did wake her up to go save Atsushi, and she needs the sleep now.

“Sister?” Atsushi asks. “You have a sister?”

“Yes,” Ryuu grits out. “Make sure you thank her later. She did help save your life. You owe her one.”

“But the only ones that saved me were you and Gin,” Atsushi says. Ryuu tries to count backwards from one hundred, just to see if that will help. It doesn’t. But he has to keep it together in front of Dazai, especially now that Atsushi is Dazai’s new favorite. “Unless…wait, Gin is a girl?”

And that’s it. It doesn’t matter how much Dazai wants to keep Atsushi around. Ryuu is going to end up killing Atsushi himself.

#shin soukoku #sskk #akuatsu #atsuaku #bungou stray dogs #bsd #my writing #no. 6 au #systasis

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heademptyhero · 4 years

Text

i’ll follow you into the dark

after a long session of training with bakubro and tsuyu- tsu, I mean, we all went back to the dorms to study. bakugou was helping me learn our Italian vocabulary. well, more like help me even focus in the first place. i may have been a little... distracted by a fact midoriya had told me earlier. he had explained to me how the star beetlegeuse would appear extra bright tonight. “im gonna say it one. more. damn. time, shitty hair. if by the end of tonight you don’t know how to say your birthday in Italian , I WILL be the one to swan dive out the fucking window.” he looked at me with his fake angry face. at this point in our friendship, i know ALL his poker faces. this was one of them. he furrowed his eyebrows in an attempt to portray Mr. Tough Guy, but he just looked silly. of course with his massive ego, i would never tell him that. “im sorry, bro! i can’t control the hyper fixation! midoriya told me about a super bright star that’s visible tonight, and i can’t focus clearly.” he just looked at me for a minute, but with an actually genuine emotion this time. but i have no clue what. “tell you what. if you can say your entire birth date and how old you are by 11:00 pm, we will go outside and look at the fucking stars. deal?” “YES! DEAL!!”

shitty hair doesn’t know how to fucking learn. im beginning to be convinced he ACTUALLY has hair for brains. it took him six tries just to say his favorite food. each time he answered with car brands. the only way I could get him to comprehend what I was saying was to literally draw it out as a villain battle. and so as soon as I did that, the dumbass finally got it. “HA! i did it! and it’s only-“ he looked at the clock and unhappily cut his sentence short. “it’s past curfew, dang it! ah well, guess we’ll have to wait til the next astronomical anomaly.” he had a horribly sad face on, and tried to hide it with a toothy smile. i couldn’t stand to look at him like that, so I looked away and spoke without thinking; “we can sneak out...” As soon as the words came out of my mouth, his face lit up. i could tell that kirishima had never been the kind to sneak out and do things slyly. and honestly, neither am I. but I have a reputation to withhold and a dumbass to please.

bakugou grabbed my arm and pulled me out to his deck. “uh, why are we out here? hello? bakugou??? bro????” he stood there with a stupid grin lit up by the lamp next to him. “just... hold on tight.” “dude what are you-“ the blonde moved behind me and stuck his arm around my waist in one swift motion. before i knew it, we were in the air. he had his left arm around me and his right arm being used as a motor wit his quirk, Iron Man style. I turned my head to look at him. His hair was being moved about by the wind, and he had an actual, genuine smile on his face. i may or may not have been staring, and immediately blushed and turned when he looked at me. our faces were inches apart... close enough to- no. stop thinking like that. just enjoy the- “HOLY SHIT! WE’ERE IN THE FUCKIN SKY!” “you just realized that?? right now???” i meant to tell him i was busy thinking about other things, but I ended up bursting his eardrums by letting out an unholy scream. “Calm down, hair for brains! Just a little further” he said, with a scarily calm tone of voice. I couldn’t help but notice he had a slight pink tint to his cheeks.

i could feel his eyes on me, and couldn’t help but turn red as a fucking Apple. as soon as we got near some random grass field, i lowered us down. when we finally hit earth again, shitty hair started laughing. at me. “What’s so fucking funny, shitty hair?” “HA! I’m sorry it’s just- HAHEHDFJCJ your- AA just look PFFGAHAHAHA!!!!” he pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened the camera, handing it to me. My hair was fucking fluffed up like a dog. I let out a string of curse words and tried to fix it. I knew I easily could with my quirk, but hair for brains was so,,, entertained. Any decent person wouldn’t want to wipe that dumbass smile off his face, right? right???

After laughing my ass off from bakugous unintentional makeover, we walked over to my favorite spot in the park. ...wait. i showed him a picture of me here as a kid. did he... recognize it? no- no! no way. I’m just overthinking, it’s a coincidence. has to be. I plopped down on the grass and sat with criss-crossed legs. “You look like a fuckin five year old, shitty hair.” He said this in his meanboyvoice, but his slight grin contradicted his words. I like when things I do make him happy. But like- that’s normal. I think. I casually look up at the sky, and I’m instantly captivated. I must have been looking up for a while, because I was weaned back into reality by bakubro half-yelling “sHiTtY hAiR!1!1” “oh sorry, bro! it’s just- the sky is so pretty tonight! Look, that one really bright star is called beetlegeuse! Like that American movie!”

after looking up at the fucking gas balls for a few minutes, shitty hair laid down to avoid craning his neck. He layed down his sweatshirt behind his head to act as a pillow. He put his head close to one side of it, so I took that as an invitation to lay on the other side of the sweatshirt, upside down. I had to admit, to myself at least, that the sky did seem different than usual. Maybe it’s because of the whole “astronomical anomaly” shit. Or maybe because I didn’t have another pair of eyes to guide mine to see the beauty of it.

