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lepusrufus · 3 years

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To bargain for immortality pt.1

It's here fellas, the mutation sequel that I've mercilessly teased you with!

Content warnings: gore, torture, blood (like... lots), just a bunch of puking up blood, Miranda being her usual mad scientist self, torture in the name of science, Nicole be sick af (both literally and of crow mommy's bullshit), a little bit of blood drinking as a treat, medical procedures.

////

Tic toc tic toc

God that clock is so annoying.

Nicole wasn’t nervous. No. She chose this, at least for the most part. She had a long conversation with all her family, Alcina and Esteria both assuring her that it would work. It’s been years since the beginning of the experiments and by this point the process was almost perfected.

Miranda knew what she was doing.

That mattered little to her nerves though.

She instinctively pushed herself further into Cassandra’s side, who’s grip around her waist tightened ever so slightly.

The waiting was downright tortuous.

She, along with Cassandra and her two sisters were in her infirmary. The room mixed the ancient decor of the castle with modern medical equipment in a beautiful way. Not that anything less would be acceptable. Not that the familiarity of her workspace brought her any comfort either.

All their eyes snapped in the direction of the door when a heavy set of footsteps, with two lighter ones, were heard down the hallway outside. Soon the door opened with a barely audible creak and the two matriarchs entered, followed suit by Mother Miranda. Her presence alone was enough to make Nicole’s breath get lost somewhere in her throat, on its way to an exhale. The black wings, even partially folded as they were, did their job of making her look so much more intimidating than she was. Not that she needed them to begin with, a look from those icy gray eyes more than enough to send anyone to their knees.

Mother Miranda was, in all ways that mattered, a goddess.

A goddess that was about to infect her with the same thing that failed countless times in the past. The same thing that made the crawling mindless beasts used as guard dogs in the undergrounds. Or that made all the lycans.

Nicole gulped, a gesture gone thankfully unnoticed to anyone other than her painfully dry mouth.

But Miranda didn’t spare her a glance. She simply busied herself with some tools she had brought on one of the metal tables. With each clink the room seemed to close in on her slightly more, until Nicole felt as if she somehow ended up in one of Heisenberg's death traps. Spikes moving closer and closer until they would pierce her body and leave her in a messy pool of blood and entrails.

She shook her head and took a long inhale. No. This was going to work. She was not about to lose her family over a pesky thing such as mortality. She was not about to lose Cassandra. If getting infected by the Cadou was what it took to spend eternity with her lover then so be it. Possible side effects be damned.

Mother Miranda finally seemed to have finished, a now empty flask labeled Cadou sitting on the desk behind her while the parasite was writhing in her hand, thin whip-like tentacles extending frantically around itself. She called her over with a nod, and with a deep breath and a parting hand squeeze from Cassandra, Nicole forced her legs to take her across the room. Her steps didn't waver, she'd be damned if she'd show any hesitancy in front of this.

"Shall we begin."

It wasn't a question really, merely veiled impatience. Miranda did not like her, plain and simple. The fact that she was there to begin with was already a miracle. Miracle that wouldn't have happened were it not for the Ladies themselves asking for it.

"Yes of c-"

Before her words even had time to completely slip out of her mouth, golden talons plunged into the base of her sternum.

"Hopefully this can teach you that I don't like people going behind my back."

Nicole let out a choked gasp, hands instinctively wrapping around Miranda's arm, weakly grabbing at black robes. Ironically enough, those very talons were keeping her upright and, when they were removed from her flesh with a disgusting squelch of blood, Nicole curled in on herself, falling to her knees.

"Wha-... cking ki-... -er!"

Cassandra's voice reached her ears broken up, barely passing through the deafening ringing. Miranda also gave a reply and then seemed to address someone else but her much calmer tone meant that it only sounded like a vague mumble.

Not that Nicole particularly cared at the moment.

She curled into a ball, her hands almost clawing at her chest trying to find some sort of relief. It seemed as if vicious tendrils were making their way into every vein and muscle, tearing their way through any tissue they found. Her chest felt as if it had a hot iron pressed directly onto the skin, searing pain radiating in a cruel pulse matching her frantic heartbeat. By that point she was either sobbing or heaving, something that involved shallow breaths for sure. Her lungs were protesting fiercely, emptying of oxygen and then refusing to refill if not with great strain.

To make everything worse, the pain seemed to shift, now engulfing her spine and sending jolts that made her head spin and want to throw up despite her jaws being clenched shut so tightly that she was sure she'd start to taste copper soon.

She was only vaguely aware of hands shifting her body and soothing words that fell on deaf ears. She was now on a softer surface, but that did nothing to alleviate the assault on each of her senses. Probably she had thrown up at a certain point as her sinuses felt like being scraped by sandpaper with each shuddering breath. Her mouth too had a lingering taste of both bile and blood that made her stomach turn all over again. She would give anything for her body to finally shut down.

Why was she still awake and conscious god damn it. There was only so much her body was supposed to take before the brain shut down and she was reaching her limit of how much agony she could endure at a moment.

Please please please just pass out please.

She didn't though. Her body seemingly deciding to feel every single bit of the infection process, complete with the unending waves of pain and nausea that hit her more than she wanted to count. Any bit of sanity left in her would've probably disappeared had she tried.

---

It took two days for the agonizing pain to subside. Another two for Nicole to be able to form any kind of coherent sentence. Cassandra's soothing voice was of immense comfort, always there to tell her how well she was doing and how it would all be better soon.

God she hoped.

On the fifth day, her stomach still lurched at any movement too sudden. Her lungs seemed to fill with blood, courtesy of the still gaping wound at the bottom of her sternum, with any inhale too deep. The fact that she got used to the coppery taste rising up in her throat was disgusting in and of itself. At least there weren't jolts of pain shooting through every nerve and muscle in waves anymore though. That was something.

The fog in her brain was still clearing. It was hard to focus on anything, and each time Cassandra, or anyone else, asked her a question they would have to repeat it at least three times. It was beyond frustrating, the mind that got her through med school drunk half the time was failing the insurmountable task of saying whether or not she'd like some water. Glorious.

A faint knock on the door reached her ears. A redundant gesture really, as she didn't exactly have the clarity of mind to answer. Besides it was hard to catch her in a more compromising state than curled up in the fetal position, covered in sweat and most likely blood clots stuck to her lips.

Esteria came in, her one blue eye that wasn't covered looking at her with all the gentleness neither of her parents had ever offered her. Or it was just the cruel trick of a delirious brain. Either way, light barefoot steps took the Mistress to her bed. She sat in the chair adjacent to it and, with taloned fingers brushing strands of auburn hair out of Nicole's face, she spoke softly.

"How are you feeling today?"

Her voice was just as melodious as ever. It was the voice one imagines they would hear from an ancient being found deep in the forest. It made Nicole just a tad guilty when the only answer she could give was a pathetic whine.

Esteria simply hummed, talons running through the long messy locks of hair sprawled on the sheets.

"Would you like me to braid this for you dear?"

Nicole frowned. The Mistress was an expert at braiding, quick fingers able to make beautiful designs, both simple and complex. Comes with having floor length hair, her hazy mind guessed. On any normal day, Nicole would've accepted without a second thought. But now? Now she was painfully aware of the state she was currently in.

"It's filthy," she croaked, her voice raw and like stones in her mouth.

And it was. Her hair was waist length and right now it was slowly becoming a curse. It was greasy and sweaty thanks to barely being able to move a limb for nearly a week, which meant no showers. Not to mention how she lost count of the times she bent down to empty the contents of her stomach into a bucket, only to have some rebel locks fall in her face and get subsequently dirty. God she felt awful.

Esteria didn't seem to care too much though, as she simply helped Nicole shift slightly and talons started to work at some pesky mats. In no time, her hair was in a comfortable braid that started relatively high, keeping the locks away from her nape which meant just a tad less overheating. Not to mention it kept it in place and away from her mouth that she didn't trust in the slightest right now.

"Thanks," she actually managed to not let her voice crack this time.

"Oh it's no problem. Also," there seemed to be an odd strain in her voice, "Mother Miranda is coming this evening. She said something about an examination."

Nicole couldn't help but openly wince and curl in on herself a little more at the mere mention of the woman. Her chest seemed to pulsate painfully at the memory of the golden talons embedded deep in her flesh. Right now she wanted those hands anywhere away from her.

"What time is it?"

Esteria looked at the clock placed somewhere on the wall behind them. "About twelve. Still got time."

How hard would it be to drag herself to the adjacent bathroom for a quick shower? The only way her situation could get worse was if none other than Mother Miranda came in to see her in that state. She took a deep breath that her lungs protested against and pushed herself onto her elbows. At Esteria's skeptical expression she tried to sound less horrible than she felt.

"I need a shower."

Esteria pursed her lips. "Sorry dear but I don't believe for one second that you can stand for more than a minute. I'll ask a maid to draw you a bath."

Nicole only nodded weakly and let herself fall back into the cushion.

---

It took far longer than Nicole would ever admit to get herself fully clean. Her muscles were sore and protesting at every pass of the soapy sponge. Her hair was a whole other battle and she had to bite down on her pride and ask the maid positioned outside her door for help. It was a tortuous fifteen minutes until the poor girl managed to detangle the long locks enough to be shampooed and washed.

After she was content with the level of cleanliness of her body and the maid was dismissed, she stood there preparing herself to get out of the basin. In the meantime she looked down at the wound at the bottom of her sternum. Maybe wound wasn't the right word. It looked more like a gray and black scar with vein-like tendrils spreading across pale skin. It looked downright gruesome. Miranda really did not try to do a clean job in the slightest. Didn't even think to use anesthesia, like she had with most other experiments, according to Alcina.

She sighed and finally pushed herself out of the water with shaky arms.

By the time Mother Miranda arrived she was feeling slightly better. Why she came personally was still a mystery to Nicole. Maybe some sick sense of satisfaction in seeing her in pain.

Either way, by the time their so-called goddess came into the infirmary and told Nicole to lay down on one of the tables, she managed to shuffle her way over without her body protesting too much. Cassandra also quietly made her way on the opposite side of Miranda, gaining herself a glare.

"Must you hover over her like that?" Miranda's tone was as even as ever, but her eyes betrayed annoyance.

"Does it hinder you?"

Cassandra was not an idiot, the growl she wanted to add into her question was instead replaced by a tone not too dissimilar to Miranda's own, who simply tugged her lips into a grimace.

"Very well."

At first they went through a normal examination. Pupil dilation, reflexes, all things a normal doctor would do. Then Miranda told her to unbutton her blouse so she could take a look at the infection scar.

Nicole couldn't help flinching when thankfully gloved fingers would poke and prod at the sensitive flesh there. Her cold digits felt like hot coals were spread on her chest and nails dragged uselessly on the metal underneath her body for some sort of distraction.

Mother Miranda decided to get a tissue sample and that's when Nicole decided that maybe she would rather spend eternity as a ghost. She squeezed her eyes shut when a scalpel was brought to the overly sensitive skin. It took her back to when she would do autopsies, years ago. Tissue samples were always an integral part of her work. How ironic that she found herself on the other side of things.

It's fine.

She winced when the blade cut into flesh and sent a jolt of pain through her chest. Nicole couldn't help but think of the long days she spent agonizing while her chest felt like it was burning her alive and hoping that it wouldn't repeat. A sigh of pure relief slipped past her lips when whatever fake deity there was besides this woman, listened to her and the sensation died out quickly. She dared to open her eyes, only to see Mother Miranda frowning down at the small vial in hand.

It was quickly given to an assistant and she unceremoniously grabbed Nicole's wrist, dragging the blade across the length of her forearm.

Nicole gasped at the sudden sharp pain, and even Cassandra dropped a few choice words in romanian due to the surprise. No. No no no. What the hell-

Any questions, or less dignified reaction, died in everyone's throats as they watched the skin stitch itself back together. The repairing muscles gave a tingling sensation but soon the only proof that a cut had been there were thin trails of blood.

Mother Miranda chuckled and wrote down something in the notebook she brought with her. "Accelerated healing. That can be of use."

Nicole couldn't help but throw a glance at Alcina, who was sitting in one of the many chairs with Esteria by her side. Her expression was unreadable, a mix of conflicting emotions flashing in her eyes like rapid lightning. She would've tried to decipher their matriarch's probable thoughts were it not for the smell that was starting to assault her senses.

"Ugh what's that…blood… "

Coherent sentences were still not something her brain wanted to do apparently, but judging by how her nose scrunched up in a grimace, Cassandra got the gist of what she meant.

"Um… your arm," she pointed to the still fresh blood slowly dripping from her skin.

Right. Dumbass.

"Or damaged sinuses. Should go away soon," Miranda added from where she was noting something down and giving instructions to her assistant.

Also fair.

She sighed and tried to ignore it. Her sinuses still felt like sandpaper all the way to the back of her throat. Every time she swallowed, it felt like needles scraping the inside of her neck down to her stomach.

Ugh.

Thankfully, Mother Miranda did not linger for much longer. She wrapped up any samples and was out of the room soon after with her assistant in tow. Then, Nicole could finally go back to laying down in bed and feeling miserable.

And miserable she felt. Her body seemed to have decided to rewire itself into its new mutation. It didn't have any effect on her physical appearance, but the insides seemed to want to liquefy only to be mended back together. It was another week of basically living with a bucket in her lap and throwing up blood clots that seemed to invade her lungs and organs. How she didn't straight up asphyxiate was a mystery that she didn't think she wanted solved.

And to top it off, she was starting to think that humidity from some leaky pipe somewhere in the castle was causing a slight mold problem. Almost everywhere she went, there was this faint moldy scent lingering in the air and it was mixing horribly with the coppery feeling inside her still offended throat and sinuses. Nobody seemed bothered by it though, so maybe it was simply a side effect of the infection that was yet to go away. It wasn’t nicknamed the Mold for nothing, after all.

#unhinged maiden™ my beloved #cassandra dimitrescu x maiden #lady dimitrescu #lady dimitrescu x maiden #momma esteria #mother miranda #fanfic #tw: gore #to bargain for immortality #in which nicole gets way too familiar with miranda's petty side

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sanktnikolais · 3 years

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A Little Wicked

A/N: so here is your resident zoyalai writer again with another zoyalai fic (bc what’s new) for the @grishaversebigbang mini bang!!!! This had been a fun mini event before the actual big one, and I had the absolute honor to work with two very awesome and great artists @generalstarkov and @jjelliacee!!! I love these two sm they have awesome creations pls give them a follow and no i don’t take no for an answer HAHAHA

Check out their awesome creations in companion with this fic!

@generalstarkov [x]

@jjelliacee [x]

Word count: 2320

Summary: A commotion at one of the Lantsov’s businesses in Kribirsk happens, and it is going to be a lot of paperwork and stress for the Consigliere to work on again. But when he gets there, he doesn’t expect who the main reason of his suffering is.

To say that Zoya was utterly pissed off was an understatement. There was something about seeing the gray shade of the Brum associates's coats that ticked at her patience.

Their color looks dead, Nikolai’s unwanted and yet familiar voice echoed in her head. She wanted to strangle him even when he was not physically there. As if the Lantsov green was any better than gray. But she figured that maybe it was a bit better than the dull shade she was now seeing in front of her.

She had come—escaped—to the small pub downtown in Kribirsk to have some breather away from the fiasco that happened in Os Kervo. She’d already had enough shit from the Brums intercepting the Lantsovs’ arms shipments, and she had held back from going completely undiplomatic on them.

But now, if the Brum lackeys continued their uncivilized talks with her, perhaps she wouldn’t hold back.

“Are you sure you don’t want some company?” he asked for the third time, and the two other men with him laughed.

Zoya suppressed an exasperated sigh as she raised the glass to her lips. She eyed the young man with a narrowed glance, then turned her attention to his cuffs. The embroidery around it looked new, a double black stripes of a newly promoted Soldier from an Associate. His companions had the same rank. So that explained the unawareness of who she really was, and the common principle between the families.

They didn’t have an explicit rule that members of a Family weren’t allowed in another’s business, but all seemed to have an unspoken agreement to stay away from a rival territory unless invited. Out of respect, she figured, and they did maintain it most of the time. Maybe these morons hadn’t been briefed about it yet.

An idea suddenly came to her mind. A mad, trouble-worthy idea that she was sure Nikolai would have enabled if it wasn’t about to give him a headache later. He was her literal headache anyway, so it was only fair if she paid back in kindness. Besides, she could use a bit of stretching today.

Zoya smiled menacingly. “Come closer, and I’ll tell you,” she said in a rather sensual tone, and it earned a grin from the man in the middle. He did as he was told, leaning forward on the table and inching closer to her face. When he was finally near enough, she let out a light chuckle.

Then she swiped the bottle of whiskey from the table and struck it to the man’s head.

He recoiled with a scream of pain, and she didn’t give time for his companions to react and kicked the table to them, causing it to flip over and hit them on their faces. They toppled on the floor in a heap.

“Saints,” Zoya sighed as she stood and opened the top two buttons of her top. She was mad and exhausted and drunk. She needed a breather.

The man who had annoyed her since earlier tried to stand up, but she put her heel to his face and kept him on the floor. His two other companions looked up at her, bewildered. She gave them a pointed glance that had them frozen in their places.

“Who do you think you are, woman?” the man underneath her heel shouted. He tried to twist off from her foot, but she drove her toe further down to his cheek. Another pained groan came from him.

Zoya slowly rolled up the sleeve, showing the dragon tattoo that twisted around the expanse of her forearm.

“Oh, shit,” one of the men said. “It’s the Lantsovs.”

She smirked in return and braced an elbow to her knee, leaning closer to the man. “Allow me to introduce myself, then.”

***

The first thing Nikolai thought of when he saw the state of the building were the paperworks, and it only became worse when he finally got inside and saw more of the mess. When he received a call regarding some ruckus in one of their businesses, he thought it was a prank. Even businesses as small as this still had a lot of records that needed to be taken care of, and it was his job to handle those paperworks. He almost wanted to cry. Couldn’t the people choose any other location than this?

“Nikolai.”

He was startled out of his lamenting when he heard his name called, and he turned to see Tamar with a pitiful expression. “I know, I know,” he said, looking back at the sight in front of him.

Toppled tables and chairs along with broken bottles of expensive drinks littered the floor, and the smell of alcohol filled the pub with a bracing odor. Nikolai looked down to his feet, seeing what he could tell was what was left of a Hennessy bottle lying on the floor. There was a slight twinge in his chest. Such a sad, sad waste.

“I’ve talked to some of the witnesses,” said Tamar after a moment, her voice thoughtful. "I think it was the Brums."

"Dearest saints in the heavens, give me more patience," muttered Nikolai with a wince. Today's news about their shipment getting intercepted had been bad enough. Driving almost two hours to this saintsforsaken town just to know that the same family had caused them another trouble? Atrocious. He could already feel a headache coming at him. "Were the police involved?"

"Yeah, they've arrested four people. Three men, and apparently one woman."

Nikolai put a hand to his forehead, rubbing it gently as if doing so would keep the headache from coming. But when his temple started to pound, he figured the attempt was futile.

Then a thought struck him, and he turned to the Lantsov caporegime with a frown. "There's a woman?" He didn’t know why, but there was an uneasy feeling in his gut. "Arrested?"

"Apparently, yes. It's quite a surprise too."

"Oh, dear me."

The headache finally came to hit him full force, and Nikolai had to wince. His migraine was nasty, but he knew Zoya's anger was nastier if she knew about this ruckus later.

But speaking of that woman….

"Wait, where is Zoya again?" he asked Tamar in genuine wonder. He hadn't heard from her since she reported about the shipments this morning. "And Tolya? Why wasn't she alerted first about this mess?"

The Lantsov caporegime visibly paled, and dread washed over Nikolai. His mind started to come up with the worst scenarios, making the pounding on his temple worse than it already was.

"About that…."

"Tamar," he said, voice hard. Something was definitely not right, and Nikolai narrowed his eyes. Zoya was supposed to be the one handling this matter. Where was she when she was needed? "What is it?"

Tamar sighed, and with a quiet voice, she said, “Tolya is trying to find Zoya.”

“He’s doing what now?”

“He said that Zoya just suddenly got up and drove off after the mess in Os Kervo. He hadn’t seen her since.”

“Where is she? Had he found her?”

As if on cue, a ring tone blared, making the both of them jump. They both scramble for their own phones. It wasn't his phone, so it only meant it was Tamar's.

Tamar winced when she stared at the phone screen. "It's Tolya."

Nikolai snatched the phone from the woman's hands and answered it. "Tolya," he said.

The other line was silent for a moment, and then a slightly panicked, "I can explain."

"Don't mind that. Where is she?"

There was a short pause before the line disconnected. Nikolai frowned.

"What—"

A sharp ting sounded, signaling that a text message had just arrived. He narrowed his eyes at it.

It was an address, and it looked familiar.

Nikolai waited at the front desk of the precinct, with his fingers massaging at his temple to soothe the throbbing away. So this was why he felt a strange dread in his stomach when Tamar mentioned about a woman who got arrested.

Because it was Zoya all along.

The woman on the deks finally returned, and she turned her attention to Nikolai. "Yes?"

He straightened up and fixed his tie. "I'm here for Zoya Nazyalensky," he said, a little unsure if he was speaking coherently. "Attorney Nikolai Lan—"

"Oh, are you her lawyer and husband?"

"Yes, I—" Nikolai blinked. It took a minute for the words to sink in. What? "I'm sorry, can you repeat that?"

"Her lawyer husband, or who she says is the one to get her out," the woman said. A shadow of fear flashed across her face. "She and those three other guys caused quite a damage in a bar though."

He raised an eyebrow and turned to the direction where the woman was pointing. There were three men sitting by the bench on the side, huddled up so closely they looked like they were practically glued to each other. The bruises on their faces only proved that they were involved with the mess in the bar. Caused by Zoya. Nikolai narrowed his eyes, noticing the shade of their coats to be ash gray. He scoffed. Brums, indeed. Now he quite understood the anger his boss had.

They finally noticed Nikolai, and, if it was still possible, became paler than they already were. The three of them shrunk back further into their seats.

“They were too afraid to be in the same cell with the woman that got arrested with them and they preferred to stay here in the waiting lounge," the woman said grimly, making him turn back to her. "Scary looking woman, your wife is. Are you here to get her out on bail?"

That is a good question, Nikolai thought. Should he get her out right away? Or let her stay for a few more hours so she could reflect on her mistakes? But knowing Zoya, it's the mistakes that would need to reflect on themselves. "Yes, but can I see my, uh, " he said, "my wife first?"

“Of course. Give me a moment, sir.”

She disappeared from the desk again and made her way to the maze of desks behind her. A few minutes later, she reappeared, but with Zoya Nazyalensky trailing behind her this time. Apparently, his boss didn’t look like she was just arrested—she still walked with deadly grace, with her hand braced on her shoulder where her coat was slung, and a downturned sneer on her lips. But what caught his attention was the bottle in her other hand.

A new wave of pain hit Nikolai’s temple, and he had to sigh in exasperation. How was she able to bring alcohol to the precinct? And they didn’t even take it from her?

Zoya caught his gaze, and her expression quickly melted into a cheery one that terrified Nikolai. She never smiled like that. “Darling,” she said, her voice mocking honey-sweet, “it’s so good to see you.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” he replied with the same tone, and it only brought back her dark glare. He winced as he approached her, his hand enclosing around the exposed tattoo on her arm. “Zoya, what the hell. Isn’t it supposed to be me you’re helping to get out of trouble? Why had the tables turned?”

“Questions after questions, dear Consigliere. One at a time. But to not answer anything, I needed a drink, and the Brums pissed me off twice today. I only gave the favor back,” she muttered before she leaned back and laughed lightly, continuing the act of a ‘loving wife’ who was glad to see her husband. Then a glare appeared in her eyes as she looked over the three men on the bench. They visibly shook in fear. “Let’s just get out of here before I decide to completely make them unidentifiable.”

“That doesn’t even help—” He stopped when Zoya gave him a glare. With another sigh, he said, “Fine. But let’s keep it cool until we step out of here, alright?

She just rolled her eyes and put the bottle back to her lips. Nikolai turned back to the front desk with a smile that he was sure looked like a grimace. Then after a few minutes of handling the ordeal, with the amount of bail surely hurting their coffers, they were finally ready to walk freely from the precinct. He sighed as he shoved his wallet back to his coat, and was about to call for Zoya when he heard the sound of a glass breaking.

“If I see you three near our property again—”

Nikolai’s eyes widened when he saw Zoya pointing a half-broken whiskey bottle at the three men, and he scrambled to her side. He put a hand on her shoulder, trying to hold her back but her stance was unrelenting. “Zoya, dear, what did I say about keeping it cool?” he mumbled in her ear all the while keeping a smile to his face as he looked around the alarmed people in the precinct.

The three Brum associates only nodded in understanding as if Zoya had completed her sentence, and it seemed to sate her because she finally let Nikolai drag her out of the building. When they got out of the doors, they both dropped the act and immediately stepped away from each other as if they had just burned. Tolya and Tamar were already waiting for them by the car across the street.

“Free at last,” muttered Zoya.

“Why didn’t you text or call me right away?” Nikolai asked incredulously. “Would have gotten some medicine for the headache as precaution.”

Zoya turned to him with a frown. “You speak as if you’re not a headache yourself.” Then she let out an annoyed breath, averted her eyes, and lowly added, “I forgot your number.”

He raised an eyebrow, amusement suddenly overpowering his headache. “Zoya Nazyalensky forgetting something? So unheard of,” he said. Then a smile crept up to his lips. This woman was really something else. “And you dare to forget your husband’s number?”

Nikolai barely had the time to dodge the broken bottle flying towards him.

#gvbb21 #gvbbminibang21 #gang 9 #zoyalai #zoya nazyalensky #nikolai lantsov #my writing #vincenzo energy was very strong in me and in this one #as well as in my groupmates #and i love that sm #PLS CHECK OUT THEIR FANARTS THEY'RE JUST #GOD TIER #GIVE THEM LOVE AND A FOLLOW TOO!!!!!#i feel like i could have put more chaotic energy but can't go way over the word count LKHJASDFLKJAHFS #pls just one woman beating up men can be something personal #:>#nik is just a tired ~~husband~~ consigliere

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wedreamedlove · 3 years

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Xu Mo vs. Mo Yi [Character Study]

I can never get over the aesthetic of these two pictures placed side by side LOL. But, anyway, the point of this post is to nip any undue comparisons in the bud and claims of copying organize my thoughts and compare these two characters to highlight their similarities, differences, and further explore each character through these contrasts.

Q) If you like Xu Mo, would you like Mo Yi?

Honestly, I think this depends on what you like most about Xu Mo. I already knew beforehand that I gravitate towards characters who think 5 steps ahead, are predominantly logical, and scholars/gentlemen, so it’s not surprising I bias both Xu Mo and Mo Yi.

However, as I got to know Mo Yi further (Themis is around 6 months old now), I find that he’s distinctively different from Xu Mo on three crucial points that’ll determine whether people from either camp will like the other character.

1) Stance on Others

In a post for Xu Mo, “Into Your World”, I argued that Xu Mo is an alienated genius who had troubles getting along with others, until he mastered the social game as an adult. However, you can still see glimpses of this as he tries to understand MC’s world and shares his own.

To be fair, Mo Yi’s past is still under wraps but I feel confident in saying that, while he was probably highly intelligent compared to his peers [SR Sculpted Heart], his isolation doesn’t seem to come from his innate nature but rather his social position (there’s heavy implications that he’s like some sort of noble or something) [SR Snowy Pine Fairytale].

IMO, these backgrounds really shaped the way these two men interact with the world.

Xu Mo has a detached and indifferent view towards other people. They simply exist and don’t bring anything positive or negative to him. His ambition to ensure the survival of humanity reflects this too because it’s pure utilitarianism; everyone (apart from MC) can be sacrificed equally for the greater good. If anything, he probably finds other people to be interesting subjects to study, no matter what kind of person they are. IIRC the only time he expressed dislike to people, or a group of people, was when he told Hades he enjoyed killing thieves LOL.

Meanwhile, Mo Yi has an elitist streak to the point where he and his MC actually clashed opinions and debated each other [SR Warm Fingertips]. It’s incredibly ironic because he’s a psychiatrist who treats his patients without judgment, but at the same time he looks down on so many things and people (PUAs, people who betray love, hypocrites who only seek power and fame) [Ch2; Personal Story Ch1-3; SSR Moonlit Ball].