“It’s scary, isn’t it? Knowing there’s an infinite amount of like, stuff. Out there.” I said this after noticing how peaceful bakugou had seemed. It was nice to see him like this for once. “I’m not afraid of anything, dumbass. It’s just some balls of gas and shit.” We were silent for a few minutes after that. It was a comfortable silence, though. Just having eachother there. “Are you like... scared of anything? You always seem so ‘let’s do this’ and ‘let’s try that’. makes me wonder if your brain has a fuckin filter on your actions sometimes.” That remark made me laugh. He was right, I suppose. “I try to do as much as I can while I can. I don’t like to think about it, but living the hero course of life, you never really know what could happen. besides, I’m not some like-fearless god!” This made him laugh. I love his laugh. It’s so full, and you can tell he’s smiling while doing so without even looking at him. “Well then what are you afraid of, smartass?” He says casually, in between laughter. I was quiet for a minute, and he seemed to notice. He turned over on his side to investigate my silence. I assumed that my face was red, because he started to laugh again. “What’s wrong, shitty hair? Embarrassed? Fine. You don’t have to tell me, but be ready for an extra ass kick at training...” “FINE! It’s just.. ha ha ha.” I trailed off into the type of laugh that one does alone. “I’ve always been... scared of like, the dark. I guess.” He stares at me for a few seconds, assuming I was joking. I tried to keep a straight face to show I wasn’t lying, but we both started chuckling at my statement. “It’s called nyctophobia, dumbass. You’re actually afraid of the dark? That’s funny, so is my three year old niece!” This made our chuckles turn into full out hysterics. “That... is not... fair!!!” I managed to say, through my laughter. We sat there, laughing for a while. Eventually I was able to try to get my point across. “I’m not kidding! And it’s not ‘nyctophobia’, either!” “Oh yeah? Then, what is it?” “Well I’m not sure! But phobia means it’s an irrational fear. Being scared of the dark is NOT irrational. Plenty of bad things can happen in the dark.” It seemed as if he was gonna say something, but cut himself off.

His hair was moving around in the wind, slowly losing its gelled up form. “Yeah. Well, a lot of good things can happen in the dark, too.” He turned to me, ready to hit me with a ‘that’s what she said’ joke, wiggling his eyebrows. “Oh come on, that’s not what I meant!” I tried to conceal my laughter with seriousness. But I find that extra hard to do around kirishima. shitty hair, I mean. He’s easier to... this sounds cliche. but it’s easier to break down the wall in my head that I built, the wall that blocks out any vulnerability. So i let myself laugh, and I let myself enjoy this moment. As kirishima says, I deserve it. If he says so, then it must be true. I took a deep breath. In, and out. It was strangely calming, being outside with nature and shit. “I know what you mean, bro. Like the stars! They live in a dark universe, but they’re still pretty fucking cool.” Yeah. pretty fucking cool.

I couldn’t help but notice a star that seemed to have an orange tint to it. “Hey bro, that star looks like you!” I tried pointing at it, but that obviously didn’t work out. “The hell is that supposed to mean?” Without thinking , I took his hand and put my head right next to his, to get an accurate answer for him. I formed his hand with his pointer finger out, and guided it to be directly under the baku-star. “Do you see it?” He nodded, with a serene expression. “It’s orange, like your hero suit!” All of a sudden, he sat up. Did I mess something up? Did that upset him? I didn’t mean to offend him. Great going kirishima, now he’s-

I could tell that he though my sudden movements were out of anger, so I grabbed his upper arm and pulled him into a sitting position, too. “I need to tell you something, kirishima. I- if you tell any of this to the other dufuses, you’re dead. Got it?” He looked at me, puzzled. His eyebrows were furrowed and his head was tilted. His actions like this often reminded me of a puppy. All energetic and shit. “Uh.. sure! Got it.” I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I shouldn’t have started this conversation. But it’s too late now.

he seemed very serious now. what could he want to tell me that he wouldn’t tell the rest of our friends? im nothing special. minas better at advice, sero can pay attention longer, denki- my thoughts were cut off by his words. “that one time when we were attacked, i guess I... didn’t hate fighting the villains with you.” is that... a compliment??? he seemed to be getting upset, and I wanted to see his smile again. hell, I needed to. “there’s been plenty of attacks bro, you’ll have to be specific!” luckily, this made him chuckle. “the USJ incident, dumbass. And you’re like, more tolerable than the others. They all pry to know how I’m feeling, and it gets fucking annoying as hell. But you don’t do that. Because somehow you can tell what I’m feeling, even when I can’t. And that’s, nice. I guess. How do you do that?” “You seem to have yourself... shielded? In a way? But they don’t know you the way I do. Wait! That sounds creepy. It’s just...” i tried thinking of the right way to convey my thoughts. eventually, i figured it out and subconsciously grabbed his hand. “They don’t see how much friend-tential you have!” Bakugou seemed confused by that statement, to say the least. “Friend-tential? The hell is that?” “You really are a good friend, bakubro! The other guys just don’t see that right away. I had to like, convince them so. But now they know! I’ve known all along, though. Katsuki bakugou has a soft spot!” I said that last part in a fake mocking tone, which made him angry yet happy again. “Shut up, shitty hair! But... thanks. Or whatever.” Did he just???? Thank??? Me?????

right after I let those words leave my mouth, I realized the grave mistake I made. He started smiling like an idiot and let out an exaggerated gasp. “No way! Did you really just say that?? To me?? My ears must be deceiving me!!!” He laughed for a few more seconds, then his face turned sincere again. “Well, you’re welcome, bakugo!” He then stood up, putting a hand out to help me up. I ignored his help, of course, and got up on my own. As soon as I did, he wrapped his arms around me in a tight bear hug. I was taken off guard, but eventually, loosely hugged him back. “You know, if you ever get tired of calling me shitty hair 24/7, you can call me eijiro!” This surprised me. I was touched by him saying that, but again, couldn’t let that be known. “I’ll stop calling you shitty hair when you stop building a mountain of hair atop your head!” He pulled away from the hug, laughing. Come back. Hug me again. No. Stop thinking about that, he can’t hug you forever. “If you want, you can call me katsuki. it’s an annoying ass name though, so I would get it if you didn’t want to.” This made his smile somehow even brighter than it was before. “Sure! Let’s see.... how about Kat! Like the candy, Kit Kat’s!” Hm. No one has ever called me that before. “I guess that works. Don’t wear it out though, or I’ll have to kill you.” He started backing up, arms thrown up in the air in a way of celebratory victory. “Oh, really? I’d like to see you try!” In one instance, he was standing in front of me in the grass, and a spilt second later he was darting in the opposite direction. “Get back here, shitty hair!” I screamed, as a started to chase him. The lil fucker was fast! He ran across the field, eventually going in circles. I was able to catch up to him with speed. Enough speed that when I caught up to him, I ended up tackling him to the ground. We layed there for god knows how long, just laughing our asses off. And fucking enjoying life.

after finally recovering from our fierce battle, i realized I had my arm around kats shoulder the whole time.

It’s finally the fucking weekend. The day after shitty hair and my “super adventure star bro time” (take a wild guess at who decided to call if that) we were both unhealthily tired during our classes. kirishima played it off well, as to not reveal we had left after curfew. He still had that bright-as-the-fucking-sun smile plastered on his face, but his eyes seemed groggy and tired. But still, no one noticed. Me on the other hand, was fucking dying. This caused me to accidentally say good morning back to deku. FUCKING. DEKU. he stuttered for a good ten seconds before passing out into half-and-half’s back, who turned around and caught him. even I can see how icyhot talks to deku differently. damn nerd is to oblivious for his own good.

Kat, Mina, sero, denki and i were sitting in the common room playing Mario kart, our usual Saturday activity. Denki was sitting Indian style on the couch, next to sero and I. Mina was laying across all of our laps, and kat was intensely perched on the arm rest. ready to pounce at any moment onto anyone who dared throw a green shell at him. The race ended with much screaming and even more shoving, displaying the score board: 1st: Princess Peach (mina) 2nd: Yoshi (kirishima) 3rd: Waluigi (sero) 4th: Bowser (denki) 5th: Baby Peach (Bakugou)

“HOW??? THE??? FUCK???” HOW DID I LOSE??? EVEN TO FUCKING DUNCE FACE?? “HA! I win again! Take that, you buffoons!” Mina shouted, beaming with annoying pride. I looked over to the three boys sitting on the couch, exchanging a mutual look of determination. All at once, they pushed Bug Eyes off of themselves, leaving her rolling off the couch. Ha. That’s what you get, ya fucking martian.

#kiribaku #bakushima #bakugou katsuki #kirishima eijirou #red riot #ground zero #mha #bnha #i love kirishima with my entire being #bakugou is bad at feelings #bakugou is iron man confirmed #guys stop gay panicking #guys seriously #just confess already dumbasses

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directionlessbuthappy · 6 years

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Dawn of the Draugr: p1

In a pre-apocalyptic world, there is Elyse, a 21 year old woman who was going to community college in her small town in Northern California, working on biology and medicine courses. Doing what young adults are expected to do at her age. But her future spirals into uncertainty with a pandemic spreading across humanity. An illness which infects and shuts down the body, reanimating the brain and turning the person into something only seen in repetitive shitty movies and your nightmares. Being on her own, Elyse would have to lose her morality or sanity to survive. Maybe both. However, she may be able to keep them now that she’s found Alex Lothbrok and his brothers. Or, she may lose it even faster…

Modern AU: Alex H. Anderson x Reader

Warnings: graphic violence, language, blood, death

Note: I kept the last name Lothbrok for the brothers to distinguish characters vs reality. I doubt they are anything like the characters (based on them for visual purposes) I’m writing, so I prefer to add an element of unrealism here to reiterate this as fiction. Cheers xo

Tagged: @missrobyn81

It wasn't a normal day.

Everyone likes to think when the world ends, it'll start out totally normal, and you'll have no idea what's happening or whats coming. You won't see it until its too late. People sell it that way for drama, for TV shows and the movies, but its not real. The truth is, you do see it. The warning signs are everywhere, but without someone telling you to run, you aren't sure if you should. People are like sheep; they don't know what to do without instruction. When the epidemic spread from South America and Asia, nobody here was worried. We had central America in our path, and a whole ocean separating us from Japan. It seemed like the black plague at first; killed massive amounts of people over the last two years. But since there were minimal cases of it here in the US, nobody was worried.

For a while.

My family was split; my mom and I were alone most of my life. She married a man who already had two kids. I was an adult at that point, indifferent to the pairing but still living at home. Going to community college. Everything seemed normal despite everything we were seeing on the internet and on TV. Coverage of the epidemic was getting less and less clear as more people were panicking and packing up their things. Our whole neighborhood moved out in a week. Northern California felt safe enough, we hadn't had any sightings/cases of epidemic here. There was some in Texas, and Arizona...

One day after a phone call, my mom told me she was going with her husband to go get his kids. It was their week to visit us, and their mom wasn't comfortable driving on the roads with how crazy it was getting out there in Washington state, so my mom and her husband planned to go get them. I was in denial, in a way...not really considering how bad it was yet. it felt eerie, being home alone after that. Our little three bedroom, one story house on Sweedland Way felt like a mansion while I waited for my mom to come home. I'd stopped going to school; we'd got an email that class was out due to teacher shortages. Out, indefinitely. I remember when I got my first taste that it was all real, not some widespread panic about the cold.