One of the things I noticed early on is that Xu Mo draws from the Eastern scholar archetype, “Xu Mo Character Study”, while Mo Yi actually draws more from the Western gentleman archetype.

So, just to summarize this section, Xu Mo is detached from the world naturally and likes to observe people and try to blend in. Mo Yi deliberately draws a line between him and others and, at times, has the casual cruelty of someone born as nobility (arrogance is carved into his bones, even if he tends to keep it low-key because he generally has a “gentle and polite” attitude).

2) Stance on Love

Xu Mo didn’t understand love, or really even emotions. Love is grown between him and his MC (there’s multiple analogies throughout the game about how their love is like a seed). I think [Ch25] pretty much sums it up for Xu Mo, where he goes through that emotional rollercoaster and muses about how, at the end of human evolution, emotions should be discarded. He also admits that MC taught him the “fear” of a normal person, because now he has someone he cannot give up no matter what, which goes against his previous utilitarian beliefs.

Compared to this, Mo Yi fell in love at first sight. Yes, you read that right. The “scientist and logical” archetype fell in love at first sight LOL. Not only does he acknowledge it right off the bat, but he fully embraces it too and believes that real love makes people better versions of themselves [Personal Story]. Mo Yi is a through and through psychiatrist in that he never underestimates how primal emotions (and love) can be.

Heck, not only is this central to his personal story, but we also have hints that one of Mo Yi’s parents fell in love at first sight with the other person (and he inherited their predisposition for that). Unfortunately, their love had a tragic end and Mo Yi seems to have a huge grudge against his father for whatever happened to his mother (again, Mihoyo is keeping this a mystery LOL), but Mo Yi explicitly confirms that even if his love leads to a tragic end he will still walk down this road and attempt to change it [SR Cool Summer].

IMO one other difference between them re: love is this exchange that lives rent free in my head which I saw in a Xu Mo/Reader/Mo Yi fanfiction LOL. Bear with me here.

Mo Yi: Wearing a mask for a long time will tire you.

Xu Mo: It’s enough just to wear one in front of the necessary person.

Xu Mo and his MC make great efforts to understand each other’s worlds, but this understanding comes from the doors he chooses to open to her. He reveals himself as much as possible, but I think he’s an inherently private person (and there’s all that Ares stuff) so there are times where he hides things so that he doesn’t worry his MC. I think this is enough to count as a “mask”. Sometimes he pretends he’s okay when he’s not.

On the other hand, while I think Mo Yi shares the sentiment in not wanting his MC to worry unduly, he tries to reveal himself as much as possible. There’s an amazingly relatable conflict in him here where he wants her to know every side of him, but he’s also terrified of how she’ll react if he shows her his ugliest sides and imperfect sides (he has some sort of phobia or fear about imperfection, but Mihoyo has been keeping mum on the exact details of this so far) [Personal Story; SR Sculpted Heart].

It’s pretty ironic that Mo Yi wants to be perfect, but he realizes that the more perfect he is the more of a sense of distance there’ll be between him and his MC because of the subconscious pressure someone “perfect” brings LOL [SSR Border of Light and Darkness].

3) Stance on Growth

If you haven’t realized that one of Xu Mo’s greatest themes is the phrase “Take your time in growing”, then what have you been reading? Jkjk, but seriously this gets repeated in multiple places, although my brain always goes back to [Blossom Date] for this.

Even if he and his MC start off with fundamental differences (she believes all people have inherent worth and can’t be involuntarily sacrificed), he wants to personally watch the journey of her maturation. He also subtly guides and teaches her. Unfortunately, due to circumstances of the main story, he doesn’t get his wish and she grows up a lot out of his eyes, but their relationship still revolves around him wanting her to have as much time as possible to grow.

He’s, for a lack of better word, extremely gentle about this (setting aside as much of the Ares and story parts as we can, because LovePro’s story is tragedy on tragedy LOL). I think [Autumn Blaze Date] shows a good analogy for this, because he holds the bicycle steady for MC until she can get going on her own, and he also catches her the first time.

Meanwhile, Mo Yi... ha ha ha. I just came out of chapter 3 for his [Personal Story] and let’s just say his philosophy is tough love. It’s ironic because, in many of his other dates, he wrestles with an internal conflict to protect his MC but also to let her experience all sorts of things to both test and temper her.

This is going to touch on the previous topic about love for a moment, but a part of Mo Yi’s love at first sight experience is also “testing” the other person through all sorts of situations and, after seeing all their different sides, he can determine whether his love at first sight is one that’ll last for the rest of his life or if it’s just a fleeting moment of beauty and emotion.

He also extremely respects his MC’s sense of justice and pursuit of the truth in the world, no matter what she encounters, and I wouldn’t be surprised if this is what drew him to her in the first place. But MC’s occupation and beliefs will make her confront a lot of dark and dangerous things and so, whenever possible, Mo Yi lets her confront these in “controlled” situations to train her. If I had to make an analogy, IMO, he’d let his MC ride the bicycle and pick her up only after she falls, or when she’s like 0.1cm away from the ground LOL.

Mo Yi is (perhaps rightfully) called out on this by another character, who believes Mo Yi is too arrogant in believing everything is under his control and he can prevent MC from getting hurt whenever he lets her get into dangerous situations, and I’m interested to see if Mihoyo will let him experience failures with his philosophy so he can grow more, like the things Xu Mo went through re: his personal beliefs [Ch24].

Overall

I don’t know how well I explained myself, especially for people who don’t know anything about Mo Yi, and each section goes back and forth between the two characters LOL so here’s another section that attempts to describe their overall atmosphere.

If, like I said in my Headcanon Notes, Xu Mo makes me immediately think of all the words for soft, gentle, light, still, water, etc etc., then the words I constantly think about for Mo Yi is messily human. He’s like a bundle of contradictions, but coherent because it’s being intentionally done.

Mo Yi doesn’t discriminate against his patients, yet he can be elitist and looks down on others. He wants to let MC have dangerous experiences, but also wants to protect her. He wants to be perfect, but he also wants to reveal himself entirely to his MC because that’s real love.

In contrast, Xu Mo has a very clean and orderly personality LOL. You can draw clear cause and effect lines from his personality to his actions.

So, anyway, these are two interesting characters who start off with similar archetypes as scientific logical men of scholar/gentleman dispositions, but yet they’re also on opposite ends for a lot of things such as their approach to emotions and the world.

Oh wait, lastly, because I don’t have a good place to put this—but I think it’s funny—is that both characters are pretty possessive and greedy, but while Xu Mo does things in a sneaky, cunning and fox-like way Mo Yi gets ridiculously open about his jealousy and it’s hilariously cute but also almost childish? I often forget Mo Yi is older than Xu Mo by a year, because Xu Mo honestly feels a bit more mature than him LOL. If we count them actually aging by when their game came out though, then Mo Yi is 28 and Xu Mo is 29 now.

#mr love queen's choice #tears of themis #mlqc xu mo #mlqc lucien #wdsjb mo yi #love and producer #weiding shijian bu #mlqc #love and produc(ing) meta #tears of meta

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ererokii · 4 years

Text

Repudium || Shouto Todoroki & Katsuki Bakugou

Pro Hero Shouto Todoroki x Fem! Reader x Pro Hero Katuski Bakugou

Repudium means rejection in Latin.

Warnings: angst, cursing, Todoroki is a douchebag once again, mwah katsuki is a king

Word Count: 10,734

Synopsis: Shouto leaves your heart in pieces and expects you to come back to him, but doesn’t realize someone is mending it back together.

Taglist (message to be added): @shoutodoki @shoutosteakettle @miinaashido @saltie @fryingpanitachi @kingtamakimurder @sugacookiies @pixxiesdust @sacro---sainte

➺: Note: This is for @bnhabookclub‘s bingo event! The prompt is Pain Comfort. You asked, so now you shall receive, this is part two of Once More. I suggest you read that first before reading this. Thank you Zeze, Mar, and Gabs for betaing <3

Bingo Masterlist

“I thought you were changing. You don’t care about anyone. You rather see those around you to die than save them. How can you call yourself a hero if you can’t even feel for the public? You are the worst hero ever.”

Those words replayed like a song worth listening, over and over again. Your mouth that could sing dozens of symphonies sang a song that could curse a man for the rest of his life. Words of hatred and malice drowned Shouto to the pits of the earth, each syllable leaving your mouth another pierce to his heart. The twinkle in your eyes that could outshine any of the stars in the night sky were dimmed to the lowest as a waterfall of tears cascaded down your face.

The look on your face could have brought anyone to their knees to beg for forgiveness, stuttering nonsense that was coherent only in their head. He could see it in your expressions. The way your bottom lip quivered as you listened to the poison of his words. Your smaller hands clenched and unclenched by your sides, your body shaking with each blow. Your head shook with nothing but denial as you tried to shrug his words off. You couldn’t.

The grip you held his shirt with was full of pure disappointment, hurt, and dishonesty. He heard nothing in the moment, his cerulean and grey irises staring at the movement of your mouth, watching it open and close with each sentence you spoke. Your lips were curved down as you continued to yell at him. He suddenly felt light in your grasp. You had every right to tell him how you felt. He deserved your words.

He felt even lower than dirt. The steel door blocking him from your life grew thicker and thicker, leaving him vulnerable and isolated. He used to be untouchable. He would stand on his throne, watching as everyone slowly sank lower and lower. A surge of pride and power would fill his body as he watched those struggle to get to his point in life. Until you came, and sent one kick to his throne, making him fall right through as he desperately tried to sit on top once again.

You were a tide that kept washing him away. You caught him by surprise. Your twisted ways made him open up in ways he didn’t realize until it was too late.

The moon illuminated a path of soft light through the curtains in the pitch-black room. The modernized clock resting on Shouto’s bedside table read 5:37 AM. His orbs trained on the time, watching every second change with him. The red digitized numbers are slow to switch.

“Get the fuck away from me.”

His long fingers ran through his hair slowly, lowering his head to look down in his lap as his fingers scratched the back of his head, nails adding a slight sting. A small sigh of distress left him as he stretched his arms above his head, feeling the joints of his elbows crack with the movement.

It’s only been three weeks since his pride took over his brain. Whenever he tried to close his eyes, all he could see was you.

Every day, he would be bombarded with news headlines about how amazing and heroic he was the night before. It was almost as if it was mocking him, reminding him of how much of a horrible person he was. Yet, he couldn’t wipe away that smirk that made its way onto his face when he noticed more people speaking about him.

Big news broadcasting stations constantly asked for him to make an appearance on their shows, to which he happily obliged. Nothing made him more satisfied than being on the big screen for everyone to see. The shining star of the show making an entry. It pleased him.

He mindlessly scrolled through his twitter, noticing some merchandise links and useless tweets from his PR Team. Dozens of notifications flooded his timeline, fans pinging him for meetups, random DMs from his followers or getting nasty tweets—which he didn’t appreciate, but it was the internet, after all.

A red dot caught his attention from his DMs. Curiosity got the best of him as he clicked it, noticing none other than Ground Zero’s profile at the top.

Bakugou: So are we on for that stupid patrol or what? You never responded back asshole.

Oh, that.

Shouto groaned softly, completely forgetting that he had a patrol with Bakugou later today. He clicked the message, fingers immediately typing a response out.

Shouto: Yeah sure. Just meet at my agency at 2 PM.

Bakugou: Don’t tell me what to do bastard.

“Well that settles that,” he muttered, tossing his phone somewhere on his bed, not really caring where it landed. His back collided with the silk sheets, his body relaxing upon contact. His hand reached out to the spot beside him, slowly running his hand up and down on the empty space as if he was looking for something, or maybe someone.

His fingers curled around the material of his sheets, an iron grip at hand. He glanced over, expecting to be met with a pair of eyes or a back turned to him. Instead, he found nothing but the soft light produced by the moon. It peeked through his curtains, a small patch of light resting beside his relaxed body as if it was mocking him for his actions. His eyes gazed on the spot, noticing it was the area where you once laid. He growled quietly, grabbing one of his pillows, chucking it towards the curtains in anger.

Shouto watched the pillow collide and fall on the floor. His lips parted slightly as small puffs of air left his mouth. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he muttered, running his hands over his face as he kept repeating the word. His hands hit his thighs with a slap, his nails digging into the skin and leaving crescent shape indents. “What the fuck am I even doing?” he questioned aloud.

“Here I am, in the middle of the night, letting my emotions get the best of me. What kind of crap is that?” He got off his bed, walking over to his dresser. He opened the top two drawers and pulled extra clothes out, deciding that a shower was the best course of action.

When he got in the shower, he closed his eyes as the beads of warm water hit his face and streamed down his body to the drain. His tufts of hair were plastered onto his face like glue. The water jet seemed to be on its best setting for his needs as he stood there, collecting his thoughts.

He placed his hands against the tiled walls of the shower, back muscles flexing as he lowered his head to look downward at the shower drain, watching the water gather around and go down the hole. His long hair at the top covered his eyes, the water trailing down his nose as the droplets hit the bottom of the tub.

“Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me?” he groaned, standing up straight as he slicked his hair back.

☽✧ ✦ ✧☾

You hated it. You hated how weak you became in an instant. In a snap, everything went downhill. You weren’t able to smile as bright as you did before. You hated how he was able to get under your skin and become the only thing you could think about. He was a parasite to you. You despised him, yet he somehow came back to annoy the hell out of you.

“Oh? Is it not? How much longer are you going to deny it? When are you going to learn Y/N? I’m Shouto! One or if not the greatest hero out there! I always get what I want. You were nothing but a stepping stool.”

Your eyes widened as you misplaced your foot, tripping over the ledge of your car. You quickly grabbed a hold of the handle, keeping yourself upright. You felt your cheeks swell in embarrassment as you quickly regained your composure, clearing your throat. Shutting the car door shut, you looked up to the powerful building that was the viewpoint in all of Japan.

Shouto’s Agency.

Just the mere thought of seeing him made you grit your teeth in anger. Your blood boiled at the fact that you had to step a single foot into that forsaken place, and even had to share the same air as him.

The soles of your shoes hit against the cement as you walked around your car, opening the other side to stare at the brown box full of objects that had no use to you. This box was filled with Shouto’s things that he left at your place and the daycare. You didn’t feel like burning them, so giving them back would suffice. Holding the object in your arms weighed more than it had to.

You bumped your hip against the door to shut it, and felt no use in locking it. A small sigh left your lips as you walked to the entryway. Each step felt heavy, like the earth could swallow you whole. Your pulse was beating like crazy, at any moment you wouldn’t be surprised if your heart jumped out from your mouth.

You stopped your movements in front of the doors, watching them slide open before continuing inside. Upon entering, you were hit with the smell of new furniture—which was just the recently cleaned objects and cold air from the ceiling fans. The room was dimly lit, relying on the light from the outside. The main foyer had couches and small tables laid out, covering the area. Men and women filled the furniture, reading a book, or talking amongst themselves.

You noticed that some of the workers were actually some of Shouto’s sidekicks or new interns he once told you about. Even just looking at them made you sick to your stomach.

Clearing your throat, you walked over to the main desk and dropped the box on the counter, watching the employee jump in surprise.

“Uh- Hi yeah, I’m here to drop off some things for Todoroki.”

“For Shouto?” the lady asked and looked up at you. “Hey aren’t you that girl he-”

“Yeah that’s me,” you interrupted her. “I just wanted to give his things back.”

She fixed her glasses and nodded, chewing on her gum as she typed something on her computer. “Alright, I’ll let Todoroki know.”

“Let me know what?”

You froze at the voice, your body stiffening up. Your blood ran cold as you heard footsteps get closer to you from behind until the presence of a body was close. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up as a deep laugh filled your eyes.

“I didn’t expect to see you so soon. Miss me already?”

You growled quietly as you took a step to the side, refusing to face him. Don’t give him the pleasure of seeing you. He doesn’t deserve another glance. He doesn’t deserve anything from you.

“I know you can hear me sweetheart. Come on, let’s talk.” His voice sent chills through your body. His hand rested on your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

You swiveled around, raising your hand as your palm collided with his cheek. Your vision was blurry as you let out a choked sob, your hand still raised in the air. Your heart was beating out of your chest. The sound caught everyone's attention as they all stared at the commotion. Shouto moved his jaw slightly and rubbed his cheek, wincing slightly. There was now a red imprint on the swollen skin. “Damn, you really know how to slap someone huh?”

“I thought I made my point clear,” you sneered, lowering your hand to rest by your side. “I said I never wanted to talk to you again. I don’t want to see your face again.”

“Well, you came by didn’t you? Must have needed something from me if you decided to show up.”

“I came,” you started, ignoring the lingering stares from the bystanders, “To drop off your things. I could have burned them, but instead I decided to bring them back to you. Trash belongs with other types of trash, doesn’t it?”

The man in front of you laughed softly, shaking his head. Why was he laughing in a moment like this?

“Feisty, huh? Guess that was one of the things I love about you.”

Shouto had the audacity to say that he loved you? Even after all the shit he pulled?

“Oh no you don’t. Don’t you dare fucking say that word.” You wiped your nose with the sleeve of your jacket. “You don’t fucking love anything. No one but yourself. You’re a selfish bastard, how many times do I have to tell you? You are the worst in all of Japan.”

Even hearing those words for the second time in his life, he couldn’t shake the feeling off. Was he hurting? Was he turning upset?

Deciding enough was enough, you nodded in self-reassurance and turned around, only to collide face-first into a muscular chest. “Hey!”

“Hey? That’s what you say when you bump into someone? Some manners you got.”

You automatically recognized the voice and pulled away as if he had the plague.

Standing in the flesh, Ground Zero stared down at you with his intense vermillion eyes, his arms crossed over his torso, wearing that famous scowl of his.

“Some manners I got?” you growled and looked up at him. “Why do I have to move for you? You saw me here, didn’t you? Oh just because you’re in the top five, that gives you authority to act like that?”

His eyes widened slightly in shock. “Hey that’s not-”

“You know what? If all heroes are like him,” you yelled, pointing a finger at the bi-colored male behind you. “Then you guys need to stop being heroes! There’s no point in being out there if you don’t care for those in need! What kind of fakes are you guys?!”

Not giving him a chance to respond, you brushed past him, purposely bumping his shoulder with yours. He stumbled slightly, placing his hand on the counter to regain his balance. “What the fuck was that?” he whispered, watching you exit the main foyer.

Shouto sighed dramatically and shook his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “She’s always been like that.”

“Who the fuck is that?”

Shouto quirked an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his torso. “Why do you ask, Ground Zero?”

“I asked because she’s hot. I asked because I’m fucking curious, you bastard!”

The bi-colored male tilted his head slightly in confusion before shrugging, running his fingers through his hair. “That’s Y/L/N Y/N. She works at the local daycare about 20 minutes from here.”

“And how do you know her? What the hell was this shit show that just happened.”

“Oh, that? Don’t worry about it too much. She’ll come back soon.”

A laugh rumbled in the depths of Shouto’s throat as his finger traced the sensitive skin of his cheek. Bakugou stared at him, unamused.

“She rocked your shit and you’re saying don’t worry about it? What kind of bullshit answer is that?”

“Sounds to me like someone is scared to be seen with the number one pro hero, but that would be silly huh?” Shouto asked, completely dodging Bakugou’s questions as he checked his hand, front and back.

“Hah?! What did you say?! I’m not afraid of anything! Especially you!! Now quit talking and start fucking moving!” Bakugou shoved a gloved finger in Shouto’s direction before swiveling around. The ash-blond’s footsteps boomed with each step he took. He clenched and unclenched his fingers, his gauntlet hitting his hips as he walked.

“What kind of bullshit answer is that?” he grumbled, tapping his foot against the cement sidewalk as he waited for the number one hero to come outside. For someone who wanted to patrol, he was sure taking his sweet time.

“Shall we?” Shouto called from behind, walking past him. His chest was puffed out, his chin raised proudly in the air. A sly smirk was displayed on his face as he glanced at Bakugou from the corner of his eye. “Better get a move on. I would hate for you to fall behind.”

Bakugou gritted his teeth as he followed Shouto from behind. Many people on the streets gasped in astonishment at two of the top five heroes walking together. Children pointed at them from across the street, a toothy grin and shining sparkling eyes trained on them.

“Look, papa! It’s Ground Zero and Shouto! I want their autograph!”

Shouto’s head perked up at the sound of his name and looked over to the small boy, who was bouncing up and down. Amused by his antics, Shouto walked over to the boy and crouched down to his height.

A small smile was plastered onto his features as he patted him gently on top of the little boy’s head. “You wanted an autograph?”

The boy’s eyes widened as he nodded furiously, clenching his fists in front of his body. “Y-Yeah! Can you sign my backpack?!”

“Turn around, bud.”

He did as told, almost too fast as he stumbled over his own two feet. The pro hero took the sharpie from his smaller hands. Taking the cap off with his teeth, he kept it enclosed between the pearly whites as he quickly signed the backpack.

“There. Now it looks even more amazing.”

“T-Thank you, Shouto! G-Ground Zero, can you sign mine?!” he gasped and approached rather quickly, holding the sharpie in his head.

Bakugou wasn’t one for signings out of the blue, but this was an exception.

The blonde nodded and took the marker away from him, turning the boy around as he signed near Shouto’s signature, making it a tad bit bigger on purpose.

“Thank you!” he exclaimed and ran back to his dad, who wasn’t that far away. Both heroes could hear the excitement in his tone as he shoved the backpack into his father’s arms.

“I thought you never do signings like this. Has the Ground Zero gotten soft?”

Bakugou clicked his tongue in annoyance, refusing to be part of Shouto’s games. “Whatever, idiot. Just keep on walking.”

“Oh, is someone upset?”

“Shut up and stop talking!!”

☽✧ ✦ ✧☾

The patrol was nothing out of the ordinary. The two heroes made their roundabouts, no trouble seemed to bother them. The only thing that annoyed Bakugou more than anything was the fact that Shouto couldn’t keep his mouth shut. And paperwork was the worst of all. Shouto kept asking small insignificant questions that drove Katsuki up the wall.

Finally getting away from the devil himself, Katuski found himself standing in front of his car, his eyes hard and intense as he had his toned arms crossed over his torso. His eyes trained over a building, taking in the colorful delicate patterns of butterflies and kids smiling on the walls. The paint wasn’t chipping off. Instead it looked like it was fresh, maybe too fresh. The newly trimmed hedges that outline the building bloomed with budding roses. The flowers in the white pots loomed over the ground, each dancing tauntingly with the wind that sent small shivers through his hoodie and caused his hair to sway with each breeze.

Katuski analyzed the area once more before placing his hands behind him on the hood of the car and pushed off, walking towards the door.

Unlike Shouto Todoroki, Katsuki Bakugou arrived with a calm and open mind. Upon reaching the door, he noticed a hanging pot filled with yellow carnations. The bright color of the petals fluttered as if they were welcoming him. He stared, mesmerized by the color before shaking his head quickly, bringing his hand up to the door. His knuckles met with the door once, twice, and finally a third time before lowering it again.

Shuffling could be heard from the other side of the door as the knob turned, the wooden surface opening up.

Katsuki took sight of you, eyeing you up and down before meeting your eyes.

“G-Ground Zero?! W-What are you doing here?! This is so unexpected wow! I’m such a mess, god I’m so sorry! If only I knew you would come I would have at least cleaned myself up!”

“Can you stop rambling and actually let me talk?”

You stopped mid-sentence and shut your mouth, before opening it again. “Yeah uh… why are you here?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“T-To me?” You looked over your shoulder to make sure no one was behind you. No one was; you just couldn’t believe what you were hearing.

“Well yeah, who else am I gonna be talking to?”

“I- just you know after I went off on you there… I just didn’t expect you to ya know, come visit. Just caught me by surprise.”

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk about.”

“Oh. Well, we can talk then.”

“Out here? Please,” he scoffed and made his way inside, causing you to press up against the door as he walked past you. In those three seconds, you could smell his natural scent of ash and caramel with a hint of smoky wood. It pleased you.

You automatically shut the door and followed him. He was sitting down on the couch with his hands behind his head, but with his legs bent, no manspreading. His attitude was drastically different from Shouto’s.

“Well,” you started, sitting across from him as you rubbed your sweaty palms on your thighs. “What did you want to talk about?”

“What happened between you guys.”

“Between who?”

“You and Icy-Hot. I saw you hit him and tried prying answers out of him. Better to get it from the other side than from someone whose head is up their fucking ass.”

“Oh,” you whispered and sunk your teeth on your lower lip, looking away. “That’s personal. Whatever happened between me and him, will stay between me and him. Besides, it wasn’t a big deal anyway.”

“Big deal?! You smack his face and say it’s not a big deal? Damn, what kind of shit answers are those?”

“Realistic answers!” you choked out, feeling your voice crack mid speaking. “They are realistic answers.”

“Real huh?” he whispered before leaning forward, clasping his hands in his lap. “Fine. Let’s be real, okay? You guys slept together huh? And he decided he didn’t want you anymore. Is that what happened? That’s the type of guy he is after all.”

Hearing his words made you realize how shitty you’ve been feeling. He was only in your presence for five minutes or less and he already cracked your mid-life crisis. The quiver in your lip was his answer.

“So that’s what happened then,” he whispered.

“And what if it did?! It doesn’t matter, like I said! I was his stepping stool! He didn’t care! I was his doormat and I let him walk over me because I was too gullible to notice before! He’s a fucking heartless asshole!” you cried out, hiccuping as you covered your face from him, shielding the somewhat dignity you had left. Your nose was getting stuffed up by the second as you sniffled, letting out another pained sob, the first of many that day. Each day would end like this, you going into a state of confusion and would cry yourself to sleep. It was a continuous cycle of pain that you wanted to end.

“Everyone thinks of him as this high and mighty person that cares for others, but he doesn’t!” You looked into the hero’s eyes, your own filled with nothing but defeat and pain, the whites of your eyes now turning red from the onslaught of crying. “I hate him! I fucking hate him!” each word had a powerful meaning behind it. “He ruined me! He had me wrapped around his finger and played me like a fiddle!”

Bakugou felt bad for you. You went from someone who told him off hours earlier, to sobbing up a storm and ranting about your feelings. He felt awkward sitting there as you poured out to your heart’s content. His body was tense as he fiddled with the pocket of his black hoodie. Seeing you there hopeless made his heart sting with pain, and he felt like he had to save you, even though he didn’t know you.

To be your hero. The hero you deserve, not Shouto Todoroki.

He contemplated something before standing up and walked over to you. The couch creaked at the new addition of weight that was put on top. “Look,” he started as his mind went blank. What was he going to say? Hey, it's okay, forget him. He's legit shit anyway. How do you comfort someone when their relationship was a total lie?

Your sobs filled his ears as he sighed softly, rubbing his temple in growing annoyance. “First of all stop crying already!”

The sudden change of tone surprised you as you stared at him with innocent wide eyes. “W-What?”

“I said stop fucking crying. It doesn’t look good on you.”

You let out a hiccup as you wiped your eyes with the pad of your fingers. For some reason, Katsuki thought you looked like the most beautiful person on the planet. Here you were, in raw emotion for some idiot who wasn’t worth your time, yet at the same time you decided to show Katsuki and no one else. It filled him with a sense of peace that you trusted him enough, despite barely knowing him.

The ceiling fan shined artificial light upon you, somehow making you look ethereal as your tears glistened. Your lips formed in a pout as your bottom lip kept quivering, no matter how many times you tried to control it. The tips of your ears were red, your cheeks joining in on the rosy color. Your makeup was nowhere perfect anymore. Mascara dribbled down your face as it mixed with your tears, black staining your cheeks.

“Are you done crying yet?”

There was a moment of silence before another whimper left your throat as you shook your head. “N-No!”

Yet again another round of painful sobs wracked through your body. Your head was starting to hurt at the attack to your body. Bakugou inhaled deeply as he wrapped an arm around your shoulder, bringing you closer to his chest. He could feel your shaking form as you threw your arms around him, burying your head into the crook of his neck.