I was sitting in the living room, checking through a few websites that hadn't posted in over a week. I was studying animal medicine in college (when I was still going) so I understood a lot of technical jargon when reading on the epidemic. All the articles and different notes on the contagion were unfinished; even Wikipedia was useless in explaining what it was. Most researchers first found it in South America, comparing the disease to a virus hiding behind the symptoms of bacterial infection...making it less concerning in its early stages. Researchers didn't catch on until about 6 months in, when more hospital staff were infected verses healthy. Infection was mostly caused by saliva, whether its ingested, gets in your eyes, or most commonly seen in the reports I found...you get bit. Like a rabies virus on cocaine, the disease ravages your system and fries pretty much everything...except your spinal cord and your motor function. The nervous system was preserved by the disease and regenerated itself; the body would be able to function, move, and respond to things like noise. But otherwise...

I didn't like to entertain the idea the dead could come back to life. That wasn't true, it was science fiction bullshit. Granted, I loved cheesy movies where the dead would rise, but that was all they were. Movies. If anything, these sick people were just very sick...maybe it was a new type of cancer, that was why it scared people so much.

I was wrong.

...

"See the sight lined up to the chest?"

"Yeah..."

"Shoot it."

"But I need to hit the head."

"I know Elyse. Take the shot."

I swallowed and pulled the trigger. The gun popped against my chest like a light bump, and the bullet went straight through the target's "neck." I was surprised.

"It aims high!"

"Bingo," Alex replied. "Its the only red sight we have. Jordan can't get the tilt quite right but it still works eh? Now aim at the neck."

I do so, trusting his word now more than before. I squeezed and the gun pops; the bullet hole in my target's head was clear. With a giddy squeal, I aimed to take another shot, but missed. Alex grinned from behind me, I knew this because when I turned he was already doing it.

"Nice shot."

"Shut up," I replied, faintly hurt. He chuckled and outstretched his arm for the gun. I handed it over, safety on.

"Wanna try with the handguns?"

"Actually..." I whined. Holding my arm up to show off the bruise blooming on my tricep, Alex frowned slightly. "Can we take a break?"

"Sure punkin," he shrugged. I still took the time to roll my eyes at him before sitting down on a hay bail. Our little training field wasn't too far away from the house; Jordan and Marco could still see us from the second floor's porch. We were safe, mostly. The treeline that surrounded the house on the hill made me the most nervous, especially at night. Jordan called them "fight nights" for fun, but he was good at making others feel better. I could see right through it. Just like I could see them coming through the treeline every other night.

Sometimes it was just one, sometimes a pack of them. They traveled in groups pretty often. They're always so listless, walking like they were drunk and heavy and yet they weren't slow in their pace. They'd drag their feet, and although they were responsive to sound, it didn't seem like they understood anything. From the material I've read and studied in the last couple months the disease is as unpredictable as its victims. Sometimes you'd die in a week...sometimes it only took 24 hours. But if you got bit at all, you were fucked no matter how long it takes to die.

"Jordan's still not worried about the ammo?"

Alex shrugged, taking a mag and shoving it into the cartridge of his 47. "We have enough to get us through a month of assaults. You and Marco are the only ones worried."

"We have enough for a month of assaults with automatics, Alex. Our handguns are limited. They're attracted to noise, and we can't haul ass with ten pound metal death machines on our shoulders!"

"We'll be fine. If you're really that worried, go down the hunt shop on West 10th. They'll have something," he replied coily. I scowled at him.

"That's not funny."

"Was I laughing?"

"Alex!" I snarled. He had the sense to look a little upset, sighing once he realized he'd actually upset me.

"I'm kidding Lees," he muttered. "I'll go with you tomorrow. Would that make you happy?"

"Are you being sarcastic again?" I replied warily, buttoning my flannel up and down with the same button. Alex took a few shots, turning the head of one of our dummies into swiss cheese. He put so many holes in it the head actually fell off. It made us both chuckle.

"Do you want me to go on my own?"

"No!" I squeaked instantly. Alex grinned and turned his back to me, lining up the sight of his automatic again. The kid was growing on me...

#alex hogh andersen #alex hogh imagine #alex hogh x reader #zombie apocalypse #the lothbroks #post apocalyptic #writings #modern vikings au #dawnofthedraugr #modern au

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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This Is Pop Review: Netflix Documentary Unpacks Pop Music

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It doesn’t matter how pure a sound is when it catches the ear’s attention, someone in the music industry will find a way to infect it. Pop music is infectious by design, and Netflix’s This Is Pop, reveals the delivery system. The eight-part docuseries focuses on some of the less unexamined moments of the most scrutinized genre in music. It is as depressing as it is exhilarating, and it barely skips a beat.

Much like the recent Apple TV+ series 1971: The Year That Music Changed Everything, This is Pop shows how pop music reflects and influences culture. Music has always been a great unifier, both for listeners and musicians. Regardless of race, faith, or sexual preference, everyone has a favorite song, and people are drawn to the art of music from every background. What starts as a neighborhood sound moves beyond the streets, and for every Boyz II Men, there’s a new kid on the block. They may not always be in sync, but they know how to make money off it.

Even the Brill Building, located on 1619 Broadway, which trained a generation of young composers to match melodies with danceable beats, turns out to be just another machine in “The Brill Building in 4 Songs.” The gathering place for all that young talent, from Neil Sedaka, who speaks in the series, through Carole King and Gerry Goffin, Burt Bacharach and Hal David, Lieber and Stoller, was molded on the structure of Ford Motors. The songwriters were just factory workers churning out hits on an assembly line.

When big money trickles down to create an international happening like the US Festival, it is a misstep on a road to gauge concert-goers. “Festival Rising” begins with a young voice almost audibly rolling her eyes at the not-so-innocent innocence of the early music gatherings. Jefferson Airplane’s Jack Casady and The Mama & the Papas’ Michelle Phillips explain how counterculture happenings like the “Human Be-In” at Golden Gate Park led to the loving unification of Monterey Pop. The arc of the Glastonbury Festival is fascinating. The demise of Woodstock is sadly inevitable. Altamont isn’t mentioned.

Most of the stories are fun, and unexpected. Who knew a well recorded demo on a shitty cassette could go on to become an international sensation? The strangest things happen when a song gets stuck in your head or a tape gets stuck in the deck of a car stereo. Record deals are made that way. Every episode opens with an innocent telling of an origin story. A kid who wants to be an athlete gets stuck in a gifted school and learns to score harmonies instead of field goals. A bunch of bikers and hippies go looking for a place to hear music without ceilings. A song hook gets perfected on the dance floor of a disco. Someone turns a knob all the way down on a program that wasn’t designed for it. Hey, if Spinal Tap can put their amps to 11, why can’t Cher turn the automatic tune correction down to zero? That’s not rock and roll, but it does pop.

The 1971 documentary adhered to the Homer Simpson sentiment “rock stars, is there nothing they don’t know?” No one expects this from pop stars. But it’s not like This Is Pop replaces the Vietnam War with the Oasis vs. Blur battle. Every episode includes sequences dealing with real issues and social injustice. Even if it’s just T-Pain getting razzed on a plane by Usher for destroying the art of singing. “What Can A Song Do?” showcases how the 1991 Anita Hill hearings led to Bratmobile, and Bikini Kill created the first safe space when Riot Grrrls directed “girls to the front” at shows. Gay rights suppression in Russia gets translated into an anthemic hit in America.

Racism, sexism, queer politics, and classism fill beats in every aspect of Pop music. Shoegaze legend Lush is told to show up at a photoshoot in a bikini with a champagne glass when being fitted for Britpop. Lil Nas X breaks the country music industry’s achy breaky hearts when he has a hit with “Old Town Road.” Public Enemy’s Chuck D vividly recounts how he reached back to the Isley Brothers for “Fight the Power.” When he says he wanted to capture how that song made him feel, he makes you feel it. “You can scream as much as you want,” Chuck D says, “but until you start breaking windows, that’s when they say ‘oh you gotta do something about this. It’s like American Pie.”

When Noel Gallagher breaks through George Harrison’s “Wonderwall,” it’s only because he needs the right word to finish a line. A song can’t change the world. “Music has no agency, only people have agency,” we are told as archival footage presents conflicting conclusions. During the late 1940s, while Woody Guthrie was a traveling troubadour from California to the New York island, Americans found strength in their proud use of Mexican labor. People wanted to do things together, his son Arlo Guthrie tells the camera. This flashback cuts to more recent footage of calls to build a wall between the two countries, and the weakness at its center. For every step forward, there is a pirouette backwards, except in country line dancing.

“When Country Goes Pop” sums up the basic premise of every genre highlighted. Country Music is supposed to be all about authenticity. Willie Nelson and Dolly Parton are labeled authentic, even as they consciously move toward the mainstream. Shania Twain made country music more popular than ever, but old school Nashville cats are too hypnotized by her belly button to recognize her genuine songcraft. Steve Earle ushers in the Integrity Scare, until Garth Brooks starts flying over audiences at concerts like he’s the Thin White Duke. The deepest visual representation of the genre’s authenticity comes in black and white photographs of members of Nirvana and Alice in Chains looking at Johnny Cash like he is god when he’s recording with Rick Rubin.

But is Ace of Base’s Ulf Ekberg any less authentic when he remembers playing the backing track of “All That She Wants” on a dance floor every night to ensure it got people moving before putting vocals on it? Blur arrives in America the day Nirvana lands. They decide to re-Brit themselves. What’s more authentically British than three chords and a Union Jack? Arlo Guthrie sums it up succinctly when he remembers his dad saying “the job of the songwriter is to disturb the comfortable and comfort the disturbed.”

“Auto-Tune” is the only episode which truly blurs any idealistic version of authenticity. Invented in 1997 by Dr. Andy Hildebrand as a way to measure oil deposits, the episode about the automatic tune correction function leaves more sludge than the Exxon Valdez. We actually hear an appreciation for the idea that singers no longer have to be able to sing, just look good. These words are said. Out loud. By a second-hand source, but they are there. For all the talk of social injustices thrust on artists, this may be the most infuriating. Because it is an imposition on the art itself. It is not a social wrong which can be righted by song. The song is the culprit. But, like “Stockholm Syndrome,” it shows how the entire industry goes from captivated to captive. They even explain how great jazz stylists of the past would need autocorrect if they were recording against the synthesizer-perfect, quantized music of today.

One segment recognizes Billie Holiday’s “Strange Fruit” as an invitation to mourn, not a call to unite. It is not considered a protest song because it personally invites people who do not know the pain of racial violence to understand it from the inside. While Motown is generating top tens, and its Berry Gordon wants nothing controversial within the walls of Hitsville USA, “Ball of Confusion” by the Temptations brings revolution to the mainstream. A Tribe Called Red brings traditional indigenous dances and music, officially banned by the Canadian government, to the dance floor as a technical protest, proving you can find the groove in any revolution.

“The Boyz II Men Effect” shows how the purity of the mix of Motown and Philly Sounds set a new standard for R&B in the 90s. Nate Morris, Wanya Morris and Shawn Stockman look back on keeping it real, truly expressing their desire to be listed among the great singing groups of the past based on ability. They want to be the Temptations, the Miracles, or the Moonglows, serious artists with strong voices who know how to structure songs and layer harmonies. They wind up creating the Boy Band genre, as we hear 98 Degrees’ Nick Lachey and New Edition’s Michael Bivins reverently recall how they wanted to be Boyz II Men. Record companies gave them the chance, replacing the Black artists with white pop stars for greener pastures.