“H-He-”

“Shut up,” he grumbled, his voice rough around the edges, but wasn’t his normal tone. His calloused hand pressed against your back, his fingers slowly running up and down as his thumbs rubbed small circles to calm you down. “He’s a shit person. I get it. But you aren’t going to sit here and cry about him forever, are you?”

The silence was a sign to continue on.

“He played you. He’s an asshole, but I didn’t know he was this big of a dick. Everyone plays him as Mr. Nice Guy or Mr. Hero. I didn’t know he was this bad,” he muttered, bringing a hand to cradle the back of your head, stroking the skin behind your neck in a soothing manner. “Honestly, fuck him. He doesn’t deserve your time and certainly doesn’t deserve your stupid fucking tears. He still thinks you’re going to go back to him. Why don’t you show him who the bigger person is, hah?”

“He thinks I’m going back to him?” you whispered, your words coming out muffled due to hiding your head from him.

“Yeah. He does. His head is so clouded with stupidity that he thinks he’ll always get what he wants.”

“...he is pretty stupid.”

The rumbling in his chest indicated he found it funny, but true. He pushed you away from his chest, placed his hands on your shoulders, and stared into your tear-filled eyes. “So. What are you going to then, Princess?”

You licked your lips and looked down at your lap, staring at the palms of your hands. “I’m going to... Stop crying over him, m-move on and be the bigger person?”

“Are you asking me? Or are you telling me?”

“I-I’m telling you!”

His lips curved upward slightly as he wrapped his arm around you, bringing you to his chest once more. “Guys like him expect everyone to spoon feed him because of his reputation. And everyone says I’m the worst out of the top five,” he grumbled to himself, running his hand up and down your back. “I’ll take care of you. I promise you that.”

☽✧ ✦ ✧☾

A man of his word, Bakugou did as he promised. Since that day he visited you the first time, you stayed in contact. You were wary of course, looking for any red flags that history could possibly repeat itself.

Unlike Shouto, Katsuki couldn’t come around as much. As he told you before, his hero work was the most important since where his agency was stationed, there was a lot of crime. You respected that, of course. It made you feel happy when he would talk to you on the phone about the amount of citizens he saved and how many villains he took down by himself. The kids, they went wild.

When one of the girls took notice of a gauntlet laying around the room, she screamed in happiness saying that Ground Zero was here, or that you bought a knock-off from online. Of course from the screaming, the pro hero ran inside at top speed, looking for any sign of danger.

“Where is it?!”

“It’s Ground Zero!!”

A flock of children surrounded him as they screamed incoherent words of happiness, jumping up and down as if he was their idol; which he was.

“How hot can your explosions get?!”

“Do you burn yourself?!”

“Can you fly?!”

“Do you sneeze and they go off?!”

“Hah?!” he yelled and crossed his arms over his torso, looking away. “What kind of fucking questions are those?!”

“Bakugou!” you snapped, walking into view with a bag of something inside. “We talked about using that language in here!”

“What does ‘fucking’ mean?” a little girl asked, tugging on the material of his pants, looking up at him with child innocent eyes.

His mouth parted but no answer came out. His cream-colored cheeks soon became a soft rosy red as he looked away quickly. “I-”

“I bought mochi!” you said quickly, lifting the bag up and shaking it slightly to grab their attention. At the mention of treats, they all scrambled away from him and stood in front of you with happy grins and eyes.

“Get in a line. Bakugou, come help me please.”

The ash-blond groaned but walked to you anyway, taking the small bowl from you that held the dough filled with sweet ice cream. He eyes them warily before crouching down to their level and stuck the bowl out for their awaiting grabbing hands.

“Only one,” he said to a little boy who laughed joyously and placed it back before running to his friend, comparing the flavors they had.

“And one for me,” you teased, taking one from him. Bakugou clicked his tongue in annoyance and placed the bowl back on the small table. “I don’t know how you can eat those. They seem too sweet. Spicy is where it’s at.”

“Well I’m not going to burn a bunch of six-year-olds’ tongues either, Bakugou!” you huffed and took a bite out of the dough, the taste of the sweet ice cream filled your tastebuds. “Come on try some!” you lifted the sweet to his mouth, urging him to bite it.

“Hah?! That’s bad for you!”

“Come on, Katsuki. Are you afraid of a little sweet? Never took you for the scared type.” You grinned. His heart fluttered at the sound of his name leaving your lips. He growled and snatched the green treat from you.

“‘M’not scared!” he yelled and eyed the delicious treat before taking a bite out of it. His eyes widened slightly from their original state and chewed slowly. He looked away from you and swallowed. “Not bad, still tastes like shit.”

A happy smile graced your features at his change of heart over something as small as this. “So will you eat the rest of it with me?”

“I guess. Only if you wipe that stupid dopey smile off your face.”

A cry of pain distracted you from your reverie as you turned quickly to find the source of pain.

A group of kids was surrounding one young girl who had a hand covering her eye.

“Himarie, sweetie what happened?” You asked the small girl, kneeling beside her as your hand hesitantly reached for hers that shielded her eye.

“Fire!”

“Fire? Honey let me see.”

“I’ll hurt you!”

“No you won’t. Come on, let me see.” you encouraged her softly, wrapping your hand around her smaller wrist and lowered it slowly.

Fire shot out from her eye as soon as her hand was lowered. She cried in pain and covered it again, whimpering softly.

The rug caught on fire as you shrieked, moving the kids out of the way. “K-Katsuki!”

“Got it,” the male voiced out, immediately putting out the fire with the fire extinguisher, his tongue peeking out in concentration. He let out a huff and lowered the hose. “Looks like someone got their quirk. That’s a nice one if I do say so myself.” He put the red canister down and walked over to where you and Himarie stood.

“Is she going to be okay Miss Y/N?!”

“Yes, she’s going to be okay. She’s a strong girl, aren’t you honey?” you whispered softly and stroked her brown hair.

“Let me see,” Bakugou whispered, nudging you away from her gently. “Look at me.”

She shook her head, afraid of hurting him as well. “I’ll burn you!”

“I burn myself on a daily basis, Himarie. I’m used to it. Now let me see.”

The brunette shakily lowered her head, her bottom lip quivering in fear.

Bakugou analyzed her before bringing a hand to her face, rubbing her cheek softly with his thumb. “You’re scared huh? I remember when I first got my quirk. I was scared. I thought I would blow myself up at one point. But there’s nothing to be afraid of. You’ll learn how to control it soon,” he said to her, his voice soft yet rough at the same time. Each word seemed to roll off his tongue with ease, as if he was made for moments like this. His larger hand patted her head gently.

Himarie continued to stare at him with uncertainty before launching herself onto him, her small arms encircling his neck. “T-Thank you Ground Zero!”

He tensed up before hesitantly wrapping an arm around her, patting her back with a gentle touch. “Of course. That’s what we’re here for anyway, to make sure kids like you are out of harm’s way. Just don’t do anything stupid with that, got it?”

You watched a few steps away, your heart softening at the moment in front of you. In all of his fame, his unruly behavior was something that everyone saw. This moment was intoxicating to you. You wanted to see more of him like this. If only the public knew this was how Bakugou Katsuki was, everyone would be throwing themselves at him. The only difference between him and Shouto, was that Bakugou cares. He did it to save those in need, to be a protector, not for the fame and the money.

His vermillion orbs met yours as the corner of his lips curled into a smirk, sending a small wink your way. A wave of heat flooded your cheeks as you gave him a small wave in return. The light’s reflection illuminated his eyes, the different colors of his irises shining. It was amazing to see him here. You only wished for one thing: that he was here before Shouto Todoroki.

☽✧ ✦ ✧☾

As time went by, the hot atmosphere turned chilly, and the trees turned to orange and red. Fall approached faster than anything. Months upon months passed by without a second thought.

The cold air of the autumn wind descends upon you, each needle of the breeze poking through any open outlet through your clothes. You buried your nose in your burgundy scarf, begging for any type of warmth to relieve your shaking body. The vibrant assortments of oranges and red were pleasing to the eye, but getting harder to appreciate as each second passed by.

Your hands were stuffed in the pocket of your jackets as you kept your head down to shield your eyes from any upcoming harsh wind. The annual fall festival arrived and that was something you wanted to see, with a special someone of course.

“Are you that fucking cold?”

You peered up through your lashes, glancing at the blond who walked beside you with ease. He seemed to be content with just his jacket and scarf. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, his fingers curling and uncurling from the inside.

“Y-y-yes I’m cold!” you spoke through your chattering teeth, bringing your hands up and placing them underneath your armpits, relishing in the warmth from your jacket. Your eyes trained over the different stands full of crafts, food, and beverages.

“That’s too bad.” you could hear the smugness in his tone as you continued to walk the brick pathway through the festival. “Your teeth look like they could fall out any minute now due to your stupid chattering.”

“Well not everyone is a walking heater, Katsuki,” you chirped, your voice muffled by the fabric of your scarf warming your neck. “If I was, I’d be looking like you.”

“Like me?! What’s that supposed to mean, hah?!”

“Meaning I could wear a jacket and a skirt and not worry about the cold! I said what I said!”

Bakugou growled and tugged you closer by your elbow, no ill intent in his hold. His hand reached under your elbow, his fingers digging into your skin. It was a simple yet meaningful gesture.

A small smile graces your features as your eyes watch the leaves fall from their respected trees, trails of orange and red filling your vision. The sky was a pink layout with splotches of blue and orange that complimented each other. The clouds floating through the sky effortlessly, the sun saying its slow goodbye before sleeping for the night until the next morning.

“I wish they had more festivals like this.”

“Well if they did, stupid villains would be surrounding this shit place anyway.”

You rolled your eyes in annoyance, leaning your head on his bicep as your fingers curled around his arm. “Uh-huh, sure. Way to be optimistic about it.”

“Just being realistic. Something you should be.”

“Hey!” you pouted, feigning hurt. “I can be realistic!”

Bakugou gave you a side glance before shaking his head. “Don’t fool both of us dumbass.”

You whined and stood on your tiptoes, placing a quick kiss to his cold cheek. “The only one I can fool is you after all.”

A pleased hum left his throat as he laced your fingers together, the warmth radiating from his palm automatically making you fuzzy inside.

Ever since Shouto left, you felt confused, lost and most importantly, empty. The void in your heart felt that it would never be filled again. Shouto left and took your happiness with him, deciding to leave you a wreck for this own personal pleasure. He was everywhere you looked, paper news, broadcasting, twitter. It was like you couldn’t escape him. Each time you saw a photo of him, he always had the same expression. A smug smirk would grace his features, it was taunting you and you knew it.

When Bakugou entered your life, it made you realize that you didn’t have to worry about someone like Shouto ruining you again. Bakugou slowly filled the void in your heart, and you were beyond thankful. At first, you didn’t trust him at all. He was in fact in the top five heroes, and was known as the mean one in the public eye. You couldn’t tell if his actions were genuine or just for show to lure you in like a predator.

“Hey.”

“Huh?” You shook your head, kicking you out of your daze as you looked up at the male.

“Y-yeah?”

“Why do you look like that?” he asked, but more in a demanding tone.

“This is my face?”

“No, you idiot. You look lost. What’s wrong?”

“Just thinking about before is all, ya know, Shouto,” you muttered the last part, your head lowering in shame.

“Well stop thinking of that icy-hot bastard. I hate the way you get over some stupid guy like him,” he growled, his finger curling under your chin to make you look up at him. “Cause Princess, he’s an idiot for letting someone as beautiful as you go.”

He leaned closer, pressing his lips against yours tenderly. Your hand reached up and cradled his cheek, rubbing the swell with your thumb gently. His arm wrapped around your waist tightens, bringing you closer to his chest. In your moment of love, unbeknownst to you, the sound of a camera went off.

☽✧ ✦ ✧☾

He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His grey and cerulean orbs filled with anger, staring down at the photo that was displayed on his phone, a new headline for the news.

Ground Zero getting comfy at the Autumn Festival!

Shouto’s fingers curled around his phone, his hand unintentionally getting colder by the minute. He was seething in anger. His shoulders moved with his erratic breathing as he threw his phone across his desk, ignoring the noise of his device hitting the ground.

A small flame emitted from his hand. He abruptly stood up, gripping the edge of his desk with a vice-like grip, his fingers slowly turning white from the pressure. His fingernails dug into the hardwood, ignoring the pain shooting through his arms. He sunk his teeth into his lower lip as his hands let go of the edges before reaching under and threw his arms up, flipping the wooden desk over in anger.

The furniture broke on impact as he groaned out in annoyance. Not only were things not going his way, but he also needed to buy a new desk.

“Just who in the hell does he think he is?” he whispered angrily, running his hand through his hair as he paced back and forth in his office, his footsteps hard against the rug. “Just walking in her life and thinking he can do that? He’s far from right.”

Shouto was no idiot. He was intelligent and knew what happened on the sidelines. Bakugou stayed with you to help out with the daycare. He did the same exact thing as Shouto did, and oh did it piss him off more than anything. In Shouto’s eyes, you were going to come back to him. You might just be acting up, but you’ll return to him.

He quickly glanced at the clock on the wall. It read 4:46 PM. From what he remembered, the daycare should be closing at 5 PM. If he left now, he could probably stop you before you headed home.

The chiming of his phone knocked him from his cloud of thoughts as he walked over to the shattered screen, the light illuminating on his face.

Midoriya

“Fuck,” he groaned and reached above his head, his joints cracking with the movement. His finger tapped the green circle as he brought his phone to his ear, sighing softly. “Hello?”

“Hi Todoroki! I just wanted to make sure you knew about tomorrow still!”

“...what’s tomorrow?”

“You forgot already? Figures if you’re so busy! It’s the meet and greet we have with Kacchan tomorrow!”

He choked on his spit as he coughed into his hand in shock. “T-that’s tomorrow?!”

“Yeah! Your PR team didn’t tell you?”

“Uh...” he trailed off, glancing at the mess of his room. Pens and papers were scattered all over the place. “I’m sure they did. Whatever, what time was it at?”

“11 AM!”

“Do I have to go?”

“Of course you have to Todoroki-kun! You’re number one! And number one has to be there, remember?!”

Number one.

Hearing those words made butterflies flutter in his stomach as his head filled with conceited thoughts. He smirked faintly as he hung his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah. You’re right. I am number one, and I always get what I want.”

“What was that? You cut out at the end.”

“Huh? Nothing, don’t worry about it. I’ll see you in the morning with...him.”

“Oh speaking about Kacchan, did you see the photos? Turns out he was with that girl you were seeing before you broke up!”

He growled into the microphone, his noise being caught by Midoriya’s ears. “I saw. They look terrible together.”

“You think so? I think they look cute together! I’m glad he found someone.”

“Yeah well I’m not,” he snapped and began to pace around the room. “I know she’s playing hard to get. She came to visit me again even after saying to fuck off. That obviously means something. I mean, why wouldn’t she want me? I’m rich, successful and the highest out of everyone. Why would she settle for him?” he spat, his voice dripping with malice and hatred for the blond.

“Uh, Todoroki? Do you hear how you’re sounding right now?”

“Course I do.”

“Then don’t you think you’re being a bit too...over the top?”

“I’m not. I sound perfectly fine. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have business to take care of.”

“Ahh okay! See you tomorrow Todoroki-kun!”

Without saying goodbye, Shouto hit the red circle and turned his phone off, shoving it into his front pocket. “I guess some things I have to keep working for,” he whispered and walked past the mess he made prior to the phone call, to the door. His hand wrapped around the knob and twisted it, pulling it to open the door.

“I’m Shouto. I’ll win her back. She’ll realize I’m the one for her, and he’s complete utter shit. I’ll get her back. I’m the best after all.”

An amusing chuckled rumbled through his chest as he made his way down the corridor, on his way to take back what was his first.

☽✧ ✦ ✧☾

Shouto Todoroki would have never thought about this situation in a million years. Yet again, here he was. Arriving at the daycare with a frown upon his face, he exited the vehicle with a gentle push of the driver’s door, the car not moving from the gentle force. He took one glance at the daycare and sighed softly. “It’ll be easy,” he whispered to himself, letting one foot lead in front of the other. As he walked to the entrance, he took notice of the new and improved details. The once peeling paint was newly refurbished, each drawing looking amazing as ever. The hedges surrounded the center like a barrier, protecting them from him. The flowers he ordered were no longer there, which he assumed they died over time or you tossed them out, Instead, they were replaced with lilies and roses, each color displaying just for him. The color orange only reminded him of Katsuki Bakugou, a newfound hatred for him. Each flower moved with the wind as they greeted him.

He walked to the front door with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Upon reaching it, he slowly lifted a hand that seemed to weigh more than anything in the world. He let out a shaky sigh and let his knuckles hit the door twice. Shouto brought his hand to his mouth and wiped it, his lips dry from nervousness.

He felt as if years passed by as he stood there, waiting for you or someone to answer. He hoped it was only you, but by the looks of it, another car was parked beside yours, and it definitely wasn’t one of the employees.

The sweet melody of laughter filled his ears as he stared at the knob moving to open the door. The hinges squeaked and it was pulled open, Shouto keeping his eyes trained forward.

You opened the door with a laugh, Bakugou bringing up an old memory from his high school years.

Your smile faltered as it was automatically wiped with your face, a scowl replacing it instead. “What do you want?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“I don’t,” you snapped and went to close the door in his face but he stuck his foot out last second, the only thing keeping you from shutting him out forever.

“Please. I just want to talk.”

You said nothing in return, slowly opening the door again. You stood in front of the frame, your arms crossed over your torso. “Outside.”

“Princess? Who is at the door?”

Shouto’s ears perked at the sound of Bakugou’s voice as he tried looking over your shoulder before you moved in front of his line of sight. “No one Katsuki! Give me five!” you yelled back, pressing a hand against Shouto’s chest and you pushed him slightly, shutting the door behind you.

“Princess? He’s here too? So you’re fucking him now?”

“And what if I am? What’s it matter to you, Todoroki? Why do you care now? We aren’t together. You made that quite clear a year ago.”

“I know but, him? Out of all people you went for him?”

“Yeah, I did. Is that a problem for you? Oh wait, I guess it is if we are even having this conversation. Plus I thought you wanted to talk. Not pick on the things you think are wrong with my life.”

Shouto’s hands twitched by his side, itching to feel your body against his once more. “I-“

“Or is the problem is that you can’t even hold a real conversation without making it about you, huh?”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh, it’s not?” You tilted your head to the side. “Prove it then, right now. What the hell is so important that you have to bug me?” you demanded. You hated how he could just waltz up in here and act like nothing happened. One of the many things you hated about him.

“I’m sorry.”

You choked on air as you stared at him, shocked. “You— you’re what?”

“I said I’m sorry.”

“Y-You’re sorry?”

He nodded quietly, a look of sadness in his eyes. You didn’t believe him one bit. You couldn’t. If he was actually sorry, why did he wait so long? Did he expect you to make the first move?

“If you are, why did you wait so long?” you whispered softly, the ground becoming your main interest as you kicked at it gently with the tip of your shoe. “Why a year? Why not when I saw you again?”

“...I don’t know. I thought you would have come back to me after what I said. I didn’t think it would get this out of hand. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything I said back then.”

“I don’t believe you Shouto. I’m sorry but I can’t. You caused me so much fucking pain that I—“ you cut yourself off, letting out a shaky breath. “— I couldn’t even trust him. It took me so long to finally trust Katsuki because of you. You ripped my heart and took it with you until you didn’t need me anymore for your selfish desires. You don’t care for me Shouto, you never have.”

“Y/N,” he whispered and took a step forward, halting when he saw you take a step away from him. “Please. I still love you.”

“No you don’t!” you yelled suddenly, clenching your fists as you looked into his eyes. Your vision became glossy with tears, the glistening substance trailing down your face. “You don’t! Stop lying to me! When will you stop lying to people Shouto?! Don’t you see?! We have feelings! We get hurt!” you cried out, pointing a finger in his way. “We aren’t for your personal pleasures!! You used me! You threw me out! And now that I’m finally happy, you want me back?!”

Your bottom lip quivered in pain as you let out a choked sob, bringing a hand to shield it from him. “You aren’t the only human on this planet! Stop pretending that you are! You can’t even see the real message in front of you, can you?!”

Shouto stood there in shock. His mind was moving a thousand miles per hour but nothing left his lips. His body refused to move any closer to your, afraid of a future he didn’t want. He loves you. After all this time, he’s in love with you. He misses your small kisses, your beautiful laugh, your smile that was only for him. He misses seeing you beside him in the awakening morning, your messy hair or tired displays of love. Yet in his own foolishness, he lost you.

“I always thought I might be bad, now I’m sure that it’s true,” he started off with a whisper, letting his body move on its own. “Cause I think you’re so good, and I’m nothing like you, Y/N.”

“Stop coming towards me.”

He didn’t listen, only advancing forward to you. You sunk your teeth into your lower lip as you placed a hand behind you, feeling the door that was behind you. He bent one leg slightly, looming over you. You lifted a hand up, bringing it down to slap him but he caught it last second, holding both of your wrists in his hand.

“Look at you go, I just adore you,” he whispered softly, his voice sending chills through your body. His own orbs glossed with tears, sniffling as he rested his forehead against yours. His eyes squeezed shut as his tears cascaded down his face, the substance hitting against your hands.

“I wish that I knew what makes you think I’m so special,” you whispered meekly, your voice cracking with each word that left your mouth. The wavering in your vocal cords made you upset with yourself. His fingers tighten around your smaller hands, bringing them to his chest. You could feel the steady beat of his heart.

“I learned how to love like you… and in my own stupidity, I ruined it. Please, all I ask is for one more chance. I’m better than him, ” he opened his eyes, his heterochromia ones staring into your own. His tears flowed effortlessly.

Here was the man that once said he didn’t need anyone at the top. That he was the one looking over everyone with no one by his side, that no one was worthy of him. The one who couldn’t believe in trust. The one who was the best at everything. The one who got what he always wanted. Here was the man that you fell head over heels for, but got your heart crushed in the process. Leaving you for the dust, you were left. Until someone else came in, slowly picking up the pieces of your broken heart and piecing them back together until you were ready to hand your heart off to him.

You squirmed in Shouto’s grip until your hands broke free from his grip. “Get off!!” you yelled, pushing him off of you with full force, watching him stumble back and fall on his ass, landing on the soft grass.

“What part don’t you get anymore?! I said I never wanted to see you again and you want to talk and pull that crap?!”

“That’s not—“

“That’s not what?!” you yelled, your tears of sadness turning into fresh hot tears of anger. “You think you can come walking in here and say ‘Hey I’m super sorry I didn’t mean it! Can we get back together again?!’ Did you honestly think that would work, Shouto?! I don’t love you anymore!! I don’t want you anymore!!”

“Hey, what’s going on?!”

You swiveled around quickly, a sense of relief filing your body at the entrance of an ash blond. Bakugou walked up to you and noticed Shouto on the floor, his fingers digging into the earth. “What the hell is happening?”

“Katsuki,” you whispered and threw yourself at him, burying your head into his chest as your arms encircled his torso. His arms immediately wrapped around your body, bringing you closer into his protection.

“Why are you here, Icy-Hot?!”

Shouto got up quickly, wiping the dirt from his backside. “I came to talk to Y/N.”

“I don’t want to talk to you anymore!” you yelled, turning around slightly to face him. Your fingers dug into Bakugou’s side, not hard enough to cause any pain. “I want you gone!!”

“I’m not done talking with you yet!”

“She said she doesn’t want you here. Now leave!! I know you’re a fucking asshole but I didn’t know you can’t listen!!” Bakugou yelled, his face slowly turning into a rosy red as his anger levels rose. His grip on your body tightens, his knuckles turning white.

You cracked Bakugou’s jaw in your face, forcing him to look down at you. Yet, he couldn’t look at you, keeping his eyes trained on the hero in front of him. “Katsuki,” you whispered, gently patting his cheek. “Please look at me.”

The ash-blond reluctantly looked down at you, his nostrils flaring in anger. “I love you,” you said softly, your hand reaching up and brushing some hair out of his face.

His face softens at your words, feeling his anger slowly fade away. “I love you too.”

You nodded and pulled away from him, inhaling deeply as you walked up to Shouto, your head held high. He stared down at you with nothing but eyes full of defeat and sorrow. A small smile of sadness curved at your lips as you cupped his cheek. He closed his eyes as he leaned into your touch, begging for more of it.

“Shouto,” you whispered softly, keeping the gap between both of you evident for Katsuki’s observing eyes. “I don’t want to be with you anymore. I’m happy. Can’t you see?” you asked, pulling away from him. “I love Katsuki with all my heart. I want to be with him. What you and I had, that’s long gone. You decided that you didn’t need that, you didn’t bother to care for someone other than yourself. You chose this route, I didn’t. I loved and cared for you. I truly did.”

You took a step back and looked into his awaiting eyes, his heart waiting for the words he longed for, but knew he wasn’t getting them anytime soon. “You chose fame and money over me, I can’t get upset by your decision. All I ask, is that you leave the both of us alone. Please.”

“Y/N, please. I’m sorry for what I did. Please just-”

You shook your head and lifted your hand in the air, cutting him off. “I’m tired of hearing you now. Please, leave already. You’re making it worse by being here. So do us a favor before he comes in and does something he won’t forget.”

Shouto’s heart of stone fell to the base of his body, cracking upon contact and shattering into millions of pieces. This time it was unfixable. The last time he felt this hurt was when he was a mere child, seeing the abuse his mother was put through by his father. He felt lost and alone like no one was by his side. Here was the woman he loved. He thought he had a future with you. But let’s be realistic, after the show he put on a year ago, that dream was long gone. He chose this path, with many regrets. What was he even thinking? He let his pride win over his own humanity. And now he has to pay the price for it.

Without another word to you or Bakugou, he swiveled on his heel and rushed to his car, his hand fishing in his pocket for his keys. He opened the door as quick as he could and got inside, jabbing the keys to start it up. It wasn’t worth it if he couldn’t get back with you.

You stood under the tree, the sun making its way to take its rest for the day. The gentle rays of orange seep through the leaves, hitting your supple skin that gave you a glow. A small smile of satisfaction graced your features as you closed your eyes, allowing yourself to bathe in the tranquility of this moment.

You wrapped your arms around your body as you hummed softly, your eyes stinging and tired from your previous crying.

Arms from behind wrapped around you, bringing you to rest against his chest. Bakugou leaned over slightly, burying his head in the crook of your neck. “What are you thinking about, pretty girl?”

“Mmm, you as always.”

“That’s funny,” he mumbled, nipping the tender skin of your neck before placing a kiss in its place. “What were you really thinking about?”

“You!” You laughed softly, resting your head on top of his. “Am I not allowed to think about my amazing boyfriend?”

A pinch to your side made you squeak in surprise as you tried pulling away from him, but his strong arms kept you in place. “I didn’t say that dumbass,” his gruff voice whispered in your ear as he suddenly lifted you up, holding you in a bridal style carry. Your arms immediately wrapped around his neck.

“What’s with the over the top affection now?” you teased, kissing his cheek gently, lingering your lips on the warm skin.

“Damn you always have to question everything I do, don’t you?” he huffed in annoyance as he walked back inside, kicking the door of the daycare center shut. “Can’t just take my answer as it is.”

“Oh but you know I love messing with you, Suki!”

He grumbled at the pet name you’ve given him over the course of your relationship. No matter how many times he said he hated it, deep down he loved hearing it come from you and only you. If anyone found out about it, he wouldn’t be afraid to blast them to hell.

“Katsuki?”

“What?”

“What do you think about that whole ordeal?”

“Well it was fucking stupid,” he started off, placing you down on the couch beside him as he threw an arm around your shoulder, bringing you to rest your head on his shoulder. “He had no business coming back again, even after you told him you wanted nothing to do with him. He should have known better than to mess with you. Fucking bastard doesn’t know when to stop,” he growled, his hand rubbing up and down your arm.

“Well I don’t think he’ll be bothering me anytime soon,” you looked up at him, smiling. “Especially now. After all, I got a little guard dog.”

“Guard dog?! Is that what you think of me as?!”

“Maybe,” you trailed the last syllable out, grinning before going serious. “But overall… I’m glad I met you. As you know, I was in a dark place before we started dating and, I just want to truly thank you for coming into my life, Katsuki.”

His vermillion eyes trained on your expressions before kissing your forehead. “Dumbass, you don’t have to thank me. After all, that idiot needs a good punch to the face. And I might be the one to do it.”

You rolled your eyes and nestled your head into his chest, breathing in his caramel scent. Before meeting Bakugou Katsuki, you thought you could never trust or find someone that truly loved you and was not using you for their personal gain. You were a broken piece of art and he was the sculptor. Over time he mended the pieces of your shattered heart and formed it into something better than before. Bakugou Katsuki was not only your lover, he was your best friend, your shoulder to cry on.

But most importantly, he was your hero.

#bnhabookclub #shouto todoroki #shouto todoroki x reader #katsuki bakugou #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugou x reader #todoroki x reader #mha x reader #bnha x reader #x reader #fic #my fic #bingo event

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captainsimagines · 3 years

Text

To Topple A Giant || Chapter Eight

Summary: You had made it your mission to destroy even the smallest evils. When the opportunity arises to finally take down your own family after years of gaining their trust, you reach for it. And so does Steve, the man who represents a symbol of everything you hate.

Pairing(s): Steve Rogers x Reader || Avengers x Reader

Part 8 of 10 ~ Mini-Series

Warnings: This story contains mature themes and discussions such as extreme canon violence, strong language, emotional angst, mentions of Endgame deaths and recoveries, sexual situations, and emotional/physical abuse. This is purely fanfiction.

Warnings in this Chapter: abusive parental relationship; extreme canon violence (gun violence, hand-to-hand, baton use, knives); strong language; mentions of drug smuggling, drugs, and human smuggling; mentions of blood and blood loss; major/minor character death (not the mains, don’t worry!); angst; gunshot wounds; heavy alcohol consumption

Word Count: 14,600+

A/N: Listen... you know damn well I had to put some American Pie lyrics in this. The reader’s and Jackeline’s relationship is not modeled after Nat and Yelena lol it was literally the biggest coincidence.

MedBay - The New Compound, 2024, 1:52 pm

“He did what?”

Bruce smiles sheepishly as he lugs Steve’s practically lifeless body onto one of those beige medical beds. Dr. Cho is pacing calmly around the room, getting her instruments cleaned and ready. She tries to ignore the way you’re crowding her, inspecting everything she touches and in turn is going to end up touching Steve.

“He took a bullet for someone.”

“And where is that someone?” you bite. You immediately want to apologize to Bruce for your tone but you’re distracted by the tiny groans of pain coming from the pale super soldier beside you. You have to look away to avoid whimpering yourself, but you can’t exactly make yourself deaf. “Don’t tell me he took a bullet for you.”

Bruce rolls his eyes and steps to the side as Dr. Cho begins cutting away Steve’s pants. “Everyone else is on vacation. He has no one here to take a bullet for besides. It was a shitty liquor store robbery and Steve was, of course, being a hero.”

“Where’s he hit?” you ask, heading over to grab a pair of gloves yourself. No one questions it.

“Femoral artery. Seems like he was plugging his own wound until he could get help.”

Dr. Cho is right. There’s a massive gash in his thigh that’s leaking excessively and the skin surrounding the wound is raised like Steve’s own fingers had plunged so deeply it left an imprint. Not only that, but his hand is covered in his blood. So is Bruce’s, you realize, because he had tried to plug the artery as well.

“How is he not dead yet?” Dr. Cho more mutters to herself than to you guys. Steve’s head is lolling to the side and his lips are an awful shade of white. His eyes are fluttering open and closed… open… closed… and he’s still mumbling random phrases. There’s a rough tug at the bottom of your stomach that pulls and pulls and there’s a weird urge to crawl onto the table to keep Steve warm.

“He needs blood,” you say, even though all parties in the room know that as fact.

Bruce, however, winces. “Sam’s not even in the state right now and I don’t think we have enough time to fly him-”

“Is he Sam’s blood type? What’s his blood type? Why can’t Bucky do it? Bucky’s in Brooklyn, he can be here in five minutes if he runs.”

Bruce starts rummaging through the upper level shelves and freezer cabinets. “Can’t mix the serums. We’ve tried.” He finally finds the blood bags, pulling them all out and spreading them across the clean tables. “It’s - shit - do we not have?”

Dr. Cho is now covered in blood, working as fast as she can to close the wound. “What’s his blood type?”

Bruce repeats it out loud and watches as Dr. Cho’s face falls. “I ran out yesterday. The blood drive isn’t until this weekend. I had a patient come in yesterday, I - I ran out yesterday.”

They seem to be having their own conversation with their eyes and are too focused on each other to see you already stripping your long-sleeve shirt and wrapping that horrible blue rubber band around your upper arm. “Me. Take mine.”

Bruce immediately shakes his head, stuttering as he tries to remove the rubber band. “Nu-uh, I don’t know if you know this but you’re human. I need two bags, three tops. I can’t just take it all from you right now!”

“Then get me some cookies and a juice box. I don’t care how much you have to take to make him speak a coherent sentence. Do me.”

Bruce hesitates but he rushes to the cabinets for the needles, vials, tubes, whatever - “No, do it direct.”

Your words startle the two doctors but they don’t question it. They hook you up and poke the needle in the first vein they find, attaching the tube instead of a single vial and direct it to Steve.

“You sure your blood matches?”

You give Bruce a pointed look as if that isn’t something written on your dog tags or on your weekly personal reports.

In the end, you’re told that you gave him the equivalent of two pints of blood. Not that you were awake for the second anyway but you vaguely remember Steve’s voice ringing in your ears. You’re not awake as he regains consciousness or to witness his very confused glare at seeing you in the bed next to him.

He swears he heard small mumblings… ‘If you die because of some highway robbery, Rogers --- I’m never gonna fucking stop bullying your grave --- haunt it’.... ‘Stay --- with me, please’.... ‘---supposed to apologize first’....

He tests the waters, mumbling a name he only says with annoyance nowadays. But now, it’s gently said. Soft, a whisper that sounds like a fractured hymn.

Present Day, 2025, 12:05 pm

There isn’t a set emotion in the world that seems appropriate. What are people supposed to feel when they’re singled out and chosen to suffer a life of pain? Self-hate? Pity for themselves? Anger? Sadness? Remorse? Nothing?

You really don’t know what you’re feeling. In the middle of rubbing vaseline on your newly acquired cuts and scrapes and bandaging yourself up, biting on a belt as Bucky set your shoulder back in place, and lying with Steve discussing everything and nothing all night after your promise - well, what the hell are you supposed to feel? As inevitable as it was considering he had ordered you shot before, the one feeling you know you feel is betrayed. Because even though Ernesto has proven himself evil time and time again, to his own flesh and blood, there was still a small part in your heart that didn’t think any parent truly wanted to inflict pain on their children. And your heart keeps proving itself wrong again and again.

“You just... jumped out of the car?”

Ramirez’s voice snaps you from your inner thoughts. He was let out of custody this morning. He’s currently filling in anyone who asks about the shipment, about Ernesto’s future plans, about the role he thought he had.

“Against my better judgment, but yeah.”

He chuckles and grins like he’s a kid hearing the best story ever told. “That’s what superheroes do. At least, what I’ve seen in the movies. John Wick, Bond, esos tipos.”

“I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, Omar,” there’s a teasing tone, “but I’m a fucking Avenger.”

That makes him laugh louder and in turn pulls one from you. “Ya se, ya se. I’ve known you since you were born. It’s weird hearing stories about you saving the world and jumping from bombed cars.”

“Mm, wait until you hear about that time I went into space and landed on another planet. Or time traveled. Take your pick.”

He’s stunned into silence and after a few more praises, he lets you return to typing out your report. There are plenty of other agents around for him to busy himself with. The base is tiny and not at all what you expected, but it’s secure enough to fit Torres, Sam, Bucky, and about fifteen other agents as they prepare for tonight. The plan you and Steve outlined was simple: attend the wedding, butter everyone up, send Steve away to help Ernesto retrieve and move the shipment, Scott and Sam will infiltrate, Bucky would be on standby to help you fight, and the rest of the team at base will begin arrests and sweeps. If everything goes according to plan, at least.

It’s easy to speak negatively about these things - there really were only two ways this could go.

You finish your report and go to stand, only realizing a minute later walking through the base that Ramirez is following you. You send him a funny look over your shoulder and he returns with a small smile of his own.

“Tengo preguntas!”

You stop and let him catch up. “Hmm?”

“Okay,” he starts, motioning his hands wordlessly until he could form them. “Are you and the Captain actually... juntos? Or just Avenger partners?”

“That’s personal, Omar,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “But I guess? That’s weird discussing with you.”

He nods in agreement. “It’s okay, I was just curious. So, him being mad was just an act? He doesn’t really hurt and threaten you, no?” He’s treading lightly, but you can already see the cartel mind turning. He would order Steve’s execution if he had to, even if he believed it to be morally wrong in some situations.

“Never. It was just an act for Ernesto.”

“Ah, Dios. Thank goodness.”

“Yeah, keep your men in line. It’s fine.”

He chuckles at that. “And the other Avengers?”

“They’re my family, Omar,” you grin wide, waking slower for the old man to keep up. “They would never hurt me.”

“That’s good, but not what I was asking.”

“Oh?”

“What are they like?”

Handing your report to one of the agents at a handful of monitors, you laugh loudly. “Do you want to meet them officially?”

“Aye, I know my daughters would like that...”

You raise an eyebrow.

“But I would like to meet them, too.”

“That’s what I thought. C’mon.”

The rest of the team are all relaxing and discussing the past days events in the lounge area, which is really just a glorified break room. Bucky’s still in his morning sweats same as Scott, Torres is already suited up, and both Sam and Steve are wearing their Avenger gear (minus Sam’s wings and Steve’s battered shield). Steve is the first one to notice you enter and he instantly gets up from his chair to greet you with a kiss on the cheek.

“Gross,” Bucky mumbles.

“You’ve been trying to get me a girl for over ninety years, Buck. And now that I’ve finally got someone who likes me back, you bully me for it?”

“Who’s bullin’? I said the same thing when Agent Carter smooched you in the weapon’s room and you thought you were alone.”

You pat Steve’s shoulder. “Think about it, Rogers. When Bucky settles down with someone, you have free reign.”

Steve pulls a thin smile and glances back at Bucky. “I’ll make them hate you.”

“Love and hate are the same thing, pal. It worked out for you two.”

“Okay, we’re done. Everyone, Omar wanted to formally introduce himself.”

Ramirez gives a shy wave. Torres returns it. It’s kind of hilarious to witness. Here you all are, Avengers and some standing over six feet with one of the most wanted drug lords in the world, and the all mighty drug lord is shy.

“I’m so sorry we got off on the wrong foot.” You notice how when Ramirez speaks to strangers or those he deems good people on his side, his accent is a little thicker. It’s like he wants to speak only in Spanish other than the Spanglish you were all accustomed to. “But it really is an honor to meet you all.”

Scott is the first to stand and shake his hand. “Sorry I pointed my gun at you, man. Habit.”

Ramirez chuckles, “Sorry I broke into your room.”

Steve interjects, “Thank you, though. For telling us what more we’re fighting for.”

Ramirez nods, a solemn look spreading over his face. “The minute I found out, I didn’t know who to tell. I’m lucky you were never truly on his side.”

“And what will you do after all this is over?” Bucky stands. “How do we know we can truly trust you?”

Ramirez sneaks a glance at you and you raise your hands. “Hey, I’ve got the same questions as him.”

Ramirez must know he isn’t getting out of this one because he answers quickly. “Drugs have a market where people choose. I just meet supply and demand protocols. I don’t do the unnecessary violence or blackmail. There is no need to. People will always want drugs.”

There’s a round of agreement throughout the small room. Ramirez continues, “But smuggling humans? There is no choice, nothing moral about it, it’s evil.”

“But people get addicted to drugs. They die from them everyday,” Sam argues.

“I produce and deal what you American’s call weed. Ernesto does the big stuff, as does White. I’m,” he laughs a little. “I’m their weed guy.”

“That is true,” you confirm. You’ve moved and packaged Ramirez’s product before. “Literally just weed.”

Everyone seems deep in thought, like their processing Ramirez’s words and the weight behind them. Ramirez ran with the big boys and was the biggest distributor of marijuana in Mexico and America alike, but he never messed with any other product. Besides producing, selling, and smuggling illegal weed, his only other crimes included conspiring with Ernesto on how to get the product over state lines.

“Okay,” Steve starts. “So how is tonight gonna work? We have to discuss that.”

Ramirez bows his head. “You’ve allowed me safety, you’ve listened to me speak, and you’re saving both my life and my daughter’s. If you must arrest me, then you arrest me.”

“The minute you’re transferred to a prison with less security, Ernesto’s men will get you,” you reason, already shaking your head no.

Ramirez gives a nonchalant shrug, “But you’ll get him and White. That’s all that matters.”

You look over to Steve for some other ideas, but like you he doesn’t have any. No one seems to have any.

Torres matches his shrug and his voice is small as he speaks, almost like his next idea is insane. “We can always put him in the Raft.”

Everyone’s eyes go wide.

“That’s where all the enhanced humans go, no?” Ramirez is stunned. “Do I count?”

“We’ve got no idea,” Steve rubs at his chin, looking at you for confirmation he knows you don’t have. “But it’s an idea.”

The plan is no longer singular. Fury had sent his best field agents for the job, the ones with the best aim, the ones with great strategic planning. Although you and Steve were still in charge, it was no longer just your mission. Your mission was to arrest the big three, big four when including Seda. That was it.

The plan goes like this: half the team will be focused on the venue itself, hidden in the shadows and monitoring the big three as well as your mics, and will aid you in the physical fight and arrests. Some are on the ground while others in the sky. Afterwards, they’ll sweep the estate and collect stolen property or priceless artworks. The other half is split into two, where one of those halves will be spread out for miles to capture anyone that might slip through, like guests who were on the most wanted list or guests that have helped Ernesto in the past. The other part of that half will intercept the shipment (once Steve radios in the location), save the hostages, and shut down the routes.

They instruct Ramirez to call Ernesto and to ask him if there’s a vegetarian menu offered. Ernesto responds with only a muttered groan and in a wild turn of events, asks if Ramirez can call you to make sure you arrive earlier than expected to make sure Jackeline walks down that aisle. He’s completely serious. Not only does Ramirez play along, but Ernesto doesn’t give any indication that he knows about the car bomb. So the team makes a judgement call: this was only Seda’s doing.

Ramirez is then told that the Raft is not an option; both the US and Mexican government want him and the only reason he hasn’t been arrested is because he still has many cards to play. The more he helps, the less time he’ll get.

One thing is known: this is the biggest mission anybody has been on in over two years.

Bucky remembers things in bits and pieces. Sometimes he’ll be minding his own business, enjoying this new world and the countless amenities it offers, and remember exactly where he was on the hottest day of the year in 1936. He remembers the blistering heat, boiling his once pale skin and giving him that beautiful olive he was now known for. He remembers the way his tongue dried almost instantly the moment he stepped outside and how he asked his next door neighbor, Ms. Kranshall, for a cup of water before work. He remembers her massive square glasses and how they nudged the tip of her nose as she nodded sweetly at him. He remembers her high but smoky voice and the way she patted his shoulder as he drank the cup down.

The first time he remembered Natalia was around the same time he remembered Steve. He sees a flash of ember in strands, speed almost matching his, and he sees those panicked green eyes he was once all too familiar with.

She was twelve when he first met her, forced to throw her around like a ragdoll until her ribs were bruised and her spirit broken. He went again and again, and when he wasn’t forced he would teach her how to fight properly and how to shield her most vulnerable areas. Scared as she was, she never showed it in those private moments, and decided to follow his lead in most things. And she learned to be fierce, no matter how hard he hit, and he still remembers the look in her eyes and the pull of her young face as they yanked him away for cryo before he could congratulate her on winning her first fight.

The first time he remembered you was when you leapt onto T’Challa’s back as the chase neared, tackling the young prince become king, and watched with sad eyes as both him and Steve climbed onto the jet for Siberia. He remembers your clumsy punches when you fought him with half his brain and how he kicked you so hard you flew. He also remembers how when you took that kick for Steve, the sound of his wail almost deafened the soldier.

Everytime he remembers something, a memory, no matter how strangled it may arise, the twinge in his chest is good. He’s remembering. He’s James Buchanan Barnes.

He feels that same twinge when a face full of freckles greets him at the entrance, documents raised above her head in a show of selfish glee, and a pep in her step that tells him she remembers him too.

“Sergeant Barnes!” Maribel gives a toothy grin. “Never thought I’d see you again!”

Bucky tilts his chin up and rests the tip of tongue between his incisors. “What? Hydra wasn’t enough for you, you gotta infiltrate the Mexican cartel, too?”

She scoffs playfully, “Other way ‘round.”

He snatches the documents from her hand and leads her inside. “I hope you got something here. Steve put a lotta faith in you.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Y/N does. That’s enough for me.”

Rolling her eyes, she snatches the documents back to turn the pages herself. “Follow me. We need to chat in private.”

“Shouldn’t we get-”

“I’d rather you know, and you tell them later. No audience.”

This causes Bucky to tense. He follows her in further and closes the door behind them both.

The left side of her face had less freckles back in 2012, he remembers, and now she’s covered in them.

Bucky remembers things slowly, but he remembers them.

It’s cold outside, air bruising your skin, and there are hundreds of goosebumps now erupting. You joke with yourself that in the end, you’ll most likely have to ask Steve for his jacket and ruin your overall look but hey, you’ll be warm. The wedding doesn’t start until five in the evening and it’s one’oclock right now, and there are white clouds in the sky instead of gray and the songs of some desperate birds searching for their lunch near your ears. It at least drowns out the constant noise of the agents hammering away at each other and preparing for tonight.

It makes your stomach roll: these agents are putting their lives at risk because of you.

You stepped through the discarded papers and tried not to leave your footprint anywhere important. His office was empty, left in a state of purgatory, and his lamp was still on. It’s like he stepped out for a minute.

You picked everything up: pens, computers, books, chairs. Under everything, there was dust.

He really did die.

As much as you wanted to step on his remains and spit on him, you couldn’t. The gash in your heart was still open and bleeding for everyone else and there was no room left for anger. You were indifferent, for lack of a better word. Frustrated?

A paper crumbles outside his office. No one had followed you in - a week after the snap and every single person on earth was still searching for loved ones or running from something - so no, no one else was supposed to be here. Mexico had been hit hard, it’s government shattered, and every cartel was picking up pieces or tearing the world further apart. There was no line anymore.

You twisted around and aimed your gun at the door, immediately lowering it when you saw Natasha raise her hands. She had this embarrassed smile on her face like she knew she had been caught.

“I meant to say hi over your mic. But you turned it off.”

You sighed deeply and dramatically shrugged your shoulders. “Well, I’m here. Guess who’s not.”

Natasha only nods and steps further into the room. She looks over the same things you did. “He’s gone? Good, good riddance.”

“But his death means nothing if trillions of others died also. It’s so fucking typical of him. If he’s going down, he takes everyone else with him.”

“He didn’t take them, Y/N.”

“I want to be happy,” you spit out through clenched teeth. “I want to feel relief. The fucking bastard is finally gone and I can’t even enjoy it properly.”

Natasha takes one more look at the hallway before letting her guard down almost completely. She envelopes you in a hug, squeezing tighter each time your breath hitches. “Hey, listen to me.”

“He’s gone.”

“I know,” Natasha’s voice is low and reminds you of the gentle hum of record static. “He’s gone and he can’t hurt you anymore.”

“But everyone-”

“No,” she pulls away and places both her palms over your neck. “He’s gone. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

It takes a while before you’re nodding along, repeating her words gently.

“You’re more than the pain he inflicted. You’re more than his name or crimes. You’re worth more than his impact ten times over. He can’t hurt you anymore. I know everyone’s gone, and we’re going to fight like hell to bring them back, but in this little moment, this little thread you can pull - pull it all out - he can’t hurt you anymore.”

She’s all muscle and bone and blood and real. What would you do without Natasha?

The grass beneath your bare feet calms you down. It’s tendrils are a little ticklish and there are droplets of silver morning water fog melting as they touch your skin. Focusing on the feeling isn’t enough to get you out of your own head and for a wild second, you think the God of Thunder is going to come up behind you and hold your hand. It’s peaceful out here, but what you wouldn’t give to see him again.

The day before Steve and Carol returned the stones, he had been here. He did as he promised: the second the flood of happiness extinguished like a Christmas candle, he found you settled in the mass of pillows with only instrumental music playing. He left for two cups of tea, sat in silence with you as you both drank, and whispered a strangled ‘I’m sorry’ as if you weren’t meant to hear it. Apologizing for someone who did come back, and you for someone who didn’t.

‘You know I don’t regret what we did. We brought everyone back.’

‘Don’t try and justify your sadness. Not at all, not with me.’ His voice was stern and his eyes serious.

‘I’m sorry he didn’t come back.’

His eyes had closed, as if he was expecting that apology, and he looked out the window where the sun was just barely rising, shining on him and him alone. ‘I’m sorry, too.’

There are footsteps, though. Heavy ones, footsteps that announce his upcoming presence on purpose so as to not startle anymore. Bucky was too generous for his own good.

“Had a visitor.”

You remain silent as Bucky sits next to you, looking up from his spot and expecting you to sit as well. “There’s water on the grass.”

“There’s water in the air in this godforsaken state, now sit down.” A push of laughter escapes your lungs but you follow his instructions anyway.

You sit in silence for a few minutes, admiring the way the pine trees bend slightly with the gusts of wind and how the birds have changed their pitch. You expect Bucky to speak first so you occupy that time by playing with the strands of wet grass.

“In 1997, I was taken out of cryo for a mission.”

You wince on accident. This wasn’t how you expected the conversation to start.

Bucky continues, “There was this man south of the border.” He points south to prove his point. “Hydra wanted to take him out because he was interfering with the drug routes they were monitoring.”

“Hydra controlled drug routes?”

“Hydra had their heads in plenty of places. They didn’t control them, but they did monitor them.”

You shake your head in understanding. “And this man?”

Bucky sighs heavily. His eyes are focused on the gentle yellows behind the trees instead of you. “He was told to take out another man traveling through and out one of these drug routes. He made a different call.”

“Who was your visitor?”

“Maribel.”

“Wha-?” You go to stand but Bucky gently pushes your left shoulder back down. “Why are you telling me this and not her?”

“She wanted me to tell you. And I guess, in turn, you tell Steve and the rest of the team.”

“Bucky,” your voice trembles on accident. “Tell me.”

“The man I was ordered to take out was Maribel’s brother.” He chuckles at your frantic shuffling and pushes you down again. He continues, “Hey, it’s okay. She never knew him and she doesn’t hate me for what I was.”

You don’t really believe him. But his face isn’t telling you otherwise. You're stuck between wanting to dig for more information and giving him a giant bear hug. “Did you… succeed?”

“The soldier ever rarely lost.”

Your face contorts. “Bucky…”

“He disobeyed orders, Hydra didn’t like that since it disrupted the drug routes, and so I was sent to help. Hydra didn’t seem to care about the man he let go, though.” Bucky shrugs and starts playing with the grass behind your hand. “The thing was, Maribel’s brother had been doing this a long time. Ernesto was on Hydra’s radar but in a good way. Maribel’s brother was also given very specific orders from one other person - their mother.”

The story pieces are all discarded haphazardly, pieces that are from different boxes and don’t seem to entangle properly.

“She told him to let the man go. Because this man was an American, and killing an American on Mexican soil was something that was impossible to hide from the claws of the law. So, this American made it back on US soil safely and was never heard from again. Until 1998, when he tried to re-enter Mexico under a false name but with one purpose. To see his newborn baby girl.”

The yellow behind the pine trees fades into orange.

“Are you saying-?”

“Maribel’s mother kept everything your mother left her when she tried to cross the border herself. Your real birth certificate, her real birth certificate, you.”

Bucky looks over finally, sad smile and all. “Maribel thinks, and now I think, that Ernesto isn’t your real father.”

There are so many questions formulating at the base of your skull that you don’t really take the time to absorb the news. “What did she bring you? What was in those papers?”

Bucky seems startled that your reaction wasn’t one of shock. “Like I said, Maribel’s mother kept a lotta things.” He pauses momentarily before speaking again. “Blood results was one of them. Still trying to authenticate them. The American was a doctor, after all.”

“A doctor,” you whisper.

“A doctor. He changed his name but he’s alive. Maribel’s checked.”

“Why would she tell me this now? Why now just hours before the wedding? Isn’t that why you guys didn’t tell me about what was really in the shipment?”

Bucky winces and his expression tells you he’s sorry.

You continue, “Why now? Why does it even matter anymore?”

He inspects you quickly, scanning your features for any signs of discomfort. “You’re okay? I thought this would surprise you more.”

The chuckle you release is dry, kind of harsh. “It actually answers a fuckload of questions. Like, number one, why he fucking hates me.”

His eyebrows scrunch together. “You think he knows?”

“If he doesn’t, then he’s a super fucking asshole instead of just a fucking asshole.”

Bucky pauses again and smiles up at the sky. The clouds are white and extra large today, and he suddenly remembers the taste of that mini popcorn he had bought and shared with his little sister Becca… Becks… while watching Snow White and the Seven Dwarves at the theater. The salt and butter had stuck to Becca’s fingers and she had wiped them on Bucky’s sweater. He remembers scolding her for that but giving her a napkin in between his giggle fit. He feels the same swell in the meat of his heart listening to you. “We don’t deserve you. You’re like the moon. Always there, shaping yourself into what that person needs, crater after crater beat into you and yet, you move the tides.”

The little snort that leaves your nose hurts a little. “That’s pretty damn poetic for this moment of ‘you’re not the father!’”

Bucky bites his lip and smiles toward the yellow and orange hues. “Like the moon.”

The hotel had replaced the door, no questions asked. The reason Sam decided to bust open the door instead of using the very functional key you had given Torres? No one knows. But the poor receptionist was told that you couldn’t possibly change rooms because this was top secret business and you absolutely wanted to slap Scott upside the head for worrying her. So they fixed the bolts and gave you all new keys.

Didn’t matter much anyway since you weren’t sleeping here tonight. You had already packed and made the beds.

You lay your dress and Steve’s dress attire on the respective beds. The dress sent over was a backless red silk, spaghetti strapped and slit on the left side - you’ve wanted to wear it since it arrived when Scott did.

Steve knocked before entering the room. You almost laughed at the gentlemanly aspect of it. “Thought for sure they’d have kept you for another hour at least.”

“I gotta change sometime. That your dress?” Steve shrugs off his uniform and climbs on top of his freshly made bed.

“That’s my dress. Sort of skimpy for a wedding, no?” You hold it up to show him the front and back.

“Does ‘skimpy’ mean bad?”

“Means slutty.”

He gives you this disappointed look, like he’s judging your vocabulary. “I wouldn’t use that word. So no.”

You silently apologize and move the dress over to the end of your bed. Everyone else was also getting ready for tonight. Agents were posing as local police, many infiltrated the wait staff, suits were being double-checked for any malfunctions. There was so much going on, but all was relaxed in your room. Steve smiles at you from his bed, head resting in his palm as he leans up to stare at you. It’s impossible not to blush under his stare, so you move to climb into his bed. You lay down with your feet to his head, the sides of your hips pressing together; just two upside down puzzle pieces. He chuckles and goes to lay on his back, right arm coming up to lay rested on top of your right thigh.

“All this week I thought I wasn’t ready.” You’ve had no more nightmares. “But I am. I’m ready to end this.”

He runs his fingers delicately along your thigh. “I’m ready to help.” He sighs deeply and cranes his neck to try and meet your gaze. “We’ll make sure they get maximum time.”

“You know that’s not our call.”

“Still.”

You rest for another few minutes, gentle touches calming you. His body is so warm, emitting sweet thoughts like the beginning of spring heat, and it’s impossible not to curl up into it. Steve breaks the comfortable silence, “What are you thinking about?”

You suck in a breath and tell him the truth. “That in the matter of like… five days, you and I are basically lovers now.”

“Lovers?”

“Lovers.”

He laughs out loud and goes to sit up. “I intend on taking you out when we get back home.”

Lifting your head, you rest on your elbows and grin at him. “Oh? And where are you planning on taking me?”

He thinks for a second before pressing his lips together and giving up. “I have to ask Peter or Wanda. I have no idea where you go during the day to eat.”