“Hail Britpop!” is absolutely the wittiest of the installments. Blessed be the cheesemaker. Blur’s Alex James is hysterically sardonic. Miki Berenyi from Lush still rolls her eyes over people’s reactions to a Flange pedal. Sonya Madan from Echobelly rips the entire scene from the inseam. None of the episodes really take themselves seriously, but in this one, they tear themselves apart, even more than the Swedes, who never say nice things about themselves.

Of course, the best part of This Is Pop is searching for the songs after they are mentioned. The documentary is very generous with samples, but they really just serve as appetizers. Even the songs which make you switch stations on the car stereo or get left on the dance floor are time capsules. The docuseries can’t encapsulate everything, but is a good representation of how perceptions are at this exact moment in time. Just like any good song.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

This is Pop is available to stream on Netflix now.

The post This Is Pop Review: Netflix Documentary Unpacks Pop Music appeared first on Den of Geek.

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#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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tippiercoffee · 4 years

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Dirt Roads and Samaritans

One-shot Percy Jackson fanfic. Nico centric with some Solangelo implications.

Read on AO3

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Summary: Nico was never into car racing. That is, until he sees a dirt race and decides to participate in one. Too bad he gets injured in his first official race. Getting the cute Samaritan's number definitely helps though.

I do not own — nor do I claim the rights to — the Percy Jackson universe or any of its characters. All credit goes to rightful owner, Mr. Rick Riordan.

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Here was the thing. Nico had never really been into car races. It was not a thing he could ever remember having enjoyed, or having an interest in. But Percy and Jason insisted on inviting him over for every NASCAR and Formula 1 events, where he sat squashed between them in the sofa, trying to catch up on their cheers and bursts of awe. They often admired the sleek cars, the sounds of the engines, the drivers’ control, and the way they overtook each other in the turns. Nico was bored to tears. Right until he wasn’t.

It was a day like most others. Percy and Jason had heard about this other race. Some dirt race of sorts where the track was half dirt half asphalt. It sounded just as boring as everything else, but Percy and Jason were fresh out of college, and Nico was on winter break where, somehow, miraculously, they hadn’t been given coursework. He still had two more years to go.

This dirt race was a lot rougher than the other races he’d seen. The cars constantly pushed at each other and were reluctant to speed down. The track was much shorter than the race tracks he usually saw, and the dust flew so high in the air, even on TV you could hardly tell what was going on, yet somehow you still caught glimpses of the cars as they struggled to stay in the lead and got more battered by every round. Apparently, unlike the other races where the cars were barely allowed to touch without getting penalty, this race was all about rough housing each other, and Nico’s interest was piqued. There was something oddly fascinating about a race starting with six cars, just to watch two of them crash into the crash barriers, and one roll onto the roof (no harm came to the driver), leaving only three cars to actually finish the race. It was exhilarating, and Nico was hooked.

When spring break came around, Nico decided to go see one of the races in real life. He packed up a big lunch, some blankets for the still chilly spring weather, drinks, and a comfortable, fold-able chair. He decided to invite Percy and Jason, because there was no way on heaven, on earth, or in hell he would hear the end of it if he went on his own. They packed about twice as much as Nico, as though they were going for a sleepover. Jason decided to drive them, even though they all knew Nico had the nicer car.

It was fair to say, the road trip with the resident bros singing off key had been worth it to see the race up close in real life. The engines were so loud, and the speakers so shitty, Nico could hardly tell what was going on. Unlike the big races, the tracks were small enough to see from up high without any screens. Jason and Percy hollered next to him, barely sitting down, while Nico wasn’t sure he even blinked.

In that moment, a thought struck Nico that maybe, this was what he should be doing on the side to break out of the mundane college life that was nothing but tests and studies and random parties at some frat house — Nico still suspected he only got invited because he’d been close with the resident bros.

The thought of racing the dirt tracks stuck with Nico like glue over the next few weeks, until his search history was more racing than criminology. He even went as far as looking up the rules and requirements, and watching drivers tune their cars and paint them to look distinguished.

It took over his mind and seeped into his dreams. Him on the dirt road, the gravel flying around his car, not knowing whether or not he would make the rounds. Next thing he knew, he looked for a sturdy, older BMW and called Leo up to help him fine tune it; a project Leo seemed excited about to say the least. He started blabbering about motors and silencers, as if Nico understood any of it.

Nico painted the car himself. Not one to miss the opportunity for something slightly tongue-in-cheek — some might even call it ironic — he painted a rendition of the underworld on his car, with Thanatos standing menacingly on the hood of his car, and Cerberus the three headed dog growling on the rear. On the left-hand side, he painted Charon crossing the river, and on the right-hand side he drew Hades on his throne. It definitely didn’t look half bad, even Hazel agreed, once again lamenting Nico not opting to major in art. Art was never more than a hobby to him though. He wasn’t as passionate about it as Hazel.

What Nico didn’t expect — although he really should have, seeing as Leo could not shut up to save his life — was Jason and Percy tagging along to Nico’s first training sessions to be placed in the next race.

He was a bit unsure the first few times he circled the track, and maybe a tad too polite, but once he got the hang of the car and the difference between driving the gravel an the tarp, he started getting bolder. Some of the more expericende racers even shared advice on overtaking each other. The key to it all, seemed to be trying to overtake in the curves, because they were wider than the rest of the track. Nico tried it out the next few rounds, his car already carrying the bumps of his labour and his body shaking to the core whenever someone rammed into him. It was exhilarating and made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

And so, Nico di Angelo found himself in his first official race a couple of months later. The weather conditions were good. The sky was slightly overcast, but the clouds didn’t look heavy with rain. Rather, they were white, light, and fluffy, streaming across the blue sky lazily. Nico and Leo looked over the slightly battered car together and corrected some of the bumps while fine tuning the car.