You laugh, “Seriously? I could’ve sworn you tagged along once or twice.”

“Nope. I always refused.”

You frown slightly, “Riiight.” Not wanting to rehash the reasons why, you try to soften any wrong feelings about what that implies. “I’m sure you’ve been, though. I take Bucky places, too. Ask him.”

“Mmm, I have my pride. Can’t have Bucky thinkin’ he knows more about my girl than I do.”

You smile largely now and hope no lipstick rubbed off on your teeth. “Your girl?”

Steve averts his eyes like he’s just now asking for your name and if you’d like to go dancing. There’s a beautiful scarlet glow painting his pale cheeks. “Like I said, I’m taking you out and asking properly.”

“We’ve already surpassed third base. I remember it vividly.”

His smile falls comically and he turns to grab a throw pillow to smack you with it a couple times. “Crude! Crude as always. Goddamn.”

“I’m sorry! Hey, I’m sorry!”

He stops his attack and pulls you into his chest. He warms your back instantly. “So, you’ll let me take you out?”

“I really, really like french fries,” you hum lightly and tilt your head back to lean into his shoulder.

“That narrows it down, thanks.”

You chuckle due to his sarcastic tone. He rubs his hands up and down your arms. An idea formulates while in the warmth of his body. “You know what I really want to do after we finish with this?”

“What’s that?”

You tell him honestly. “Rent a cabin. Spend a Christmas there, maybe. Catch some fuckin’ fish. Experience the snow properly.”

His eyebrows furrow like he’s dissecting such a claim. “I… wasn’t expecting that.”

You shrug, “Sounds cool though, right?”

“Got room for one more?” He looks down to meet your gaze and there’s a glint of hope shimmering in the blue of his eyes.

“Nat… Natasha.”

Natasha took in a sharp exhale as she lifted her head from the desk, left cheek numb and pink. Steve shot her a funny grin and continued shaking her shoulder until she fully opened her eyes. She slaps his hand away with a huff of laughter.

“Come here to do your laundry? You know, there’s only so many times I can help prevent shrinking shirts.”

Steve scoffs, “I used to do laundry by hand. I can figure out a few buttons.”

“You would think.”

Steve rolls his eyes and bumps her shoulder with the palm of hand before speed-walking into the kitchen. “It’s one of those days.” He opens the high cabinets and pulls a few vodka bottles.

Natasha pushes down whatever was starting to eat at her. She calms her deep breaths and rises from her chair. No words needed to be exchanged. She makes her way over to pull two glasses from the same high cabinets.

Steve watches her a little hesitantly, but she has that lopsided smile that pinches through only one cheek and her eyes are the slightest bit swollen from her power nap, and Steve breathes a sigh of relief. She tilts her head to the other side of the kitchen, that lopsided grin gracing her bare feet. Steve fumbles through a few cleaning supplies and some plastic bags before he finds the bottle.

“I hid it after… after Thor had that meltdown a year ago.”

Now, he was second guessing. It was a small bottle, only half left, but half a bottle of Asgardian liquor was enough to knock the God on his knees. For Steve, a few sips would do the same. But he needed it, he needed it, god help him. It’s been four years, he needs it. “Be my designated driver?”

“How about you spend the night? Y/N wanted to start a new show anyway.”

“I’ll be passed the fuck out during the opening credits.”

“But you’ll be here.”

Steve sighs and pops open the bottle. Natasha puts her hand up to stop him from pouring, “Check under that sink again.”

His eyebrows pinch together but he does as instructed. More cleaning products… more cleaning products. He tilts his head to look at the corners and there it was: a small, pink paper airplane taped mid-flight. Steve hunched his shoulders to grab it and crawled out carefully. “You know, you’re not supposed to tell me where you hide them.”

“Well, I felt bad! I’ve found like fifteen of your blue ones and how many do you have of mine?”

“That’s besides the point-”

“Say it. You’ve found six.”

His cheeks turn hot. “I’m not here all the time.”

“Excuses.”

“I leave mine in good spots. You probably got better eyes or something.”

Natasha laughs, loud and from her chest. “Sure. But hey - I’ll promise you somethin’.”

Steve pours the Asgardian liquor into his glass and straight vodka into Natasha’s. “What do you have in mind?”

“You find more than me by the end of this year, and I’ll take that vacation.”

Steve takes his first sip and tries not to pull a hard face. “You’re on. But what if you win?”

Natasha raises her glass and clinks it with his. He wants to apologize for forgetting to toast but her eyes are playful and forgiving. “You come with me. I’m not the only one who needs it.”

“So, I win regardless?”

She takes a sip and pulls a funny face. “Easiest battle, don’t ya think?”

They’re off their right minds twenty minutes into drinking and the common area is chaos. Pillows are thrown, the TV somehow ends up with dozens of fingerprints, and they’ve broken a couple flower pots. The cushions of the couch know Natasha’s bare feet and Steve’s boots; the walls fail to constrict their loud singing; Rhodey has already snuck past them to get himself a snack undetected.

‘And so I cry sometimes when I’m lyin’ in bed, just to get it all out what’s in my head!’

‘Hit the high note, Rogers!’

‘When you do, I will!... I scream from the top of my lungs-’

‘What’s goin’ on? And I say, ‘hey!’ ‘hey!’ I say ‘hey!’ What’s goin’ on?’

Steve’s still clear-headed enough to twirl Natasha around. She’s flexible enough to climb onto his shoulders.

‘I pray every single day - for a revolution!’

She’s starting to slur her words and Steve wonders if that blond streak in her hair was there last week.

‘The story of my life! I take her home,

I drive all night to keep her warm and time,

Is frozen!

The story of my life, I give her hope,

I spend her love until she’s broke inside!

The story of my life.’

She can longer feel her toes but seeing Steve let go makes her so incredibly happy and breaks her heart. I needed this too, she thinks.

‘So, bye-bye, Miss American Pie

Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry

And them good ol' boys were drinkin' whiskey and rye

Singin', "This'll be the day that I die

This'll be the day that I die!”’

She’s all muscle and bone and blood and real. What would Steve do without Natasha?

“You wanna come?”

“Sure. I’ll cut down the trees for wood. Have a real fireplace.” He’s serious, you realize. Like, really truly serious.

Your heart swells with excitement and some other feeling you can’t quite place. But it’s good, like really good. The sigh you release is full of sweet wonder. “A real Christmas tree.”

Steve tightens his grip around your arms. “December’s right around the corner. Trees should be ready and standing tall.”

It’s almost too much to imagine. You have the sudden urge to talk specifics, to plan out this vacation. A beautiful, rustic cabin with only a coffee maker brought from the outside century, knitted quilts, real snow, Steve’s body heat, Christmas lights… inviting Sam, Scott, Wanda, Peter, and Bucky down for Christmas dinner and presents. A whole sleepover filled with ghost stories, candle burning, board games, Christmas movies. You’re up and tucking your knees under yourself to look down at Steve in an instant. “You’d throw on that checkered shirt, grow out your beard even more, and chop down a few trees for me? With me?”

“There’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be,” Steve says, eyes crinkling. For a second, he’s worried you’ll realize that he’s quoted your letter. But that same moment, you’re giggling with excitement over your future plans.

“Well, we lasted a week here without killing each other. The holidays always hold a few surprises.”

Steve picks up another pillow.

Business is not conducted during the church service. It feels normal, with half the guests attending the service and watching the happy couple exchange vows, while the other half only arrives for the party.

Jackeline’s dress is modern with a mix of vintage - simple, with long sleeves of lace and fabric that isn’t entirely white but with hints of beige; the dress dips lower in the back than it does in the front, and it’s tight near the waist but loose as it drapes down her long legs. Her hair is left loose and her make-up is heavy, and she illuminates under the sun rays that burst through stained cathedral glass. You don’t even pay mind to Ernesto and Seda seated in the aisle in front of you - not when Jackeline looks the way she does.

As the service ends, Steve tells you to wait until most of the guests exit. The priest eyes him warily, inspecting his young face and build and obvious persona. He says nothing, but he places a gentle hand over the cross on his chest as he follows the guests out. Steve stands, and out of respect dips his fingers into the holy water provided near the heavy wooden doors. He signs the father, the son, and the holy ghost and dips his fingers in again to sign the same on you. With a silent thank you and tender wipe to your forehead, you don’t question it. He’s not Catholic, or at least you don’t think, but you know he does it for what’s to come. No matter your beliefs, he just wants something, someone, to protect you. You turn back to the cathedral and grip the door as you bend down to one knee and tip your head.

Everything is grander, that’s for sure. The decorations are tripled; the violet lights are reflecting like diamonds off every marble and glass surface; the chandelier’s are no longer gold sculptures but diamond; the clay flowers hanging from the ceiling yesterday are now a part of the centerpieces, squeezed in with the largest bouquet of roses and violets; the live bands (because of course there are two) are each still setting up as everyone is getting seated; and there are about fifty round tables circling the large dance floor. There’s still a nice view of the lake and the pine trees ahead, and the tarp was abandoned as there was no rain in the forecast. All in all, and there were a thousand other things you could focus on but didn’t have the energy to, everything was beautifully put together.

Jackeline wasn’t lying when she said half of Mexico was attending. Besides family, there were celebrities in attendance, famous musicians who were simply guests and not performing, family of some of the other biggest drug lords from both countries (minus Europe), and a couple politicians who dipped before the new couple even walked through the doors after seeing Steve. But Steve worked his magic like he had yesterday and had everyone eating out of the palm of hand in pure amazement. He even had a famous actress hanging off his shoulder in under three minutes. Walking away to go congratulate Jackeline, Steve doesn’t miss the quick, sarcastic flick of your middle finger aimed in his direction.

“You’d tell me if you needed my help, right?” Jackeline asks after a while, bottom lip dripping champagne. She wipes it gingerly, careful not to smudge her pink lipstick.

“I would if there was anything wrong,” you respond truthfully. She pauses to swallow her sip and squints. She follows your gaze to Steve, whose right arm is being tugged by a girl who looks about twelve with five multi-colored bows trailing down her french braid, and who is also trying hard not to blush at the very attractive actress he can’t seem to get rid of.

“You’re going to stop him, aren’t you?”

You glance to your left, but it isn’t really a question. Jackeline knows. “Yeah.”

She nods and tilts her chin up, eyes still on Steve. “Make him watch as you burn it down.” You know she’s referring to Ernesto. She continues, “Every last bit of it.”

Smiling down at your feet, you raise your glass at nothing in particular. Just to salute the night air and whoever is watching. A few seconds pass as you both watch the guests enjoy the music and appetizers. Jackeline shuffles in her heels but she doesn’t seem to want to leave your side just yet. “You run, you understand?”

She’s only momentarily startled by your words. “Okay.”

“I never meant to leave you here, Jackie. I just had to find a way out first.”

“You found a loophole,” she chuckles, but the next moment she’s serious. “There is no way out.”

“Might not be,” you admit, downing your glass in one shot. “But I know this. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

You don’t exchange more than a few words with Steve before he’s called by Ernesto’s men and motioned toward those massive dry lava rock doors; doors that don’t muffle sound but are strong enough to withstand a bullet wound. You watch him leave with them, and he shoots you a smile over his shoulder to simply look at you. Your eyes swell only slightly, burning the corners and blurring everything. He’s bright and brilliant, walking head first into Hell and shining like the bolts of Zeus.

Steve has faced giants before, from all backgrounds and all worlds. He has blocked their punches, taken near mortal injuries; stared them in the face with every ounce of anger and determination his cells could produce. There was always this whispered voice in his head that warned him of the last day he would pick up that shield. In 1945, the voice was loud and raging as he drove that nosediving plane into the Arctic. Over the last few years, however, the voice had quieted and let Steve ponder his fate himself. Steve swears the voice, or rather his own conscience, is getting tired.

He listens intently, responding only when spoken to, and prays his mic is picking up every bit of this conversation. Ernesto commanded the room as he screamed orders in both English and Spanish. His men fell in line; some as determined as the old man, some quiet, some bothered. Didn’t matter what the orders were. Steve noticed the few who would glance at one another and speak their distaste with their wandering eyes. And when Ernesto would speak directly to Steve, the same men would pinch their lips into a thin line and glare.

The shipment had arrived mid-conversation and as men were sent out to do their jobs, Ernesto kept Steve behind. I need you to stay with me until the shipment is secure and can be moved - you’re my bodyguard, Ernesto had told him, confident and only slightly bending his back in discomfort from the weight of the day. Steve agrees, and hears Bucky mention how they have eyes on the shipment from the sky.

Steve stays by Ernesto’s side even when Ramirez is called in. He’s prepared for a bloodbath, for two big men to cement their graves in this tiny office, but it doesn’t happen. Or at least, it doesn’t happen yet. Ernesto regards Ramirez as an old friend and finally trusts him enough to tell him what the shipment contained. Steve isn’t surprised, however, when Ernesto takes nasty satisfaction at Ramirez’s horrified expression. Because even though Ramirez had already known, the confirmation adds a multitude of terror. Steve can feel his palms sweating.

As expected, Ernesto tells Ramirez that he plans to use his lands for his gain. The safe thing to do would have been to agree, to nod along, and to live in the knowledge that the shipment most likely wouldn’t head out. But Ramirez, for some reason Steve can’t fathom, stands up and says no.

Steve understands now; the odd shaking of your shoulders even when your face was completely blank and emotions calm. He watches the beads of sweat drip from Ernesto’s forehead onto the tip of his nose; he watches the way his chest heaves as his voice becomes louder; he watches until he can’t take anymore and he enlarges the shield with Scott’s tech and tells Ernesto to move away from the other man. Steve understands now - the man really is scary, even if he wants to admit it or not.

“You really are a phenomenal actor.”

Swaying slowly, you try not to step on Seda’s feet as he guides you across the dance floor. The music is calmer than it was five minutes ago, the guests are enjoying dinner and conversing, and Steve had told you fifteen minutes ago that he would be right back. Ernesto had sent you a malicious wink, but you knew better. Steve’s name was written in blue and Ernesto’s real target had to be you.

“Acting with what? Acting that I enjoy this dance? Acting like I respect you?” Your upper lip twitches into a teasing smile. “Or acting like I don’t know it was you who planted that bomb?”

He matches your smile, looking down at you with a glint in his eyes. His grip around your waist tightens. “Acting like you’re really on our side.”

Lowering your voice just a fraction, you lean in, top of your head level with his chin. “I’m on Ernesto’s side. You almost had me and my Captain blown up.”

His left hand is settled on your shoulder and he uses the opportunity to dig his nails in. All around him, his men are watching. “How did you get away?”

You give a dry laugh. “You think that was my first bomb? It was childsplay.”

Seda scoffs, “You speak of this Avenger business like I don’t know who you are. You’re still that scared little girl who hid in her room when alien’s fell from the sky.”

“I may be. But there’s a difference between you and I. I actually stared them in this face and won.”

“The second time, maybe”

Sticks and stones, but goddamn did those words always hurt. Blame goes a long way but you and your team are used to keeping it close to home. “Why do you want me dead?”

His scowl deepens and the wrinkles by his eyes crinkle over each other as he squints down at you. “The Avengers are not secretly on our side. Tony Stark never was but Ernesto loves to tell people otherwise. Same about your Captain. You’ve been playing us for years.”

“What evidence do you even have? For years, we’ve done nothing but clear the roads for you,” you say, shaking your head in disbelief.

He unwraps his arm from around your waist and sets both hands around your upper arms. He’s pressing down as hard as he can but still loose enough not to draw unwanted attention. He breathes a sharp exhale, and the puff of air hits your cheeks. “I don’t know what happened to my men after you got what you deserved. They were good men and just like that, erased.” He smirks. “I know you had something to do with it.”

A guest with bright red hair laughs loudly to your side as she is twirled around by her partner. It’s not as vibrant as you’re used to, but you still imagine that lopsided smile you hadn’t seen in forever. “Does it matter? You know what they did, so why is my hypothetical revenge chastised?”

“Tell me right now that none of your Avenger friends did your dirty work. Tell me your Captain’s hands are clean.”

“I promise you, my Captain is clean.” Seda doesn’t show any signs of believing you. Still, your mouth twitches into a mocking smirk. “But our once mutual friends Tony and Natalia tell another story.”

“Am I supposed to believe that two people who are dead are responsible for this? Ironic,” he grits his teeth.

You repeat, clear and true. “My Captain is clean.”

He fakes a tiny gag but you know he means his disgust. “You turned over so quickly for him. For the heroes who destroyed the world. Pathetic.”

“You really need to stop underestimating me,” you practically order, voice full of warning and annoyance.

Seda continues, “Following orders from a fascist. Following orders from a country that only does harm.”

He turns you around as the dance instructs, a half-hearted waltz that didn’t have a beginning, middle, or end. You take that second to scan your surroundings and weigh your options. “I agree about the country part. But I don’t follow orders from the country, I follow them from my Captain.”

You’re facing him again and in those hellish eyes you see truth. “No, he’s a symbol of everything we hate. Of everything we need to destroy.”

“Touch Steve and I’ll blind you.”

His feet stop mid-step, as do yours. His eyes widen only a little, but it’s all the ammunition he needs. “I knew it.”

It’s barely a whisper, a tickle from a single strand of hair, but you catch it. No longer keeping it a secret, or rather a secret you didn’t care that you let slip, Seda now knows it was all a lie. All this time you had never referred to Steve as anything other than your Captain.

You feel the blunt head of a .22 press against your abdomen as Seda laughs, “You never could get a mission right.”

Twisting his arm and knocking the gun from his loose grip with your wrist was easy. So was catching the gun mid-air and elbowing him in the ribs. Seda falls to the floor in a state of shock, instinctively gripping his chest. You aim the gun at him and like you’ve seen in the movies, place the tip of your heel just below where his belly button would be. He releases a sharp breath and his eyes are challenging, practically begging you to dig deeper and get on with it.

You can hear the screaming and frantic murmuring from the guests surrounding you and the leveling of guns from Seda’s men. But you’re focused on the man trying so hard not to quiver beneath you, his nasty grin spreading wider.

“You’re alone,” he bites. “Your Steve is helping Ernesto right now, no? You’re alone.”

Your grin forms slowly, and you’re counting down the seconds you have until his men start firing, but you lean your upper body down slightly to make sure he hears you. “That’s never been a problem before. Don’t you remember?” You click back the safety as discreetly as possible. “I was trained by the Black Widow herself.”

You quickly raise the gun to shoot the closest of Seda’s men in between his collarbones, effectively starting the bloodshed. You jump out the way in a flash, rolling across the floor and behind a table. Tipping the table over is easy and it seems like a smart idea at first, until you realize the tables are all glass. The tablecloth had covered that detail, which sucks like hell, because now the bullets are shattering through and you’re forced to kick yourself away and run behind the pillars instead. The heels are kicked off at the same time you’re fishing underneath your dress.

A stray bullet hits the pillar’s side making you squeal. It makes you work faster, though.

Once you find the secure nano-tech ‘button’ (as Scott liked to call it), you strip as quickly as you can and slap the button on your bare shoulder. The nano-tech spirals and threads into itself as intricately as frost spreads on a window, shielding you in both metal and kevlar.

When a storm of bullets hits the pillar and cracks the marble, you’re forced to crouch and hope Seda’s .22 and the myriad of weapons you’re now equipped with are enough. Before your thoughts can creep into a ‘last man standing’ mode, a roar of wind sweeps across the estate and between the cracked pillars, causing your loose hair to slap your face and blind you for only a second. Quickly putting your hair up and pulling the metal batons from the back of your suit, you’re met with the best sight - one that was a little late, in your opinion.

“Kind of you to show up!”

Sam ignores your quip as he flies into three men at once, feet first with his wings extended with the might of a guardian angel. He immediately shields runaway guests who were caught in the middle. He takes the ones on his left, you take the ones on his right.

You let them swing first. They’re fast and pulling their punches and are clearly aiming for the end result of sticking you to the ground. But you’re quicker and deflect the punches. You manage to deliver a solid punch upward to crack the nose of one. As he reaches up as instinct, his ribs are open season.

He falls out cold easily after your batons do their damage and the next man isn’t nearly as fast as the first. He doesn’t move enough to his right to avoid the harsh kick to his sternum. Each ambitious kick to the chest seems to demolish the man’s protective wall he’s trying desperately to keep intact, but once you give your legs a break and switch back to the batons, he doesn’t stand a chance. There are bullets raining across the venue, but Sam is shielding you and deflecting them elsewhere. It allows you the freedom to rip into whoever you think deserves it.

You’ve got two men on your tail and after knocking their weapons from their hands, it seems like a fairer fight. The first doesn’t step back far enough to avoid your roundhouse kick and he falls hard on his ass, gasping for a lick of air. The second is closer, however, and manages to wrap you in a chokehold. Releasing yourself to fall deadweight for only a second, gravity tricks him and you use the momentum to kick up and fly over his shoulders. It’s hard to do without a wall to propel yourself off of. But your abs and thighs are clenched and you don’t quite think you’ll actually end up on this guy’s shoulders but you do. You don’t dwell on that moment of personal pride, though. Tightening your thighs, you use your upper body weight to lean downward and wring his neck. Once he’s down, you sweep your leg around across the floor to trip the other man who was just barely standing back up. With the .22, you fire point blank.

Detaching yourself from the gore has never been much of a challenge. Eyes rolling back and clouding, limbs dangling limp after having just been full of life, bodies thumping against the floor after eating your bullets - you don’t so much as grit your teeth anymore.

Sam is dealing with his own mess closer to where that poor cake is now destroyed, vanilla filling exposed and now two stories instead of four. The other cakes are no better. Sam pulls the trigger once more at someone charging at him and he averts his eyes. Sam, however, clenches his jaw.

“Where’s Seda?” you shout, firing at men who are jumping out from behind tables but giving away their location before they even surprise you.

“Lost him. I think he’s heading over to Steve!”

You look over the room and pray everyone got out safely. There are no civilians lying in their own puddle of blood, no guests begging for help, but you can never know for sure. “We need more hands. Where the hell are Scott and Bucky?”

A storm of bullets starts crashing into the tables and pillars beside you. Trying to duck doesn’t work and you’re grazed in the left arm. Sam tackles you behind the stage, wings extending further and out bending around you.

“I’ve been shot!”

Sam can’t help the laugh that erupts from his throat because of your dramatic tone. “You’ve been grazed. The nano-tech has already rebuilt itself.”

“I don’t care, I hate being shot. It’s not nice. I’ve been hit.”

“Dramatic.”

“Y/N?” a harsh whisper sounds from under the stage tables. Watching your eyes bulge paints a mournful expression on Jackeline’s face. Julian is right beside her, pistol out but not shooting. You wonder if he knows you’re the invader.

“What in the hell are you still doing in here? I told you to run!”

“I’m sorry,” Jackeline squeals as bullets continue firing. “Everyone crowded. I was scared so I just got down.”

“Sam.”

Sam nods, already reading your mind. You had to find Steve; you couldn’t stay here. But there’s bullets still blazing in your direction and you find yourself hopping on your ass slightly each time a bullet connects to the ground beside you. The nano-tech does great in deflecting the lead but it really isn’t an invitation to get shot more times. The graze on your arm is already starting to burn.

“Sam is going to guide you both out of here, alright? Julian, cover her. Sam will cover you.”

There’s a war going on behind Julian’s eyes. His face does a thousand things at once as he hears your orders and the scream of guns combined, but he nods. He grips Jackeline’s waist and pulls her in close, but before they can begin crawling Jackeline turns back to you.

“Mátalo. Okay? Para nosotras dos.” She’s got this fierce determination in her eyes and her accent is as thick as can be.

“Okay.”

Sam relays his location over his mic and who he has behind his wings, but before he can safely guide the married couple down the stage, a new wave of men enter and open fire. Sam’s wings can only take so much, and even though they’re vibranium, his suit is not. Ducking behind the table and reloading your gun, you then lift your head over to view the scene. It’s a mess and you could surely take them down hand-to-hand if you were close enough, but you’re stranded with your batons and seven bullets and a world of automatic machinery pointed at you.

The storm of bullets pauses and every single person looks up to the sky. You thank the Gods for no rain today because the absence of a tarp allows for the quinjet to settle over the chaos and create a much needed distraction. Sam takes his leave, wings still wrapped around your sister, and you do the same. Running from behind the stage with batons lit up and tazed, you knock out the closest men. They fall in a strangle of electricity, vibrating and convulsing as each shock travels through their veins, ultimately paralyzing them for however long it turns out to be. This gains the attention of almost everyone else but before they can train their weapons back toward you, the back of the quinjet opens. There were a few tables still standing and it seemed the super soldier liked them better than the flat floor.

The glass shatters from the impact of Bucky’s weight, glasses of champagne and plates with unfinished meals folding onto the shards. He’s dressed in his tactical gear and a dark navy blue jacket without a trusty sleeve. Even if the arm was covered and his hair was long rather than the short length it was now, the men would certainly know who just fell from the sky. Almost immediately, the men scatter. Bucky takes them down one by one, shot after shot, and decides to use his knives for the ones who don’t run. It’s tricky, but he manages to lodge his knives in the base of the spines of those who later changed their minds.

He catches your eye after you manage to snap the neck of one of the runners. He tilts his head toward the left and watches you run to give Steve the backup he needs.

The mansion seems longer, wider, just generally bigger as you rush through the rooms and halls to get to Steve. The stuffed exotic animals follow your gaze and you can’t ignore them for long. There are men following you and men leaving Ernesto. You duck behind the standing polar bear and wait until the footsteps sound farther. Checking the amount of bullets in your gun, just in case, you finally flick the safety off and run.

There’s really only one thing of importance floating around the padded confines of your skull - get Steve out. Another thing you two had in common: both sacrificial idiots. But there wasn’t any way that you would give up the chance to save his life, as he would yours. Didn’t matter if the man you were protecting him from was your father or not. It hadn’t really settled, hadn’t truly digested, and you didn’t think it ever would. Because for years, this man was your father. He was the only man with that title. He wasn’t fatherly, far from it, but he had the label and that’s what you were going to focus on. It made no difference.

You push the office door open and start stuttering over your words. You want to ask what happened, why there’s so much blood, whose blood it is, but all that comes is a fractured series of what the hell’s? The last syllables push through with necessary force, hardly intelligible, but exhaled at last.

Ernesto is kneeling with his head hanging low and his hands behind his back, defeated. But it isn’t Steve who’s holding a gun to the back of his head - it’s Seda.

No, Steve is in the corner clutching at his right hip and gritting his teeth, a wild look on his face that tells you he too was blindsided. He’s hurt. He’s gasping and wincing at the slightest of movements and it ignites the flame you’ll use to burn this world to the ground. It’s splitting your fucking ribs apart.

“Don’t move!” Seda yells, gun still locked on Ernesto’s head but eyes on you. “Put the gun down.”

“Seda-”

“Put the fucking gun down!”

Biting your tongue, you flip the gun in your hand so it’s facing downward and move to gently place it on the table. Flicking your eyes to where Steve is, you get your answer as to why he’s been so easily shot. His massive body and shield are draped over Ramirez, who is also disarmed and pissed.

The self-righteous idiot, you think, he’s always gotta save the little guy.

“We’re gonna talk about this like the gods we are, yeah?”

Your face pulls awkwardly, “Seda, what is happening?”

“Don’t act like you’ve been on this asshole’s side the entire time now,” Seda bites, shoving the head of the gun harshly into the base of Ernesto’s neck. “Go on, tell him.”

“The shipment was intercepted,” you tell him. But you’re not just telling Seda, no, it’s the first Steve is hearing the good news and it allows him to feel a bit of relief. “You’ve both lost.”

“What have you done?” Ernesto screams, cheeks vibrating and face red with anger. He pays no mind to the gun and dares to glare at you. “Tell me!”

The top of your lip greets a run of tears and snot and it isn’t until then that you realize your hands are shaking mid-air and your throat is closing. “My mission.”

Blood or not, this man had the power to tie your thoughts into knots. He only had this power at precious moments and sadly, this was turning out to be one of them.

Seda bites out a laugh - it’s wet and bloody and scares you half to Hell. “I’m not the only one here who wants to kill you. But I’m going to beat her to it. She brought you back, I can’t have that.”

“No!” You curse inwardly at your involuntary hiccup. “We’re not here to kill you!”

“Oh?” Seda raises the gun at you. “What’s the endgame? Que mas necesitas?”

“I don’t need anything. The shipment is intercepted. The estate is on lockdown. Your routes are down. You’re cornered. It’s over.” You let your shoulders drag just a little. “For both of you.”

Surprisingly, Seda doesn’t pull the trigger when Ernesto charges toward you. He doesn’t pull it when Ernesto wraps his hands around your throat, either.

It’s instinct for you to hold out your hand to stop Steve from doing what he does best. He’s already halfway up and wincing with each push to help you, to rip Ernesto from your capable body, but Seda clicks the gun in his direction. Steve watches the way your arm extends, all five fingers spread in a hopeless plea of ‘don’t you sacrifice yourself for me, don’t you dare’.

“I have done nothing but help you! I put food on the table and clothes on your worthless back! You spent my money!” Ernesto’s eyes are practically bulging and his thumbs are almost crushing your windpipe, but his placement is off. You can still breathe air, no matter how bruising his grip may be. “This is how you treat me? I should have killed you all those years ago. I should have ripped you limb by limb until your cries bled!”

“Please,” you whimper out, hand still extended toward Steve and the other attempting to push Ernesto by the chest.

“Please? Please? Te voy a matar aquí, ahora, porque siempre te lo mereciste!”

You let out a strangled scream and are about to fight back. To save yourself and to end Steve’s suffering of watching you suffer, of watching his newfound hope dwindle right before him, when a gunshot erupts. Everyone screams, ears ringing, and there’s blood splattered all over your cheeks and neck, spots and leaks that trail down into the collar of your bodysuit. A heavy weight lands on you and knocks you back into the shelves. You hold Ernesto’s now limp body as best you can, knees locking painfully. There’s a massive hole where the top of his head should be and for the first time in years, you have to look away to keep from throwing up.

“Dejalo.”

You open and close your mouth but regret it when the taste of copper lands on your tongue. You follow Seda’s order and drop Ernesto to your feet, the thud sending a shiver up every single one of your vertebrae.

“Por qué hiciste eso?” you ask him, voice small. You choke on another hiccup.

“Don’t lie to me and say you weren’t going to do it yourself.”

You look over at Steve. His eyes are just as wide as yours and the same red specks, now turning brown, are tainting the flush pink skin of his beautiful neck.

“No,” you whisper. Steve hears your lost accent returning and it clutches at his heart.

“It was for the best.” Seda marches over to grab Ramirez by the tie, ripping him up from the ground and pointing the gun to his head. Steve lunges forward and Seda fires another bullet into the same hip.

“No!” Your throat is raw, scratched, and Steve hits the floor in another heap of muffled groans. Seda returns the aim on Ramirez.

“Imagine my surprise when I saw this one confronting Ernesto with your Captain. Imagine my fucking surprise when I tried to find all our passports, all our files, and nothing was here! Imagine my surprise when I saw that fucking idiot White being taken away by one of your agents!”

“Seda, please.” You were never much of a negotiator. It was always go in and let the others do the talking. Steve was the talker, he was the negotiator, but he was out of his element. He was always the enemy to Seda. He could never convince him otherwise.

“You’ve given me new purpose,” Seda grins and Ramirez is rather calm in his arms, like he accepts this. “Look at the crime scene. I’m using the gun Ramirez got from your team. My men are still loyal.”

He pauses and smiles with all teeth, blood in between most of them. “You shot Ernesto. You shot your Captain. You shot Omar.”

The frightened look on your face seems to fuel him even more. He continues, “We’ll never stop hunting you.”

“Try it,” Steve manages, standing up again and vaguely registering the flash of light to his right. His shield is no longer there. “You’ll have to kill me to win. You’ll have to kill all of us to win. Me, Y/N, Omar, Sam.” He breathes in deep but smiles. “The Winter Soldier.”

You swear Seda’s face pales but his grip around Ramirez’s waist only tightens. “Easy.”

“It won’t be,” you finally say, voice no longer wavering. There’s no plausible way Seda could win. But one thing is fact: whether they’re Seda’s or Ernesto’s men, they’ll never stop hunting you now. “You lost, Seda.”

All stills but there are shouts and the ring of gunshots still echoing near the lake.

“No,” Seda looks to you and to Ernesto’s body. “I didn’t.”

He aims the gun at you and fires.

Steve’s wail is grease to the fire in your soul and you accept whatever pain might hit. There’s space and then there isn’t. There’s emptiness and then there’s a space being filled by that horrid but lifesaving shield. There’s no one and then there’s Scott, blown up to his regular size with shield in hand and in front of you. The bullet bounces off the shield easily and hits the wall. You’re pushed into motion and in about two seconds, you’ve grabbed your gun again and do not hesitate to fire. The bullet hits Seda in his exposed chest and Ramirez fumbles to get the gun from him. Seda hits the floor and no one else follows.

The shot hits its target perfectly. Seda doesn’t so much as stutter.

“God,” Scott grumbles, eyes trying to focus on anything other than the pools of blood. “Was I late?”

You don’t pay any mind to Scott and rush over to Steve, where he’s barely holding himself up with his hip tilted on the edge of the desk. “Steve? Steve. Did he hit anything important?”

“Besides the fuckin’ meat of my stomach?”

There isn’t a way to see beneath the kevlar, but your fingers have a mind of their own as they try to dig in. “You know what I mean.”

Steve huffs a laugh and gently slaps your fingers away. “No, but motherfuck me Christ, I get shot way too much and it hurts no less.”

“Was the shield not enough? You had to sacrifice your one-hundred year old hips? Are you hit anywhere else?”

“I was caught off guard. What about you? I heard over the mics that you were shot and-”

“Are you two done?” Scott interrupts, clearing his throat awkwardly but half a mind still paying attention to his own mic.

It’s like you’re snapped back to reality. There’s not only Steve but others, alive and dead, and the smell of copper is all too familiar. “Sorry, I’m still in shock. I don’t really know how to proceed from here.”

“Y/N-” Scott tries, but you resume.

“We were supposed to arrest them. Just arrest them.”

“Okay, I think we should get you outta here,” Steve acts like he’s the one guiding you, but his weight is falling. You faintly register a phone ringing in the room but Steve, ever so persistent, is still acting like he is holding you up. He lunges forward with a sharp wince, and your hand immediately goes to his hip.

“Captain.”

Ramirez lowers his phone, call ended, and he wears an expression Steve recognizes immediately. It’s an expression that looks all too similar to Dugan’s when he relayed the news of enemy forces breaching their base. “...How many?”

“They’ve already sent the news to their men in Mexico.”

“Have they shut down the border?”

“It wouldn’t make a difference.”

“They don’t know two of their men are dead, so we can-“

Scott shakes his head, shield still in hand with specks of blood drying on the blue stripe. “They know White was arrested. That’s all they need. They’ll assume the rest, the worst.”

You sigh, “Seda was right.”

Scott literally pouts and he looks like he wants to wrap you in his arms. “No, don’t send yourself there.”

Steve, however, agrees with you. “If they know about White, then they know about Omar. Seda had time to tell his men.”

“Then we make sure he’s arrested and taken to a secure facility. We can keep an eye-” Scott starts, but you shut him down quickly.

“He’s wanted by the US government, not the Avengers. We can only transport him. We can’t guarantee his safety.”

Ramirez gives a small smile. “Mija, voy estar bien. No te preocupes.”

“I don’t know.”

Scott looks between the three of you. He places the shield against the wall near the door. He raises his eyebrows at Steve and looks to his wounds, but Steve waves him off. Reluctantly, Scott nods. “I’m gonna go check on Sam.”

There’s a pool of blood near your boots. You don’t want to know if it’s from the dead or from Steve.

“Doll, what are you thinking?”

He can’t hurt you anymore. “That I need you to go, too.”

Steve forgets about the pain in his hip and focuses solely on you. “What?”

“Go. If there’s one more thing you can do for me and my reckless family, go check on Sam.”

“You know I can’t leave you here alone with him.”

Your voice is steady and calm and it’s scaring Steve. It’s scaring him. “I promised myself that you wouldn’t be hurt by this mission. I stand by it.”

“I promise, Captain, I have no resentment. Whatever she does, I will follow,” Ramirez speaks, and Steve doesn’t even pay him a glance.

“I can’t just go.”

“Steve,” you interlock your fingers behind his neck. “Please. Listen to me.” He looks so confused, a million questions flying through his mind and almost escaping those sweet pink lips. Fierce, you whisper for only him. “He can’t hurt me anymore. He can’t hurt me anymore.”

He relishes the feeling of your soft hands behind his neck. They’re bloody, but yours. His neck is bloody, but you don’t seem to care. “Two minutes.”

“Two minutes,” you confirm.

He pulls from your hold and turns to leave. He picks up the shield. Before he leaves, he grips the doorway and looks over his shoulder, eyebrows pinched and jaw tense. “Two minutes, I swear to Almighty Christ, Y/N. I’m coming back for you.”

You smirk, the dim light from the office lamps creating nothing short of a sparkle in your eyes. “I don’t expect anything less, Rogers.”

Steve hesitates for a moment and then he walks away. Once his footsteps are no longer heard, you turn back to Ramirez. There’s a voice in your head telling you this was a bad idea and that you were an idiot to have your back turned on him for so long, but Ramirez is simply leaning on one of the chairs and grimacing at the bloody scene before him.

“Remember when Ernesto bought you that car when you were thirteen? And then another when your brother crashed it?”

Your nose pinches, “I don’t feel like reminiscing when he’s lying right there.”

“Do you remember what you told me when he bought you that second car? The sports one?”

You sigh. Ramirez was clearly going to continue speaking. “‘No lo quiero. Soy una niña. Get rid of it.’”

“And I did.”

“You did.”

He smiles, and for the first time you notice all the gray hair dusting his head, the most by his temples. There's a limp in his step too but you can’t remember if he had before or after the wedding. “I’ll get rid of this.”

“What?” you blink, unsure if you heard him right.

“I’m already a traitor. If I spin this, you can continue the mission. You can arrest even more of his men. They’ll come after me instead of you.”

It’s what he’s been trained to do. It’s what he’s done since he transported his first shipment. It’s what he’s done time and time again for Ernesto, for Seda, for some of his own careless men. He’s numb to it, just as you were a few days ago, but now you can’t stop thinking about the aftermath. Where would he put their bodies? Would they be buried here or back in Mexico? Would people really care if Ernesto was dead? They didn’t seem to care when he was snapped out of existence. But Ramirez has this sag in his shoulders that tells you he’s already calculating the best way to wrap the bodies and how deep he plans on sending them… or burning them. Burning them was always easier.

“They’ll come after your family. Your daughters.”

He shakes his head, “I’ve ensured their safety. They’re safe.”

Against your better judgement, you tap your mic discreetly and turn it off. “I can’t let you take one for the team.”

He chuckles, “I’m a part of your team? I’m an Avenger?”

You can’t help but laugh with him. It’s not a light moment, but it’s a moment nonetheless. “Sure, Omar. But we don’t trade lives.”

“I had this coming.”

“No, you didn’t. You don’t.” Straining your ears and shutting your eyes, you mumble a quick prayer in hope that this plan of yours worked. You pass Ramirez your own gun and speak low. “Go.”

He’s shocked and he stutters. “Que haces? Que esta pasando?”

“There’s no one on the east side right now. All the guests were moved to the front. It’s clear. But not for long.” Pushing him to the door, you make sure he’s not leaving any bloody footprints behind. He’s clear. “Go.”

“This will kill us both.”

“But it will give us a head start.”

“No puedo hacer eso! No quiero hacer eso.”

“Omar, they’re not going to protect you once you’re charged. I can’t protect you then. So I need you to go.” You reach into your suit and pluck that random Roman coin you had stolen just a few days earlier. It was a token of good luck but you didn’t need it anymore. You avoid looking at the carving for fear that the likeness to Steve will make you change your mind. You place it in Ramirez’s hand and clench his fist shut. “If there’s one thing you can do for my stupid, anti-hero mentality, go.”

“Que hago con esto?”

“No me llamas. But let me find this.”

He looks at you with pity. It’s so much pity and understanding for your situation that you have to look away. “I owe you my life.”

Eyesight now on the wall over his shoulder, you offer him a thin smile. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

He stumbles at first, unsure if this is really happening, and finally passes by. “Y/N.”

You figure it’d be pretty rude not to answer. You turn slowly. He continues, face somber and head shaking with so much pity. “The amount of Hell that’s coming...”

It’s funny, really. You shoot him that famous smile you were known for. It tricks him like it’s supposed to. “I’m already going to Hell for the lives I’ve taken and the crimes I’ve committed. But the journey to my fate has been worth it.”

The estate is being swept as quickly as possible. There are agents dressing wounds, reading rights, snapping photos, on the phone, etc. It’s organized chaos and there’s so much happening but it’s never impossible to catch Steve’s side profile in a crowd. His nose is pinched up and he’s dealing with his wounds himself. No one is even looking at him.

Speed walking to him, you hook your arm in his and turn him around. He’s too tall, and your toes strain as you rise on them, but you wrap your arms around his neck anyway. He returns the gesture and squeezes you as hard as you’re squeezing him. After a few seconds, he whispers quietly.

“Where’d Ramirez go?”

If he saw your eyes, he would know you were lying. You keep your arms in place. “He got away.”

He tries to push you away but fails. “Y/N.”

“He got away,” you repeat. Slowly, regretfully, you pull back. “We should go.”

There’s a horrible crease in between his eyebrows and he knows he’s caught you in a lie, but he also knows that if there was one thing he knew most about you, it was that you were just as stubborn as he was. Quick with wit, always asking to be punched, and stubborn to the point it made strangers worry. So he doesn’t question it, and turns with you in the direction of the jet. “Maribel has the safehouse set up. Montana.”

“You sure you can make it to the jet? Should I get Bucky to come with us?”

The quinjet is empty except for a few supplies, a medical bag, and Friday. There are only two seats and by the way Steve’s bending over to show his true pain, you’d be flying it. Once you land, you can fish out those bullets.

“No one else.” Steve bites. He can’t risk anyone else - hell, he doesn’t even want to risk you. “I’ll protect you.”

You board the jet and watch as the trees sway in rhythm to the movements of everyone doing their job. It’s dark, and you push the fact that you’re so horribly night blind to the back of your skull, and it’s starting to eat away at you that the mission didn’t really go as planned. No one seems to notice yet that you never brought them the two main players they were hoping for. It only makes you close the quinjet faster. You sit Steve down in one of the seats and kneel before him. “And I you.”

If anyone asked, Steve would lie and say he was tearing up because of the bullets piercing his skin in half. To protect and be protected.

“Let’s go.”

TAGLIST: @dumb-ass-writer @justab-eautifulmess @supraveng @mycosmicparadise @missnighttigress

#steve rogers x reader #reader x steve rogers #avengers x reader #reader x avengers #Steve Rogers #steve rogers fanfiction #to topple #a giant #by Moni #captainsimagines #mob fanfic #trigger warnings listed #enemies to lovers #friends to enemies to lovers #mini-series #part eight #chapter eight #marvel fanfiction #marvel masterlist

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tmp-jatp · 3 years

Text

Guys I just wrote my first fic.

I mean, I’ve written fics before, but never finished them. But I was struck by inspiration and I’ve been trying harder to write while the muse is there because you never know when she’ll leave and not come back. I’m so excited to share this with you.

You can read it on AO3 here (2479 words btw) or read it below. I’d love it if you checked it out :)

It was safe to say that Luke’s mind was near constantly full to the brim with music. As a songwriter, it was one of his favorite parts of himself. He had notebooks galore, all chock-full of half-written verses and melodies he hummed once in the shower and chord progressions he’d heard in a dream.

Usually, once he freed them from his mind via his pen, they were gone, saved in ink on the page. He would come back to them, to draw inspiration, to weave pieces together, to fashion them into full-fledged songs eventually.

There was always the one song that stuck around, though. It would never leave him, no matter how hard he tried.

He would hear pieces bouncing around between his ears. Sometimes it was a drum beat. Sometimes he heard snippets of words. Sometimes it was two voices, his and another always unrecognizable one, blending more beautifully than he would’ve thought possible as their two sounds danced together.

The Song had always been there, since before Luke could remember. At first there wasn’t much, just three notes that repeated over and over. One day, five more came to accompany them. As he had grown older, he’d learned what The Song meant.

Luke’s parents loved to sing their Song to one another, or they would sing it by themselves when they were alone to feel the other’s presence with them. It was a beautiful sound, and Luke loved hearing it. He asked his mom to sing their Song to him each night before bed for far more years than he would ever admit to Alex, Reggie, or Bobby.

When Luke tried to sing his parents’ Song, either by himself or with them, he’d found he never could. Even though he’d heard it a million times, his mind couldn’t recreate any part of it.

Luke would get frustrated and pout, but his mom would kneel down and smile at him.

“That’s because it isn’t your Song,” she’d told him. “Your father and I get to share this with each other and with other people, and it’s something that’s just ours. You have your own Song, and it’s just yours. One day you’ll find the person you get to share it with.”

Luke knew from middle school that he wanted to be a musician. He’d always been crafting songs, even while his own Song taunted him in its incompleteness.

When he’d gotten his first guitar for Christmas in seventh grade, another gift had come with it: more of The Song. He didn’t know which gift he valued more.

Luke learned how to play chords and arpeggios. He learned techniques while his hands learned the dexterity they needed. He developed muscle memory and honed an ability for transcribing music from his ears to his fingers.

The more he learned, the more his mind seemed to go wild with ideas at possibilities for songs. He started collecting notebooks. He always had one near or on his person with a pen also within reach. They filled haphazardly at the whims of Luke’s imagination.

Luke would play his ideas on his guitar and let them drift through his bedroom. They’d grow on their own and become more. It never felt like Luke was writing them, they just came to him.

His parents called it a gift.

When he wasn’t playing his songs, Luke was playing his Song. It burned into his mind. When he didn’t know where to go next with a piece, his fingers would always bring him back home.

The four boys started a band together. They met in Bobby’s garage and played their hearts out. Luke collected stray ideas all together to form and fill in coherent songs that they would play.

They sounded good.

The boys all knew about each other’s Songs by then. Reggie’s had a country twang to it that drove Luke crazy. He liked to play his Song’s chord progressions on his bass, but he was learning the banjo too to help him fill out the sound in his head. Alex was always humming his between reps and during set up and tear down, lost in his own world. It was soft and sweet, like a lullaby. When he got anxious, he would tap out rhythms and vocalize melodies to help calm himself down. Bobby’s Song was energetic and exciting, a sharp contrast to his shy self. He liked to play it on his electric before practices started and would always be finishing up just as the boys came into the garage, so they never heard much more than that which would seep out into the backyard.

None of them ever tried to replicate each other’s Songs. Songs were personal, they were intimate. Anyway, it wasn’t like they could recreate them, even if they tried.

Luke tried one night to transpose his Song to paper, but it never worked. His pen would hover above the sheet but never write anything at all. He tried to get something, anything, even just a word down, but it wouldn’t come out, determined to stay only inside his head. That was what Songs did.

They named their band Sunset Curve and started playing gigs. Other people liked their music, too.

Bobby became less shy when he was on stage, drawing energy from his Song to create a confidence that he would wear. Alex let out his anxiety on the drumset in a different way than how his Song would relieve his anxiety but which ended up helping just the same. Reggie wrote more country music in his free time. Sunset Curve never played it.

Luke grew older. His voice deepened and matured. One afternoon in the middle of practice, he stopped playing. The other three petered out once they noticed.

“Luke?” Alex asked from behind the set. “You okay?”

There was a voice singing his Song now. His voice was singing his Song.

“Yeah,” Luke smiled and assured. He didn’t explain what happened.

But after practice, he was humming again, a tune which complimented what they’d heard him play before. Reggie, Bobby, and Alex shared a grin while Luke wasn’t looking.

All four of them were in the music program at their high school. There were a lot of talented students in their class.

In junior year, there were a bunch of new freshmen who came up into the class. They showed a lot of promise. Sunset Curve became friends with a group of four of the freshmen. Their groups meshed well as eight, but they also all found a complement within themselves. Alex and Carrie liked to dance together. Reggie and Flynn explored new music genres and played pranks on the other six. Bobby and Nick became study partners. And Luke? Luke had Julie.

She was...well, she was Julie. She wasn’t afraid to be herself and wore it proudly, with her butterfly hair clips and dozen friendship bracelets and doodled shoes.

Reggie suggested that their group of eight should have a name. Flynn was unamused by Bobby’s suggestion of “Octuple Trouble”.

Luke wondered what the four freshmen’s Songs sounded like. He never asked. Songs were intimate, and lots of people were shy about other people hearing them. Songs revealed the deepest parts of your soul.

Luke knew that his soul was pure music and music alone.

Besides his parents and his brothers, no one ever heard Luke’s Song. No one else needed to hear his Song. It was his.

Julie, Carrie, and Flynn showed the boys how to make friendship bracelets. They explained how you made them for each other and then tied it on each other’s wrists so they would never come off as long as the friendship would last. Luke thought he would be embarrassed by wearing friendship bracelets and how it would clash with his style of jean chains and cutoff tees and metal rings, but somehow he wasn’t. They all eight hung out at Carrie’s house and tied bracelets for hours that night, with Star Wars playing in the background on the TV at Reggie and Nick’s requests. By the time they were finished, beads were in mis-matched piles on the ottomans and slivers of tape and string sprinkled the floor. It was one of the best nights of their lives.

Luke wore his bracelets proudly. They were dorky, but they were so them and Luke loved them. He had a purple and blue knotted pattern from Julie, and an orange and green one with beads that read B-I-C-E-P-S---M-C-G-E-E from Flynn.

Carrie made Alex something pink that Luke never saw closely. They’d spent the whole evening with her teaching him some fancy pattern of knots that would make a picture, so theirs matched one another’s.

Luke didn’t see what Bobby, Nick, or Reggie had made or for whom. He’d been too focused on his bracelet for Julie. He tried to channel all of his love for the friendship he’d found with her and with all eight of them into the strings, but his fingers that normally were so dextrous and able on the guitar couldn’t hold the strands with the right tension and it ended up a mess.

She loved it and wore it anyway.

Luke eventually had one bracelet from each person in Octuple Trouble and had given one to each person in turn.

Luke’s Song still plagued his mind day-in and day-out. Every day it felt it was more complete. He heard it all the way through now, but even still it wasn’t complete. There was always his guitar playing, but there was another instrument dueting his. Luke knew what the instrument was in his heart but he couldn’t name it when he tried. It was just...there. A sound that he knew better than any other but it was also different than anything he’d ever heard before. He heard his voice singing all the words, and he heard another voice, too, but it belonged to nobody. The other voice was the biggest mystery to him. It made him feel like he was home but like he didn’t know where home was.

A few months into junior year, Julie changed. She became more reserved and stopped playing in music class. Luke knew why. He didn’t know how he could help, though. He tried to just be there, and to make sure she knew he always would be.

Sunset Curve was gaining a reputation and playing more and more gigs.

Carrie started her own group, Dirty Candi. At some point she cut off all of her bracelets. Alex still went to all of their performances to support her.

Julie and Flynn stayed closer than ever before, but the rest of them...drifted.

A part of Luke fractured alongside their group. He was pretty sure a part of each of the rest of them did, too.

Senior year started and the eight of them felt practically like strangers once more. They were still all in music class, but it was different. It had been different for a long time. Nick and Bobby didn’t study together anymore. Alex and Carrie still hung out, but Reggie and Flynn hadn’t pranked anyone since November. Luke missed Julie.

Alex came to practice late one afternoon in September with wonder in his eyes and voice about a skateboarder he’d met.

“Well, he sort of ran into me...literally, and we both fell down. And I scraped up my hands pretty bad on the concrete trying to catch myself-” Alex showed them the bandaged heels of his palms “- and it stung, like, really bad. You know how I have that nervous habit where I hum my Song when I’m anxious? Yeah, okay, so I started to do that while he apologized and grabbed band-aids out of his pocket - I don’t know why he had band-aids, Reggie, probably because he gets scrapes pretty often too. But so I was humming my Song, and he started humming it too.”

Luke wondered what it felt like to hear your other half complete you.

A year after Julie changed back in junior year, she changed again. She came back. She played in class again and Luke was once again in awe of the power packed into this sophomore. He’d forgotten just how amazing she was. He didn’t know what had triggered this return, but he didn’t care. She was back.

Three weeks later, Luke was looking for Mrs. Harrison. He needed her to sign some form for him for his guidance counselor, something about graduation requirements. Luke hadn’t been paying attention.

He had his hand on the handle to the music room and was about to twist it open before he heard a sound from inside.

Three notes, repeated. Five notes. The whole sequence repeated once more.

Any thoughts of forms fell from his mind. Luke opened the door with a fervor he’d never experienced before. He rushed into the room but only made it two steps in before his shoes squeaked to a halt on the wooden floor.

Luke locked eyes with Julie. She sat behind the piano, in a black dress he’d never seen before.

The paper in his hand fluttered to the floor. Wordlessly, Luke crossed the room and picked up Mrs. Harrison’s acoustic guitar. He slipped the strap over his neck and faltered. What if he was wrong?

He took a deep breath and pushed his doubts down.

Luke turned around and saw Julie, who was watching him with a concerned curiosity.

No turning back. No regrets.

Luke’s hands started playing the first song he’d ever played. The song he’d played a billion times. It was etched into his dreams and it framed his every thought. Luke played his Song.

Julie’s eyes widened in recognition and her jaw dropped open.

Luke started singing and that seemed to spring Julie out of her stupor. Her fingers started moving across the keys in chords that accompanied his plucking.

She picked up the verse where he left off and Luke was hearing The Song for the first time. The other instrument that melded with his was the piano underneath Julie’s fingers. The other voice was hers.

Luke could see it in her eyes. She felt it, too.

Home.

It was exhilarating.

They filled the music room with their Song - no longer his, it was theirs - but the entire world was just them two. Nothing else existed but their music together.

Luke walked around the side of the piano while he played so he could be closer to Julie. He saw his god-awful friendship bracelet on her wrist while she played and smiled at the part of her that he carried on his, too.

That wasn’t the only part of her he’d been carrying, he realized.

Their Song.

Wow.

The two of them drew to a close, out of breath with amazement.

We create

A perfect harmony

They locked eyes. They were home.

@pink-flame @thedeathdeelers surprise you’re on my taglist

#i wrote a thing #i'm really proud of this one #soulmate au #it's fluffy #yay #juke #jatp fic #jatp #julie and the phantoms #fluff #mine #my writing #octuple trouble

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mihidecet · 3 years

Text

Sbi&CO d&d AU: Don’t Keep me Waiting (2/?)

I’m back! Chapter two is finally here and, as promised, it’s a bit of a beefy one!! I do hope you’ll like it!

A special shoutout to Cassie and my sister, for basically creating the newly added character, and that anon who totally didn’t guess who was coming a week before I posted the chapter xD

The noise inside the tavern hits them like a tidal wave the instant they open the heavy looking oak doors: a cacophony of people talking, friends cheering, music playing and orders being shouted from one side of the room to the other.

On one hand, it makes Wilbur flinch and recoil, his ears ringing with the sudden switch from being in the quietness of a mostly desert street to this; the good thing is nobody really pays any particular attention to their group entering. They do of course gather some looks and stares - they're a big group after all, most people here are either in small, four-people groups or even smaller.

But Techno's trademark pink hair is safely hidden under a hood, in order to allow him to walk around without getting constant stares - respectful, fearful or otherwise. They're here to have fun, not pick fights; at least that is what they had decided on before signing up for the tournament. Except for Tommy: to quote the little demon, they were there to win.

Nevertheless.

Wilbur is there, at that moment, in that tavern, to play and to share his music with a willing audience. So, while most of the others hurry to grab a big enough table and some extra chairs, Wilbur makes his way towards the innkeeper's desk, tail swinging back and forth, mind already running with ideas on what to play for this specific audience - adventurers are a picky sort, they either like your song or they boo you out of the tavern, and he wants to give a good impression especially with the tournament coming up-

The innkeeper sees him and Phil approaching, his eyes darting to his brand new splendidly hand carved guitar - he will never ever ever be able to repay Tubbo - before he lets out a tired sigh. Which comes crashing down onto Wil's mood like an avalanche, covering instantly all his bright ideas and expectations.