Jason and Percy were somewhere in the stands, along with Nico’s entire friend group and his sister. Knowing Hazel, she was probably fretting and biting her nails, worrying the worst possible thing would happen to Nico. Nico would have to think of a way to make it up to her, even if coming was her own choice.

The juniors went first, and Nico found himself wondering what kind of parents let their 13 to 17-year-olds drive these kinds of races. They were pretty good though, he’d give them that. They didn’t rough house nearly as much as Nico’s age group, but they definitely took it seriously judging from their driving and light taps to each other.

“Next up is you,” Leo said, as if Nico wasn’t aware.

Nico grunted in response and put on his helmet. “You should probably get the duct tape ready.”

“Hermano, I have everything ready for a fast emergency. Including the fire extinguisher.” He held it up as if to demonstrate his point.

“You do know they have those out there as well, right?”

“Look, all I’m saying is that some of those cars we saw in the other races came out with really smoky engines. If you burst into flames here, I need to be ready.”

Nico rolled his eyes. Not that Leo could tell because of the helmet. “See you soon.”

“Good luck, Ghost King.”

Nico waved him off and got seated in his car, shutting the door behind him and rolling onto the track. He was racing against other newcomers, so it probably still wouldn’t be as crazy as when the experienced racers would go toe to toe. It might be a bit rougher than the juniors, though. Not that Nico thought it mattered beyond looking exciting.

They all got presented as they rolled onto the tracks. There were six of them, standing side by side. Nico gripped the wheel tighter, watching the goal box as he took a couple of deep breaths, visualising himself darting towards the first turn.

The green flag got raised in the box, then in the next swing. Having seen it from the tribunes before — and from reading up on it after — he knew those would raise on all posts to signal they were ready for the cars to come.

The goal post lowered their green flag again, and a guy came running in front of them with a little sign saying 5. Someone counted a bit in front of them, showing them their fingers.

Three. Nico revved his engine alongside the other drivers. Two. He tightened his grip and took a deep breath, training his eyes on the stop light. One. The last finger disappeared, and the light went green. Nico floored it and went flying to the first turn, shifting gears and pushing the breaks to drift. His drift was a bit shaky, but much better than first time he tried it where he flat out stalled. He shifted gears again, pushing the accelerator while keeping one foot near the clutch for the next gear shift.

They only did five rounds. A lot could happen in those five rounds though, and because of the rules, at least one of those rounds had to be done through the alternative route. It was a bit shorter than the other routes, and Nico had been debating since breakfast when to go for it. He’d decided to go for it his last round. That’s when he would need the leeway the most, and from what he’d seen, a lot of drivers had a habit of taking it on the first round just to get overtaken on the last round by someone who saved it. Nico wanted to be that someone who did the overtaking today.

He barrelled ahead on the gravel, thrusting the gears back and forth whenever he needed, putting Leo’s handiwork to the test. The gears gave some deep clicks and grunts every now and then, but otherwise held up beautifully.

Nico made the first round on a fourth place. The dirt got cast all around his car in a tornado of speed, the scent of oil clinging to his nose. He overtook one of the guys one his second round — number 045 — thought the guy tried to push him into the barriers to keep him away. Nico pushed right back, sending the guy swerving just as the turn ended.

He made the second round, now right in the heel of number 012 who was in second place. From what he'd heard, the driver of 012 was a woman who was merciless and ranking up soon. He pushed ahead to the turn, giving her a puff with the hood of his car to let her know he was there. She sped up a bit, sending gravel flying onto the hood and front window of his car, speeding up. Nico sped up as well, his heart drumming in his chest, making his throat pulsate. He licked his lips, thirsty for the win, speeding up to overtake her in the turn.

He got up on the side of her, unable to see her through the windows, but her car seemed to be Roman themed, the Goddess Bellona depicted all over its surface, as if to give the car extra strength in the face of the battle for gold.

They both sped up, and Nico shifted gears again pressing the clutch and the break to drift. This turned out to be a bad move. He was so close to Bellona he rammed into her, and in an effort to stay on all four wheels she swerved into him, throwing him so off kilter he actually went rolling.

It all happened so fast, he hardly registered it until he was on the roof of his car, just kind of dangling there while his brain caught up to the triple roll he just did. He looked out the window and realised he’d landed right across the track, and just in front of number 045 who could not speed down in time. Instead he did his best to swerve around Nico, hit the front corner of Nico's car, and swerved right into the barrier. There was a red flag flapping from the nearest flag post while Nico sat perfectly still, not one to play with fate by ignoring the rule about staying in your car until you were a thousand percent sure the tracks were abandoned.

When the tracks were abandoned, the nearest flag poster came running up to Nico while someone else dealt with the other guy. The flag poster looked inside, a walkie-talkie at the ready.

“You alright there?”

Nico looked up at her. She had her hair hidden in a cap and wore an overall. Her face was caked with dust. He gave her a thumbs up and went to unbuckle.

“I’d wait with that till the Samaritans are here.” She looked into the distance, giving a thumbs up, then raised the walkie-talkie to her mouth. “Ghost King seems to be okay, but I have him waiting to unbuckle till the Samaritans are here. Over.”

A crackled male’s voice responded. “Copy that. Over.”

Nico hung tight while the Samaritan car came closer. The car stopped and one of the Samaritans jumped out, giving the hood a clap before running towards Nico while the Samaritan car drove closer to the other guy who needed attention.

The Samaritan spoke shortly with the flag poster before she ran off, and he came towards the car. He bent down, smiling at Nico, and Nico might have short circuited.