It's Phil's hand on the small of his back that brings him back into focus, prompting him to regain the sway in his step - no time to mope, they're here for at least another month.

"I don't suppose you have a spot open for tonight?" He asks, putting on his best vendor voice, and he can see the tiredness in the eyes of the person in front of him.

"I do not. You can have half an hour in two days. Name?" The person asks, voice flat with the face of somebody who's had to repeat this process so many times just tonight. So Wilbur swallows down his protest - half an hour in two days is a horrible deal - and nods amicably.

"Wilbur, Wilbur Soot." The innkeeper looks to be thinking intensely for a moment - a spark of hope shines in his chest as he hopes for a moment that his name will be recognised, since he's spent the past years building up his fame by working tirelessly -, then they shake their head and write down something that vaguely resembles his name next to some numbers. Wilbur smothers the irrational, embarrassing disappointment that threatens to rise in his throat.

"You have my thanks, good sir!" He adds enthusiastically, voice pitched a bit too higher than normal, because a part of him feels for the poor soul who has to deal with people of all sorts, and swivels on his feet.

Phil's hand on his shoulder brings him out of his own mind as he's definitely not storming away from the poor innkeeper's table. He doesn't even need to say anything: Wil deflates instantly, tense shoulders sagging instantly and a long sigh leaving him as he leans into the elf.

"I really wanted to play." Wilbur grumbles as Phil's hand moves from one shoulder to the other, effectively bringing him into a half-hug and ruffling his hair with a chuckle.

"I know, and you're going to." The elf replies, tone calm and reassuring, and Wil can't help but ache a little, feeling like a kid all over again and not liking it even a little bit. Once, he would have stayed quiet and stewed into his own brooding mood, but he knows now that he can rely on the others for situations like these. So he ignores how awkward he feels at protesting for something as silly as this, and lets himself pout.

"Half an hour is so little, though. And since we're not taking any jobs for a while it could help with paying for the tavern." Phil quietly hums in response and experience tells him that he's pondering over a good answer. Wil's eyes scan the tavern - bigger than he first realised - looking for Tubbo's bee, as he figures it's going to be the easiest thing to recognise in the literal sea of adventures of all kinds.

"You know we don't need it. And I'm sure once they hear how good you are, they'll be asking you to play every night." Phil comments, starting to guide him towards what he thinks is the right direction, but Wil is a bit more preoccupied with preening, slightly flustered, due to the compliment. One would expect him to be used to them, but the thing with his friends is that praises from them always feel a little more true, a little more honest, and they always hit him in the best way possible.

When they join the rest of the team - clustered around a single medium sized table - Wil's mood has significantly improved.

There's food already waiting for him and as soon as he sits down a fox jumps in his lap and curls up, snout raised towards him to slowly blink at him before he buries his head in his tail.

Wilbur starts digging into his meal with gusto, lightly scratching behind Fundy's ear as the shifter decides to take a nap.

The tavern is, overall, a nice place. It's cool to see so many adventurers gathered together, and hearthwarming to be able to see many new friendships blossoming.

After the team announcements that same morning, there are some people that have found themselves needing to look for strangers basing themselves only on names - or worse, nicknames.

Wilbur figures that the people that are in the best position to find their teammates are those who have been paired with bards, as there have been half a dozen different people performing ever since they sat down to eat.

Luckily for him, his own team has no such problems. Tubbo, Niki and Fundy, on the other hand, are still waiting to learn who their fourth is going to be. Since the training grounds will soon be open for team practices, starting from the next morning in fact, they plan on looking for them there.

Tymora, or Lady Luck, has apparently other plans for them.

It's nearing midnight when a short man with only one eye and a thick Draconic accent walks up the stage for what seems like the hundredth time that night. In his hand, the same piece of paper that has been progressively getting more and more ragged as the evening went on. He unfolds it as he walks up, thanking the tired looking bard that is leaving the stage, and it rips in half - his only reaction is a sigh and a shrug.

He squints, putting together the parchment and pursing his lips as the two ripped halves slowly mold back together, then calls out, somehow magically raising his voice over the sound of the tavern's clients talking and clapping for the leaving bard.

"Next up: Quackity! Come up the stage!"

Fundy's fox claws suddenly dig into Wilbur's legs, making him wince in pain and choke on his sip of mead. A split second later, he's got a lap full of disgruntled mage.

Tubbo, on the other side of the table, is standing on his chair in order to see the stage over a firbolg's shoulders - holding himself up by using Tommy's head, who is extremely unwilling.

"A bard?!" Fundy exclaims, prompting Wilbur to move his eyes from the stage towards him with a frown.

"What's wrong with bards?!" He asks, helping him get off of him and into his abandoned chair. Before Fundy can find a way to put his rebuttal into coherent words, Wilbur's eyes snap back toward the stage as people are starting to give a quiet, tentative clap for the newcomer.

The kid looks human, probably about Niki's age, and he sits down a bit awkwardly on the stool he brought with himself before plucking a couple of strings on his guitar. They're sitting quite far from the stage, but Wilbur's trained eye still manages to catch the fact that that is an old and well used one - his heart squeezes just a bit at the thought of his former source pride and joy, the guitar he travelled with ever since he left home.

Wilbur knows, viscerally, of the fear that always precedes a performance, especially in front of a new crowd. Especially in front of adventures, whose tastes are ever changing and easy to sway from the crowd's perspective: adventurers either like you, or they don't, and if they don't you're not gonna have a good time.

And yet.

After checking his guitar, the kid looks up with a bright smile and a confident expression and starts playing - no buildup, no further introduction, no boisterous announcements of his titles or fame.

And by the gods does he play.

He's good, but he's not just technically good: he's an entertainer, plays with his guitar as much as he plays with words and with the crowd - clearly making up verses for his songs to fit what happens around him, bantering with the adventurers that step up to his plays of words. Sometimes he bursts out laughing mid verse and despite that his fingers never stop flying over the cords, his laughter becoming part of the song itself.

Halfway through, he catches Techno's eyes: the shifter raises an eyebrow and Wil simply nods, so Techno nods back

The tiefling is glad to know that they both think he's good, they had been worried about leaving the three newest additions to their team alone with a random stranger.

And if the enthusiastic way the rest of the team is clapping for him, they're going to get along more than well.

Half an hour later a flushed and visibility sweaty Quackity makes his way down the stage, followed by a thunderous applause and some occasional claps on the back; one passing adventurer even thrusts a pint of ale into his hands, prompting what looks to be a flustered reaction from the bard as he quickly makes his way out of the tavern.

Either that or he needed some air, which was completely understandable, especially after such an active performance.

Wilbur is about to comment on the stellar introduction they just received when the sudden noise of hands slamming onto the table - their table - makes him jump in his skin.

"We have to go and say hi!" Declares Tubbo, still standing on the chair - now with Niki helping him not fall to the ground.

Tommy nods enthusiastically next to him and even Fundy seems to be about to agree. To be quite honest, Wilbur wants to join in too and is therefore about to stand up when Phil raises his hands to get them to slow down.

"You're gonna scare him if you all corner him outside. How about his three teammates go, on their best behaviour?" The elf concludes, shooting Fundy a pointed look.

The shifter gapes, looking extremely insulted, then he starts to protest and finally he sighs with a pout. Ah, the wonders of people arguing with Phil.

"Alright, no pranks and no scamming. Pinky promise." Fundy huffs out, crossing his arms over his chest and slouching down into his chair. Wilbur does his best to chuckle under his breath, because he's not any better, he's just not the target of the reprimand for this time.

Then, Phil's stare turns to his left.

"You too, Tubbo. No scams." He states, prompting Tubbo to almost fall over as he agitatedly protests, spluttering out indignantly.

Exiting into the coldness of the night is almost a shock, especially when compared to the almost too warm air inside the tavern.

The sounds coming from inside are almost completely silenced, and when they close the doors behind them the stillness of the night is all they can hear. Fundy shudders for a moment, his body struggling to adapt to the lack of heat, when his instinctive reaction would normally be to morph back into his fox form. He snaps his fingers together, conjuring a small flame in his hands to keep himself warm, and sees Tubbo moving closer to him before he remembers that ah, right, the kid can't see in the dark.

Still, it's not hard to find their objective - their future friend, as he's already been dubbed by Tubbo. Quackity is leaning on the outside wall, right next to an illuminated window, pint abandoned on his side as he looks at the night sky, one foot tapping on the ground as if following a silent melody.

In the beginning, the plan had involved Niki leading the way, so that she could introduce the three of them and they could all make arrangements to meet the next morning at the training fields, so that they could all be friends and hang out and win the tournament.

Said plan is instantly scrapped the instant Tubbo lets out a small gasp, eyes going wide as he hurries to duck around Niki, swiftly avoiding Fundy’s hand reaching out to grab at his shirt. The young human scrambles to reach the sitting bard, who naturally flinches and stares in confusion at the kid running towards him.

As Tubbo finally gets close, he stops and points at Quackity’s head.

"Hi! You have a moth on your head."

Fundy’s groan is so loud, it reaches the two of them even though he is currently a couple of steps behind and hiding his face in his hands. Niki’s high pitched giggles follow suit, and are soon joined by a shocked burst of laughter - loud, bright, just like his music - from the human sitting in front of Tubbo.

"I- Hi! I do?" Quackity asks, voice tilting upwards as he looks up, as if he could be able to see his own head by rolling his eyes into his skull.

Tubbo giggles seeing him go cross-eyed, and reaches up to gently take the moth in his hand. The little bug’s wings flutter a little as he is moved, apparently not glad to be disturbed from his perch, but he seems to begrudgingly accept his new spot since Tubbo holds him close to the light coming from the tavern’s window. His wings are very pretty, a light grey with black streaks into them that look like the splatters of ink that cover the pages of Tubbo’s various notebooks - his ever growing collection of plans and schematics for new and old projects. According to Tubbo's admittedly limited experience with moths, this one is smaller than one would expect. Very tiny and friendly - "just like you!" Wilbur would probably say if he were there.

"Aw, look at him! Isn't he cute?" Tubbo coos at his new friend, prompting a slightly awkward chuckle from Quackity as the man moves just slightly away from the insect.

"I'm not a fan of bugs, but, uh- he does look fancy." Q eyes nervously the other two, but Tubbo ignores it, too taken with his new little pal to take care of trivial things like introductions. Niki just smiles warmly and opens her mouth to do so - possibly to also reassure the poor human - , but Tubbo is already speaking again.

"My friend can speak to bugs! He said moths always think of food and light." Quackity is once again seemingly stunned, stuck between the awkwardness of not knowing who the people surrounding him are and the confusion regarding the topic of discussion. He blinks, shooting a look towards the bug in Tubbo's hand before quickly looking away with a light grimace, choosing to focus on Tubbo himself.

"Well, little buddy better not get hurt trying to reach a flame!" Q jokes, letting out a small chuckle. Tubbo's face turns from awed to serious in a split second, his other hand moving to cup around the moth.

"That won't happen, I'll protect him!" He answers determinately, nodding solemnly towards Quackity, who can only gape for a moment before bursting out laughing again, shaking his head a little.

"So, uh … Is there a reason why you've cornered me, or are you just fans?" He asks after a moment, once his chuckles have died down, turning a raised eyebrow towards Fundy and Niki, still standing a bit awkwardly behind Tubbo.

"Oh, we are your teammates! We recognised your name and figured we should say hi." Niki explains with a smile, moving to crouch next to Tubbo so that the young human can move the moth closer to her.

"You- oh! Oh! -" Quackity exclaims, eyes widening and suddenly looking at them with less confusion "-That's good to know, what a coincidence!" He comments, chuckling to himself as he wipes a hand over his face, grimacing at the dampness that comes away with it - he really needs to wash up.

"And yet! The gods smile upon us." Niki says with a smile, watching as the moth flutters his wings to move from Tubbo's hand to hers.

Nobody seems to notice the unimpressed look that Quackity shoots towards the night sky, but Tubbo's eyes snap towards him the instant he lets out a deep sigh.

"I guess so. Anyhow. I'm going to pass out on my bed, I'll see you tomorrow morning?" The human asks, tone a sweet mixture of enthusiastic, hopeful and exhausted as he moves away from the wall - his guitar in one hand and the untouched mug of ale in the other.

Tubbo nods enthusiastically, grinning widely at him; next to him, Niki smiles kindly, while Fundy goes for a much more noncommittal nod of his head.

Quackity's eyes linger on the three of them for just a moment more, as if trying to figure something out, then he nods to himself and raises the mug to mimic a toast in their honour, opening the door to the inside of the tavern.

"Don't keep me waiting!"

#sbi&co dnd au #sbi dnd au #now sbi&co #wilbur soot #technoblade #philza #ph1lza #tommyinnit #tubbo #nihachu #itsfundy #quackity

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innuendostudios · 5 years

Video

youtube

Here’s How to Radicalize a Normie, a video essay on how the Alt-Right and their fellow travelers recruit. Clocking in at 41 minutes, 6756 words, 633 individual drawings, and 27 sources (including three full books), it is by far the longest and most heavily-researched video in The Alt-Right Playbook. I am very tired.

It took so long to put this behemoth together that my Patreon started to dip. So, maybe a little more than usual, if you want to keep seeing videos like these, please consider backing me on Patreon.

Transcript below the cut.

Say, for the sake of argument, your friend Gabe is starting to worry you.

Gabe’s always been just, you know, a regular guy. Not very political. He likes video games, sci-fi, comics, Star Wars, and anime. White guy shit. The only offbeat thing about him is you suspect there’s like a 20% chance he’s a furry. For all intents and purposes, Gabe is a normie.

But recently Gabe’s been spending a lot of time on some radically conservative forums, and listening to radically conservative podcasts, and picking some radically conservative arguments with you and your friends. You never would have expected this, not from Gabe, and, given the speed it’s happened, it’s worrying to think where it might be headed.

How have the Alt-Right gotten their hooks into your friend?

If you’ve ever known a Gabe, this video is for you. Here’s How to Radicalize a Normie.

Step 1: Identify the Audience

What you need to know before we begin is: around 2013, the Nazis went online.

Hate groups in the US, as tracked by the Southern Poverty Law Center, had been growing in number since the noughts, but, between 2012 and 2014, they dropped by almost a quarter. Patriot groups dropped by over a third. However, hate crimes stayed about the same. Radical conservatism was not shrinking, but decentralizing. Still radical, still often violent, but now full of white nationalist nomads unlikely to join a formal organization.

This didn’t make them harmless. What it did was protect their asses from the typical hate group cycle: getting the public’s attention, making allies in conservative media, swelling their numbers, and then eventually disgracing themselves with failures, infighting, and, often enough, members committing horrific acts of violence, which come with social and sometimes legal consequences for all the other members.

So the Alt-Right and their fellow travelers these days don’t so much have members. They have hashtags, followers, viewers, and subscribers. This insulates them from their own audience. If Gabe, as a member of that audience, were to go out and commit a crime on their behalf, there’d be little doubt they had a hand in radicalizing him, but it’d be very hard to claim they told him to do it. On some of these sites, where Gabe spends hours and hours of his day, he’s never created an account or left a comment; the people radicalizing him don’t even know he’s there.

This distributed nature is what makes the Alt-Right, and the movements connected to it, unique. (You may remember a notable proof-of-concept for this strategy.) Doing almost everything online has, as compared with traditional hate movements, dramatically increased their reach and inoculated them from consequence. The trade-off, as we will see, is a lack of control.

And so we come to Gabe.

Gabe exists at the intersection of the kinds of people the Alt-Right is looking for - straight white cis men who feel emasculated by modern society, primarily, though they do make exceptions - and the kinds of people who are vulnerable to recruitment. Gabe fits the first profile in that he got bullied in high school, and often feels he has to hide his nerdy side for fear of getting ridiculed. The Alt-Right also has success with men who can’t get laid or recently got divorced or feel anxious about an influx of non-white people in their community. These things can make one feel like less than the confident white man they’re “supposed” to be. And it’s the closest they will ever come to being minoritized.

Regarding the second profile, it’s important to know that Gabe is not categorically different from you or me. He’s a cishet white dude - his problems are not unique. There isn’t a ton of research into the demography of the Alt-Right, but there may be a higher-than-average chance Gabe has a history of being abused or comes from a broken home. You don’t know if it’s true of Gabe, he’s never said. But most abuse survivors don’t become Nazis. The things that make people like Gabe recruitable tend to be situational: it happens often during periods of transition, as dramatic as the death of a loved or as benign as moving to a new city. Things that make people ask big life questions. Gabe has concerns like economic precarity, not knowing his place in a changing world, stressful working conditions. In other words, Gabe is suffering under late capitalism, same as everyone, and it’s entirely plausible he could have gone down the path to becoming a Leftist.

This is not to make an “economic anxiety” argument: the animating force of the Far Right is and always has been bigotry. But the Alt-Right targets Gabe by treating his “economic anxiety” as one of many things bigotry can be sold as a solution to. It is their aim that, when dissatisfied white men go looking for answers, they find the Alt-Right before they find us.

Step Two: Establish a Community

Were Gabe pledging an old-school hate movement, there would probably be a recruiter to usher him into an existing community. But that’s the kind of formalized interaction modern extremists try to avoid. Online extremism has many points of entry, and everybody’s journey is unique, so rather than be comprehensive we will focus on what are, in my estimation, the two most common pathways: the Far Right creates a community Gabe is likely to stumble into, or infiltrates a community Gabe is already in.

The stumble-upon method has two main branches, one of which is just “Gabe ends up on a chan board,” which we’ve already done a video about. The other is kind of the polar opposite of 4chan’s cult of anonymity: Gabe ends up in the fandom of a Far Right thought leader.

These folks are charismatic media personalities (that’s charismatic according to Gabe’s tastes, not ours; I don’t understand it, either). These personalities may gain traction on any number of platforms, from podcasts to reportage to blogging, though the most effective platform for redpilling is, and yes I am biting the hand that feeds me, YouTube. They may get Gabe’s attention through fairly standard means, like talking about or even generating controversy to get themselves trending, while some of the more committed will employ dubious SEO tactics like clickbait, google bombing, and data voids (just pause for definitions, we don’t have time).

What they tend to have in common, especially the most accessible ones, is that they don’t present themselves as entry points to the radical Right. In fact, many did not set out to be Far Right thought leaders, and may not think of themselves as such (though they are often selling products, of which the Alt-Right are among their biggest purchasers, and it’s not like they’re turning the money away). How they present is the same way anyone presents who wants to be successful on social media: accessible, approachable, authentic. The face-to-face relationship a budding extremist forms with their recruiter or the leader of their hate group’s local chapter are here folded into one parasocial relationship with a complete stranger.

Why this person appeals to Gabe is they’re not selling politics as politics, but conservatism as a kind of lifestyle brand. They rely heavily on criticizing or ridiculing the Left: feminists are oversensitive, Black people unintelligent, queer folks doomed to loneliness, and trans people insane; I dunno if it’s a coincidence that these are all things Gabe thinks about himself in his low moments. By contrast, they don’t sell conservatism as having sounder policies or a more coherent moral framework, but that abandoning progressive principles and embracing conservative ones will make Gabe happier. Remember, Gabe isn’t looking for white nationalism or misogyny, what he wants is the cure to soul-sickness, and these friendly micro-celebs are here to offer a shot of life advice with politics as the chaser. It is extremely important that politics be presented as a set of affects, not a set of beliefs.

The second pathway is infiltration, which is its own beast. Media personalities sometimes become gateways to the Right almost by accident: they do something edgy, a part of their audience reacts positively, and, facing no real consequence, they do it more; this leads to further positive reinforcement from conservative fans, the rest of the audience acclimates, and the cycle repeats, the personality pushing the envelope further and further based on what flies with their increasingly conservative audience. In this way, they become a right-wing figure by both radicalizing and being radicalized by their audience.

Infiltration is deliberate.

The Far Right will reliably target any community that has 1) a large, white, male population, 2) whose niche interests allow them to feel vaguely marginalized, and 3) who are not used to progressive critique of said interests. This isn’t to say progressive critique doesn’t exist, or hasn’t been baked into the property from the beginning, but that it has been, so far, easy for white guys to ignore. As such, progressives within that community probably don’t talk politics much, and women and minorities are perfectly welcome to post, same as anyone, but just, you know, don’t, don’t make identity politics, you know, like, a thing.

Given Gabe’s proclivities, he’s probably already in a number of fan communities where he can geek out and not get teased. And this is where the Far Right will go looking for him

Communities are at their most vulnerable to infiltration at times of political discord. This can happen naturally - say, a new property in the fandom has a Black protagonist - or it can be provoked - say, a bunch of channers join the forum and say provocative things about race to get people arguing - or both. Left to its own devices, the community might sort out its differences and maybe even come out more progressive than they started. But, with the right pressure applied in the right moment, these communities can devolve into arguments about the need to remove a nebulously-defined “politics” from the conversation.

The adage about bros on the internet is “‘political’ means anything I disagree with,” but it’d be more accurate to say, here, “‘political’ means anything on which the community disagrees.” For instance, “Nazis are bad” is an apolitical statement because everyone in the community agrees. It’s common sense, and therefore neutral. But, paradoxically, “Nazis are good” is also apolitical; because “Nazis are bad” is the consensus, “Nazis are good” must be just an edgy joke, and, even if not, the community already believes the opposite, so the statement is harmless. Tolerable. However, “feminism is good” is a political statement, because the community hasn’t reached consensus. It is debatable, and therefore political, and you should stop talking about it. And making political arguments, no matter how rational, is having an agenda, and having an agenda is ruining the community.

(Now, it is curious how the things that provoke the most disagreement tend to be whichever ones make white dudes uncomfortable. One of life’s great, unanswerable mysteries.)

You can gather where this is going: a community that doesn’t tolerate progressivism but does tolerate Nazism is going to start collecting Nazis, Nazis whose goal is to drive a wedge between the community and the Left. Once the Left acknowledges, “Hey, your community’s developing a Nazi problem,” the Nazis - who are, remember, trusted, apolitical members of the community who might just be kidding about all the Nazi shit - say, “Did you hear that, guys?! Those cultural Marxists just called all of us Nazis!” Wedge. Similarly, any community members who say, “but Nazis though” are framed as infiltrators pushing an agenda, even if they’ve been there longer than the Nazis have. They get the wedge, too.

This is how fandoms radicalize. They are built as - yeah, I’ll say it - safe spaces for nerds, weebs, and furries, and are told that the Left is a threat to their safety. Given a choice between leaving a community that has mattered to him for years and simply adjusting to the community’s shifting politics, the assumption is that Gabe will stay. This assumption is right often enough that a lot of fandoms have been colonized.

What is true of both of these methods - Gabe finding the Right or the Right finding him - is that Gabe does not come nor stay for the ideology. He’s here for the community, the sense of belonging, of being with his people, of having his fears validated and his enjoyment shared. The ideology is simply the price of admission.

Step Three: Isolate

There is a vast, interconnected network of Far Right communities out there, and Gabe is, at this point, only on the periphery. In order to keep him in, they need to disrupt his relationships to other communities, and become, more and more, his primary online social space. Having made this space hostile to the Left, they now seek to break his connections to progressives elsewhere in his life.

This is hard to do online. The whole appeal of moving radicalism to the internet is that your away-from-keyboard life doesn’t have to change. You are crypto the moment you log off. Some thought leaders will encourage their audience to cut ties with Family of Origin, or “deFOO,” but, even then, they can’t monitor whether the audience has actually done it the way an in-person movement could. And so alienating Gabe from the Left is less controlled, and, consequently, may be less total. How much Gabe isolates is up to him.

But the vast majority of Far Right media presumes an alienation from the Left. Part of conservative bloggers and YouTubers making the Left look pathetic is doing a lot take-downs and responses. This is a constant repetition of the Left’s arguments for the purpose of mockery, and, for Gabe, it starts to replace any engagement with progressive media directly. He soon knows the Left only through caricature. It also trains him, if he does directly engage, to approach the Left with the same combative stance as his role models. (For reference, see my comment section.) And this is only if he doesn’t partake in one of the many active boycotts of “SJW media.”

In addition to mocking the Left’s arguments, they also, curiously, appropriate them. This is one part sanitization: liberal centrism is more socially acceptable; indeed, many figures on the outer layers think of themselves as moderates, even as they serve as gateways to radicalism. But, also, many of Gabe’s problems could be addressed by progressive leftism, so they sell him racist, sexist versions of it. Yes, there is a problem with workers being underpaid and overextended, but the solution isn’t unions, it’s deporting immigrants; yes, there is a chronic loneliness and anger to being a man in the modern age, but it’s not because of the toxic masculine expectations placed on you by the patriarchy, it’s women being slutty; yes, wealth disparity does mean a tiny percentage of elites have more influence over culture and politics than the rest of us combined, but the problem isn’t capitalism, it’s the Jews. And it’s hard for Gabe to reject these ideas without, in the process, rejecting the progressive ideas they’re copied from; the Right’s “take the red pill” is, to the untrained eye, similar to the Left’s “get woke.” (Or, at least, the bowdlerized version of “get woke” that is no longer specifically about race which came to fashion when white people started saying it, grumble grumble.)

Take the red pill or reject them both; either is a step to the right.

As this rhetoric slips into his day-to-day conversation, even as seemingly harmless “irreverence,” it may strain relationships with people who are not entertained by this shit. Off-color comments about race and gender can certainly be wearying for female and non-white friends, which can lead to a passive distance or an eventual confrontation [“why is everyone but me so sensitive?!”], which only seem to confirm what his reactionary community says about liberal snowflakes. If he says these things on social media, he may get his account suspended, and, if he comes back under an alt, you can bet his new reactionary friends will be the first to reconnect, applaud the behavior that got him banned, and repeat should he get banned again. A few cycles of this and he’s lost touch with everyone else.

Also, his adoption of the insular, meme-laden terminology of this community makes him less and less comprehensible to outsiders.

Over time, sources of information get replaced with community-approved ones: conservative news, conservative YouTube, conservative Wikipedia if he’s really committed. The Algorithm soon takes note and stops recommending media from the Left. He stops watching shows with a “liberal agenda,” which usually means shows starring women and people of color. Now, there is evidence that the human mind responds to fictional characters similarly to real people, and that consuming diverse media can decrease bigotry in ways roughly analogous to having a diverse group of friends, which is one of many reasons we say representation matters. By consuming a homogenous media diet, Gabe stymies his ability to have even parasocial relationships with anyone who isn’t a cishet conservative white dude or one of their approved exceptions.

To the extent that any of this happens, it happens at Gabe’s discretion and at his own chosen pace. It has not been forced on him, only encouraged and rewarded. But the fact that it hasn’t been forced can make him all the more willing to accept it, because it seems safe to consider; even though his life and social circle are changing to accommodate, he does not feel committed. But many Gabes have walked these halls, and, if they close the door behind them, there’s nowhere left to go but down.

Step Four: Raise their Power Level

(...and they say we ruined anime.)

Consider the ecosystem of the Alt-Right as layers of an onion, with Gabe sitting at the edge and ready to traverse towards the center. (No, I’m not just going to reiterate the PewDiePipeline, though, if you haven’t seen it, go do that.)

The outer layer of the onion is extremism at its most plausibly deniable. Without careful scrutiny, the public-facing figureheads could pass as dispassionate, and the websites as merely problematic rather than softly fascist. It is valuable if Gabe believes this as well; that, at this stage, he believe the bigotry is simply trolling, the extremists an insignificant minority, and any report of harassment faked. That he believe where he is is as deep as the rabbit hole goes. And that he continue to believe this at each successive layer.

People in the deepest crevices of the Alt-Right self-report getting redpilled on multiple issues at different times in their journey to the center of the onion. If Gabe’s first red pill is about the SJWs coming for his free speech, he’ll think that’s all anyone in his community believes; there’s no racism here, people are just making a point about their right to use slurs. Then, when he gets redpilled on the white genocide, he’ll laugh at those Alt-Lite cucks who tried to sweep the race realists under the rug, and at himself for having once been one, but acknowledge that those channels and websites are still useful for onboarding people, so he won’t denounce them. At the same time, nobody takes those manosphere betas seriously.