The Samaritan was a guy who looked to be around Nico's age, with shaggy blond hair that curled around his ears and bright blue eyes. His smile looked so natural, and despite being so young, he already had subtle smile wrinkles around his eyes. His smile was so brilliant, Nico thought for a moment he might have fainted and was currently hallucinating. The Samaritan had an athletic build, his overall sitting snug on him.

“That was some flip you did there,” Sunny Samaritan smiled.

“Yeah,” Nico agreed. “How many times did I go round?”

“Three or four times, I think. Can you put your hands onto the roof of your car for me?”

Nico obliged, trying to pin Sunny’s accent. Sunny reached into Nico’s car.

“I’m going to unbuckle you, alright? I’ll need you to hold yourself up by your arms, and slowly manoeuvre down on your side after, so you don’t hurt your neck and so you can crawl out. Think you can do that?”

“I’ll try.”

Nico braced himself while Sunny unbuckled him. Sunny kept his hands close to assist Nico if he needed it, creating a moving slide to help Nico shuffle awkwardly out of his seat halfway on his side. He had to twist his body a tad unnaturally to succeed, but he eventually dragged himself out with the help if Sunny who took his hand and helped him onto his feet once he was out.

“Alright.” Sunny said, almost drowned out by the applause from the audience. “Let’s get you to the station for a check-up and let someone else worry about getting your car out of here.”

Nico obliged and let Sunny help him onto the Samaritan car that had made its way back to them. He hopped on, Sunny never leaving his side.

“What’s your name?” Sunny asked.

“Nico di Angelo. What’s yours?”

“I’m Will. Will Solace.” He presented his hand and Nico shook it. “So, Nico. What brings you to a racetrack?”

Nico shrugged and regretted it. His neck was slightly tender. He rubbed it. “Boredom.”

“Is your neck hurting?” Will asked.

“No exactly. Just feels a bit tender.”

“We should definitely have that checked to make sure it isn’t whip lash or something.”

Nico snorted. “Whip lash would be awful.” He leaned back against the soft cushions in the Samaritan car. “What brings you to a racetrack, Will?”

Will gave him a look and a half smile. “Collecting experience. I’m doing medical school so I can hopefully work at a hospital. Might do paediatrics, though. But, hey, experience is experience.”

Nico chuckled at that. “Done this long?”

Will shook his head. “This is only my third time out as Samaritan. My first time being allowed to do mostly solo stuff. Although Jane up front will oversee me.”

Nico nodded and had to rub his neck again. Will wrinkled his nose and hummed.

“I’ll definitely have to give your neck a look. It ain’t a good sign if it’s tender.”

Nico grunted.

They reached the Samaritan tent and Will followed Nico to a cot where he sat him down. He found a couple of tools out and started checking his eyes over, then his reflexes.

“Everything seems good there,” he said, writing notes while a ginger-haired woman stood leaned back, watching.

Nico assumed the woman was Jane. Will went back to Nico and reached out his hands.

“Alright. I’m gonna give some light squeezes to your arms and shoulders. You let me know if it hurts or feels uncomfortable at all, okay?”

Nico nodded, and Will went ahead, giving light squeezes to his arms from the wrist up. It didn’t feel any different from before Nico went rolling. Will started giving light pokes to his shoulders, making his way to the back, and when he reached Nico’s neck muscles, Nico gave a small hiss.

“Yeah. That’s a bit tender,” Nico commented.

Will hummed and wrote some notes, poking down Nico’s back and touching his spine lightly.

“This feel uncomfortable in any way?” Will asked.

“Not really,” Nico muttered.

Will hummed thoughtfully and wrote something else down.

“I’ll do the same to your legs and thighs now, okay?”

“Okay.”

Will went to work squeezing and poking Nico’s thighs, shins, calves, and ankles. Nothing felt out of the ordinary there either.

“Feels fine,” Nico said.

Will nodded and wrote something down. “I’ll check your neck again, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” Nico wasn’t sure about it, but he knew he had to endure for Will to do his job.

Will squeezed lightly at the neck, much to Nico’s discomfort. He heard Will muttering something about muscle tenseness before he touched Nico’s arms again. Will finished up his notes and went to Jane, speaking lowly with her.

“Alright,” Will came back with Jane in tow. “My verdict is that your head might have jerked when you went rolling, so you stretched some neck muscles a bit. I don’t think it’s whip lash, because you only seem to be tender in the sides. Jane agreed to prescribe you some special pain killers to take for the next three days, and she’ll submit my report to your local hospital and doctor. If your neck starts feeling more sore or stiff at all, you need to have it looked at, because it can be difficult to rule out whiplash completely. So be especially mindful of the feel in your neck the next twenty-four hours.”

“Got it.” Nico said. And, because he was feeling bold. “Would it be okay to ask for your personal number so I can ask questions if I have any?”

Will looked a bit bashful and looked at Jane. She shrugged. “We have some looser rules here than hospitals. One of the drivers is my cousin.”

Will nodded and ripped a small sheet of paper off of his notepad where he wrote down his digits. “Would it be okay to ask for an update if you end up feeling okay?”

Nico took the paper with a small smile. “Sure. Thanks for the help, Will.”

“No problem,” Will beamed.

Nico was released but had to sit out the rest of the race. Hazel chewed his ears out about getting into an accident, while the resident bros took turns describing how awesome that roll was. Bellona’s driver — whose name was Reyna — even came up to apologise and ask if he was okay. Nico took it all in stride, focusing on the positives, such as the fact he got a cute guy’s number.

#fanfiction #percy jackson #nico di angelo #will solace #solangelo #jason grace #percy jackson universe #Reyna Avila Ramírez-Arellano #leo valdez #hazel levesque #alternative universe #au #car race au #car racer nico #car racer reyna #samaritan will #race accident #no serious injuries #first race

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