And this process is reiterated with every pill swallowed: gender essentialism, autogynephilia, birtherism, Sandy Hook truth, pizzagate, QAnon if he’s really out there. The heart of the onion is typically the Jewish Question, but these can happen in any order, and in any number. But each layer sells itself as being, finally, the ultimate truth. Each denies the validity of the others; the layers ahead don’t exist, they’re made up my liberals, while the people behind are asleep where you are now awake. That’s why they chose “the red pill” as their metaphor: take it, and everything will be revealed. That’s why it cozies up with conspiracism. But what’s supposed to follow is that this knowledge help Gabe in some way, and it doesn’t. Blaming immigrants doesn’t actually fix the economy, and hating women doesn’t make men less lonely. But, having been alienated from everything outside the onion, once that sinks in, the only recourse on offer is to seek out the next pill.

And pills are easy to find. Those within the network have laissez-faire relationships, even as they, on paper, disavow one another. When they need a source or a guest host, they aren’t going to go to the Left; they’re going to feature each other. The Left is the enemy; their ideas are beneath consideration, and the only reason to engage them is for public humiliation. [Shapiro’s book.] But you can interview “western chauvinists” and that doesn’t mean you’re endorsing them, just, you know, it’s fine to hear ‘em out, nothing should be off-limits in the marketplace of ideas. Besides, Nazis are apolitical.

And because these folks keep showing up in each others’ metadata, regardless of what they say, Google thinks there is definitely a relationship between the guy “just asking questions” and the guy denying the Holocaust. Gabe is softly exposed to many flavors of conservatism just slightly more radical than he is now, and is expected, at the very least, to not question their presence. This is an environment where deradicalizing - listening to the Left - would be sleeping with the enemy, but radicalizing further? You do you, buddy.

Gabe’s emotional journey, however, is somewhat more complex. If you’ve spent any time reading or watching reactionary media you’ve probably noticed it’s really. fucking. repetitive. It’s a few thousand phrasings of the same handful of arguments. Like, there’s only so many jokes about attack helicopters! But these people just crank out content, and most of it’s derivative; the reason to pick one personality over another isn’t because they say something different, but because they say it differently. Gabe just picks the affect it’s delivered in.

Repetition dulls the shock of the most egregious statements, making them appear normal and prepping him for more extreme ideas. Meanwhile, the arguments themselves? They’re not good. (BreadTube will never run out of shit to debunk.) They are repetitive because they’re not good. They’re mantric. A good argument you only need to hear one time; if you can follow it, internalize it, and explain it to someone else, you know you’ve understood it. But a bad argument can’t convince you on its own merits, so it will often rely on affect. This can be the snappy, thought-terminating cliche, or the long, winding diatribe that sounds really sensible while you’re hearing it but when someone asks you for the gist you can only say “go watch these 17 videos and it’ll all make sense.” Both these approaches are largely devoid of content, but, gosh, if they don’t sound sure of themselves.

And that mode can be very persuasive, but it doesn’t stick the way a coherent argument does. It needs to be repeated, the affect replenished, because the words matter less than the delivery. There needs to be a steady stream of confident voices saying “we’ve got this figured out and everyone else is stupid” or Gabe’s gonna notice the flaws. They are not well-hidden.

And the catch-22 of returning to that stream over and over is that these communities are stressful even as they are calming. People afraid they will die virgins go to forums with people who share and validate that fear, and also say, “Yes, you will die a virgin.” People afraid Syrians are coming to kill us all watch videos by people who share and validate that fear, and also say, “Yes, Syrians are coming to kill us all.” Others have already pointed out that rubbing your face in your worst anxieties is a form of digital self-harm, but I need to you understand the toxic recursion of it: Gabe is going to these communities to get upset. Every emotion is converted into anger, because sadness, fear, and despair are paralyzing but anger is motivating; Gabe feels less helpless when he’s pissed off. And so, while he’s topping up on reassuring nonsense, he’s also topping up on stress. And, being cut off from everything outside the network, the only place he knows to go to release that stress is back to the place that gives it to him. It’s a feedback loop, pulling him deeper and deeper on the promise that, at some point, relief will come.

It is a similar dynamic that keeps people in abusive relationships.

When someone in Gabe’s community makes a racist joke, they are presenting Gabe with a choice between the human interaction of laughing with his friends and his societal responsibility not to be a fuckin’ racist. And not laughing seems ridiculous; everybody’s friends here; no one’s getting hurt; this is harmless. And so the irreverent race joke draws a line between the personal and the political, and suggests that one can be safely prioritized over the other. One way to look at radicalization is being asked to stick with that seemingly innocuous decision as the stakes are raised incrementally: first with edgier humor, and then comments that are funny because they’re shocking but you couldn’t really call them jokes, and then “funny” comments that are also sincerely angry, but, in each instance, since he laughed with his bros last time, it stands to reason he should keep favoring the personal over some abstracted notion of “politics.”

This is why the progressive adage “the personal is political” is among the most threatening things you can say in these spaces.

I’m not trying to make a slippery slope argument. Most of us who laughed at edgy jokes when we were teenagers didn’t grow up to be Nazis. It is a slippery slope in the specific context of being in community with people trying to radicalize you. Gabe is a lonely white boy in need of friends, and laughing at a racist joke is personal, while not laughing is political. Staying in a community that has Nazis in it is personal, and leaving is political. The personal is what brings people together and the political drives them apart. (The “only if some of them are bigots” part of that sentence is usually lopped off). There’s this joke on the internet that nerds perceive only two races: white and political. Following that logic, what could be more apolitical than an ethnostate?

They are banking on his willingness to adapt his beliefs to suit an environment that meets a need. That same need can be satisfied by white nationalism. There are few things more seductive to people who doubt their own worth than being told you are valuable simply for being white. And you can sub in male, cis, straight, allosexual, or able-bodied. It just takes priming: by the time Gabe officially embraces bigotry, he’s already been acting like a bigot for months. The red pill is simply the moment he says it out loud.

Change Gabe’s surroundings, and you change Gabe.

Step Five: ???

The final step in a traditional extremist group would be getting a mission. But that is one thing the Alt-Right can’t do. Once you start giving clear directives, you can’t play yourselves off as a bunch of unaffiliated hashtags and think tanks; you are now a formalized movement accountable to its followers, and can be judged and policed as such.

To my mind, Charlottesville was an attempt to become such a movement, taking things offline and getting all the different groups working collectively. And, as so often happens when these people get in the same space - especially with no official leaders or means of control over their members - it backfired. Their true colors came out before they were ready and a counter-protester lost her life.

This would be the point where, historically, an extremist group starts to disintegrate. Their veneer of respectability gone, they’re now hated by the public, the media wants nothing more to do with them, and everyone not in jail turns on each other or goes underground. This is also the point where the liberal establishment says, “My job here is done,” and utterly fails to retake control of the narrative, allowing the next batch of radicals to pick up more or less where the last one left off.

But to an already-decentralized group like the Alt-Right, Charlottesville was bad but eminently survivable. People retreated back to the internet, with its code words and anonymous forums, but that’s where much of the work was already done anyway. The platforms where they organized kept tolerating them, the authorities still didn’t classify them as terrorists, and any disgraced figureheads were replaced with up-and-comers.

The major change in strategy is that it doesn’t seem anyone has tried to formalize the Alt-Right since.

So where does that leave Gabe? He’s gone through this whole process of largely hands-off indoctrination - and I should stress his journey may look like what we’ve outlined or it may look different in places, this video is not comprehensive - but now he’s swallowed every pill he cares to, he blames half a dozen minorities for everything he sees as wrong with the world, and no one will give him anything to do. You’ve got this ad hoc movement frothing young men into a militant fervor and then just leaving them to stew in their own hate. Should we really be surprised at how many commit mass shootings?

This is a machine for producing lone wolves.

Leaving men to take up arms of their own volition is a way of enacting terror while being just outside the popular conception of a terror cell. There are also, of course, more classic militias that will offer Gabe clear directives - they’re recruiting from the same pool. And Gabe may stop short of this step, settling in a middle layer that suits him or finding the inner layers too extreme. But violence is the logical conclusion of an ideology of hate, and, should Gabe take this step, he can approach violence in the same incremental fashion he approached conservatism.

He can start with yelling at people on Twitter, and then maybe collective brigading, DDoS attacks, sharing dox, leaking nudes, calling their phone numbers, texting them pictures of their houses from the sidewalk. These acts of cruelty become games of oneupmanship within his community. All this can start as far back as Step 2, and get more intense the deeper he goes. Some people join explicitly partake in harassment and violence the way Gabe joined to talk about anime.

But this behavior can serve as a kind of buy-in. The Left and the feminists and the LGBTQs and the Muslims and the immigrants are all, within his community, subhuman. You’ve maybe heard the conservative catchphrase “feminism is cancer”; well don’t treat cancer by having a respectful exchange of ideas with it, but by eradicating it down to the last cell. Cruelty against the Left is framed as righteous.

From any other perspective, posting someone’s bank information is something you might feel ashamed of. Which creates a psychological imperative not to consider other perspectives. A thing that keeps people in is staving off the guilt they will reckon with the moment they step out. Gabe is also aware that anything he’s done to the Left could be done to him if he leaves; some communities even keep dox on their members as insurance. And the things he’s been encouraged to do to the Left will likely make him feel that the Left would never take him now; the radical Right is the only home he’s got. Harassment becomes another tool of isolation.

Steadily, options for Gabe are whittled down to being a vigilante or a nihilist. There are periods of elation: moments the Alt-Right feels it’s winning - or, more accurately, the people they hate are losing - are like cocaine. They are authoritarians, after all. But the times in between are mean and angry. They are antisocial, starved of emotional connection, consuming incompatible conspiracies that may at any point run them afoul of one another, devoted to figureheads who cater to but cannot risk leading them, and living under constant threat of being outed to the Left or turned on by the Right for stepping out of line. Gabe took this journey for the sense of community and purpose, and, but for the rare moments everything goes their way, the Alt-Right can’t maintain either. They can only keep promising his day will come, a story he could get from a $5 palm reading.

The feeling there’s nothing left but to kill yourself or someone else is so common it’s a meme.

But there is always a third option: Gabe can leave.

Pre-Conclusion: For Fuck’s Sake Do Not Make Gabe Your Whole-Ass Praxis

Before we continue, I want to state plainly that Gabe went off the deep end because he found a community willing to tell him that, because he is a cishet white man, the world revolves around him. Do not treat him like this is true.

If a fraction of the energy spent having debates with America’s Gabes were spent instead on voter re-enfranchisement, prisoner’s rights, protections for immigrants, statehood for DC and Puerto Rico, and redistricting, Gabe’s opinions, in the societal sense, wouldn’t matter. Reactionary conservatism is a small and largely unpopular ideology that is only so represented in our culture and politics because they’ve learned how to game the system.

And I get it. Those are huge problems that are going to take years to address, where, if you know a Gabe, that’s a conversation you could have today. And, if you think you can get through to him, it is worthwhile to try. This is a fight on many fronts and deradicalization is one of them. But it is only one, so please keep it in perspective. It sends an awful message when we spend more time trying to get bigots back on our side than we do the people they are bigoted against.

Your value as a lefty does not hinge on whether you can change Gabe’s mind.

Conclusion: How Gabe Gets Out

He may just grow out of it. These communities skew young, and some folks hit a point where hanging with edgy teens doesn’t feel cool anymore.

He may become disillusioned after the movement fails to deliver on its promises.

He may become disillusioned if something goes wrong in his life and his community isn’t there for him, if he feels they like his race and his gender but don’t actually care about him.

He may be shocked if he sees the Alt-Right at its worst before being appropriately conditioned. Charlottesville was a step too far for a lot of people.

His community may turn on him for any perceived unorthodoxy, and he may leave out of necessity.

He may be separated by circumstance from the community - a trip with no internet, hospitalization, arrest - and not be able to top up on the rhetoric. This may lead him to question his beliefs.

His community may disappear, either tearing itself apart or getting shut down by authorities.

He may have incidental contact with populations he’s supposed to hate, and have trouble reconciling who they are in person with what he’s been told about them. In his community, people bond over shared intolerance, but, suddenly, being tolerant helps him make friends. (This is one reason the Alt-Right has made a battleground of the college campus.)

He may form or revisit relationships outside the network, people who can offer him the connection he’s been looking for. This may reintroduce outside perspectives. More importantly, it rekindles his ability to have healthy relationships at all, something the Alt-Right has estranged him from.

As with recruiters, it seems these “escape hatch” relationships can sometimes be parasocial; coming to respect a public figure who is on the Left, or is critical of the Alt-Right.

Someone he is close to may compel him to choose, “me or the movement.” A lot of young men leave to save a romantic relationship.

Hearing stories from people who’ve already jumped may help; there aren’t a lot of public formers, and some raise suspicions as to their sincerity, but it is getting more common, and may be the closest we get to exit counseling for the Alt-Right.

He may become aware of the ways he’s being manipulated, or have them revealed to him, maybe because he stumbled into BreadTube, I dunno. Knowledge that you are being indoctrinated is no guarantee it won’t work - you are not immune to propaganda - but it can help one resist.

And he may revisit a core belief system that used to guide him, be it religion or social justice or a really wholesome fandom, and be reminded of the identity he used to have.

Moments like these, in isolation or in aggregate, can inspire Gabe to jump. They are also good times for friends to intervene. The reach and the impunity that comes with the internet means it has never been easier to fall into reactionary extremism. It has also never been easier to get out. People who exit skinhead gangs often fear for their lives; for Gabe, there’s a chance getting out is as simple as going to a different website. Much of his community does not know his name or his face and he may not important enough to dox.

What doesn’t get Gabe out - not reliably, not that I have seen - is an argument with a stranger who proves all his facts wrong and his ideology bunk. Facts don’t always work because facts don’t care about his feelings. This was about staying in a community, and holding onto an identity, that mattered to him. It was about belonging, and that is something a rando from the other side of the culture war can’t give him and probably shouldn’t be responsible for.

The theme here is human connection. Before he can do the work of disentangling himself, and facing the guilt of what he’s believed and maybe done, he has to know there’s somewhere for him on the other end of it. That the Right hasn’t ruined him. They’ve told him all of history is groups fighting each other over status, and, without his clan, he’ll be an exile. He needs a better story.

I don’t know that lefty spaces are ideal for this, in no small part because bringing someone who’s a bit of a Nazi but working on it into diverse communities is… questionable. And it probably wouldn’t be good for him, either; having just gotten out of a toxic belief system, he’s going to be deeply skeptical of all ideologies. In a perfect world, people who care about Gabe could build for him - to use a therapy term - a holding space. Someplace private - physical or digital - where Gabe can work out his feelings, where he is both encouraged and expected to be better but is not, in the moment, judged. That comes later. It is delicate and time-consuming work that should not be done in public, but we find these beliefs, built up over the course of months or years, tend to fall away very quickly with a shift of environment. Change Gabe’s surroundings and you change Gabe.

But, instead, a lot of people who jump are functionally deprogramming themselves, which is working for a lot of them, but it’s haphazard, and there are recidivists.

If you don’t personally know a Gabe, or have training as a counselor, you may not be in a position to help him. Possibly there are things you can do to disrupt the recruitment process or prevent infiltration of spaces you’re in - I’m looking into it, but talk to your mods - but, elephant in the room: meaningful change will require reform on the part of platform holders. Tools to disrupt this process already exist and are being used on groups like ISIS, but they’re not being used on the Alt-Right because they try oh so very hard not to get classified as terrorists (and also any functioning anti-radicalization policy would require banning a lot of conservative politicians, so there’s that...).

But what makes our story better than theirs is that the fight for social and economic justice, though it is long, and difficult, and frustrating, when it works, it fulfills the promise the Right can’t keep: it materially make people’s lives better. I am not prone to sentimentality, or to giving these videos happy endings. But one thing we have that the Alt-Right doesn’t is hope.

#video essay

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remmyswritings · 4 years

Text

Coffee or Tea? Part 4: Earl Grey

Hello my Puffs! Here we have part 4 of “Coffee or Tea?”

Just so you know there is gonna be some angst at the beginning but no worries it will go away soon. I hope y’all enjoy it, cause I’ve really enjoyed writing this series.

tag list: @willowbleedsonpaper, @summer-writes, @obsessedwithrandomthings, @firewhisky-kisses, @potterverseimagine, @in-slytherin-we-trust, @masterofthedarkness, @imboredandneedalife. @strawberriesonsummer, @kalimagik, @62442-am, @curious-curios

part 1: chai tea latte

part 2: lavender matcha tea

part 3: pumpkin spice latte

*Not my image, credit to Creator, found on Unsplash*

It wasn’t until Teddy returned to his flat that night that the revelation of Y/N’s status as an exchange student hit him. One day, in the next couple of months, she’ll have to leave London… and him. The second the thought appeared in his mind, his eyes watered, tears threatening to break past their barrier and flow down his cheeks and while he didn’t want them to, he couldn’t stop them either. Standing there in the middle of his living room anyone would have believed him to be deep in thought until they saw the wet streaks covering his cheeks and the trembling of his lower lip.

It seemed as though he stood there for hours, his mind just repeating Y/N’s words from earlier that day… “I’m here in London as an exchange student”... not even the remembrance of her gaze or the warm feeling from her hand when she cradled his cheek as she said goodbye for the day could tear him from his thoughts. No… nothing could stop the gasps of air that came out of his throat, the shaking of his hands as he reached for the chair to ground himself.

The next morning, Teddy arose to a bright light, which a couple seconds later he realized as the sun, blinding his eyes, and the cracking and popping of his joints as he sat upright once again in his living room. At some point, in all of his agony, his body must have tired out and he fell asleep. He knew that Draco and Blaise must have gotten in at some point as he felt the lavender blanket his mother had made for him fall off of his shoulders and land in a pile on the floor next to him. He was grateful that the boys had, for once, not bothered to wake him up and ask questions. He didn’t know why they hadn’t. Whether it was because they recognized that he was in quite a state or it was just too late for the three of them to have that type of conversation, but nonetheless he was grateful.

His mind too bleary to pay attention to the time, Teddy dragged his body to his room hoping that a hot shower would at least make everything feel more coherent. Even in the shower, he had no concept of time. His mind returned once again to Y/N, but no longer to the statement from yesterday, instead to the little details that he cherished since the day they had met.

First, he thought of her smile. The way her lips first upturned and as it grew so came the dimples and then her cheeks became even rounder and fuller then how her eyes became lighter making the already bright smile appear even brighter than before.

More of her smile, more of her gaze, more of her touch. Teddy never had anyone admire him the way Y/N did, so standing there reminiscing their previous encounters he decided he’d enjoy them to the fullest no matter what… and hopefully, just hopefully, she wouldn’t leave him when her exchange semester ends.

With his decision made, Teddy prepared for his day. Locking the door of his flat with a *click* and shoving the keys into his pocket, he started down the street as if on autopilot. His body taking him to the one place he wanted to be at that very moment. As he made it closer to the cafe Teddy looked up with a start, there unlocking the door to the cafe was Y/N.

Unconsciously, Teddy began to run his hand through his unruly locks and she hadn’t even seen him yet. No, instead she seemed to be absorbed in a conversation with another woman standing beside her, holding the basket he had seen her carry the second time he saw her. The woman’s hair reminded him of Draco’s and for a millisecond his brain thought that maybe they were related, but then Teddy actually looked at the woman and realized that there was an air around her that Draco never had…

He shook his head at the thought, “no those two aren’t related whatsoever,” it was then that he realized that maybe this woman was the friend that Y/N had mentioned during their second encounter. Before he could remember what her name was, the woman motioned Y/N to something in Teddy’s direction and as she turned around to look, a smile appeared on her face.

It took Teddy a couple seconds to recognize what she was waiting for. “Oh… I hadn’t even realized the time. I- um- I woke up really early and decided I’d stop by before I do some work for my classes.”

“Well, I’ll be the only person opening up today, why-,” she hesitated, “why don’t you join me then?”

Teddy considered saying no, but then he looked at her and saw the way her eyes quietly begged him to say yes and the pout that slowly grew across his mouth. Next thing he knew he was nodding his head and in a flash Y/N practically dragged him from the spot where he stood to the middle of the cafe.

The two of them stood face-to-face, just a couple feet apart. Close enough for Teddy to reach out and cup Y/N’s cheek, the same way that she had done to him the night before, and he did. There they stood, once again oblivious to the world around them. It didn’t matter that none of the lights were on, or that the chairs were resting on top of the tables. The only thing that did matter in that very moment was Teddy and Y/N… them… together.

Abruptly, Y/N pulled away, “I should get started on opening the cafe.”

“R-Right,” Teddy stuttered, “I think I’ll just go sit by the window and do my work.”

While Y/N dashed around, seemingly in a daze, Teddy took out his books and worked, actually worked. For once, he didn’t observe Y/N, didn’t stop to think about her, no… he just sat there and read. At least he did until in front of him appeared an Earl Grey Tea, a blueberry scone, and Y/N standing next to the table.

“Can I sit here?” she whispered, as if trying not to ruin the sense of calm lingering in the air.

Teddy merely nodded in reply, not trusting his voice.

She placed herself in the seat across from him and for once Teddy could tell that Y/N looked nervous. He could feel her fidgeting in her seat, see her biting her lower lip every couple of seconds, watch her untangle and tangle her fingers together. But he didn’t know why…

Until suddenly, “I’m sorry,” she blurted out, covering her face with her hands the second she did.

Teddy slowly reached across the table and grabbed ahold of her hands bringing them down to the table slowly, forcing Y/N to look up at him.

“Why?” he asked confused, “What are you sorry for?”

She took a breath, then bit her lip again as her eyes started to wander over Teddy’s face, as she searched for the words. Slowly, she started, “I’m sorry… I’m sorry for not telling you about me being here as an exchange student.”

Teddy chuckled, “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. Besides, I never asked you about it.”

“But I decided not to tell you,” the pit in Y/N’s stomach growing as she continued, “because, well, I like you… a lot. And I felt like maybe you’d think that all I would want with you was some semester fling… which is not at all what I want… not saying that flings are bad or anything but, but…”

Teddy stood up, an arm outstretched to Y/N, “Would you care to dance?”

“What?! Did you listen to anything I said just now?” she stared, partly in shock and partly in anger.

Teddy held his ground now with a smile gracing his lips, “I heard it all! And before you say anything, I feel the exact same way. I want to enjoy every single second I can with you. So, I ask again, would you care to dance?”

With their feelings for each other finally out in the open, Y/N reached out, grabbing ahold of Teddy’s hand, letting him lift her out of the seat and wrapping his arms securely around her. Slowly, her arms lifted up past Teddy’s chest and found themselves wrapped around his neck. And there they stood, swaying around in one another’s embrace. No more words needed to be said between the two of them because they understood just how much the other person mattered to them.

#theo thirst #theodore nott #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott imagine #theodore nott x y/n #theodore x reader #harry potter imagine #harry potter modern au #harry potter coffee au #coffee or tea #harry potter x reader

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yeojaa · 4 years

Text

SWEET LULLABIES, chapter iii. (w. JJK)

You've never loved in half measures. It's always been all or nothing. You didn't even mind when your heart was bigger than theirs. Lopsided or not, you made up for whatever they wouldn't give. But when you've finally met your match, what will happen?

alt summary. You're crazy in love and for once, so is he.

pairing. jeon jungkook.

genre + rating. a whole lot of angst with a bit of fluff if you squint. general.

warnings / tags. friendship, best friends, best friends to lovers, friends to lovers, canon compliant, jeon jungkook is whipped, smitten jeon jungkook, jeon jungkook is bad at feelings.

reading. sweet lullabies is a series of one-shots that tie into and conclude my other story, sugar high. both are part of the best friends means forever series. this is a bonus chapter from kook’s point of view.

word count. ~6250

chapter 3. Save Me

The one where he’d almost lost you.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it; luckily, he doesn’t think he’ll ever want to.

After all, you’re a dream come true. You’re everything he’d ever hoped for, years of toffee-sweet daydreams and quiet desires wrapped up with a ribbon and presented in the form of his beloved best friend. His Polaris - his north star in every sense of the word, guiding him home whenever he needed it. A person to hold him close, to tend to the oft-neglected garden blooming behind a brassy ribcage. You’re everything he’d ever wanted and even the things he hadn’t known he had.

“What’re you thinking about?” A question slotted into silence by a gentle hand and half-lidded stare, warmth dusting over the exposed expanse of Jungkook’s collar. It feels like a beckoning to dreams and he can’t help but smile, expression endlessly soft as he inspects the girl in his arms. His girl.

He hums once, a noncommittal sound. “Nothing. Go back to sleep, baby.” It’s true for the most part. It’s nothing now. But once upon a time, it’d been the single most frightening possibility. Losing you.

And oh, how close he’d been to that.

NOVEMBER 27, 2017

“Seriously?” It sounds bad - he knows it does - tight and terse between his teeth. It’s coloured an alarming shade of red and acts like a beacon to those around him because there aren’t many things that have him acting out in this particular way.

After all, he’d grown up in a very short period of time - something he was endlessly proud of and incredibly grateful to his hyungs for. Their patience and mentorship had helped shape him into the well-adjusted young man he was now.

Or usually was. Not right now, though.

“What’s wrong, Jungkookie?” It’s Jimin - seated closest to him and always somehow strangely aware of everything - who speaks first and in dulcet tones meant to coddle and soothe, lithe arm finding its way around his maknae’s shoulders. Seated how they are, it’s easy, but Jungkook notices with amusement that it won’t always be. Soon, he’ll be far too broad for this. Their little muscle pig wasn’t so little anymore.

His response is immediate, though filled with petulance and beneath that, the tiniest tinge of shame. “Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me,” comes the same songbird, his head dropping to rest easily against the youngest member’s. Jimin knows he’s pushing but he also knows he needs to. It’s easy to read the golden boy.

Silence stretches for a beat, then another, and he almost sighs - but doesn’t. Jungkook can feel it rising in the other’s chest before it’s stolen away by his grudging response. They’re less childish now, though still a bit sullen, rounded by a pout that he can’t seem to help. “It’s just Soo.”

It doesn’t come as a surprise to the smaller dancer, his expression thoughtful. “What’s going on?”

Wasn’t that the million dollar question?

Truthfully, Jungkook didn’t know what was going on. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if anything was going on - or if it was all just in his head. That was the worst part: the uncertainty. Each intrusive thought, each second guess. It felt like a downright disease, taking up precious space in his skull and refusing to let go.

“Jungkookie?” There’s no expectation in Jimin’s inflection. It’s only concern in sugar-spun tendrils, holding the nickname aloft.

“I don’t know,” Jungkook finally manages in a whine. The slope of his brow is knit together, distress threaded into every line as his arms fold, crossing in a huff over his chest. He hates feeling silly like this, so he does his best to turn the emotion on its head and force it into something else. It’s not necessary but it feels a bit better, like a fortress he can hide his heart within.

A sigh expels, exits through his nostrils in a sharp push of air. He knows Jimin is just trying to help but he’s having trouble formulating words into coherent sentences. The thoughts are too jumbled in his head, bouncing around like an overzealous energizer bunny.

“She’s been really distant lately.” A partial answer, because he’s sure there are a million other reasons he could give. Like he was simply stressed (true) or you’ve been posting about your great new life in the States and hardly answering him (the same answer as his original but a little too much to admit).

Or even that you’d mentioned a new friend - a male friend who, surprisingly, hit closer to home than he’d expected - and now he was seething. Except he’d never repeat that last one. It wasn’t his place to. He was your best friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Aren’t her exams coming up soon?”

Leave it to Park Jimin to find the middle ground - that grey area in between all the good and the bad and frame it in a way that had Jungkook frowning, softly rounded mouth dragging in distaste.

He hadn’t even thought about that. Or maybe he had, but it’d gotten lost among all the white noise and loneliness. Frankly, he’s not sure. His thoughts were always full of you and it was hard to distinguish sometimes. “Maybe.”

“So maybe she’s just busy?” As if Jungkook hadn’t already considered that. He wasn’t trying to be crazy. In fact, he hated it with every ounce of his being. But he’d seen the photos you’d sent (admittedly, directly to him) and he knew you weren’t too wrapped up in your finals. You’d found time in between the late night study sessions to attend house parties, knocking back venti-sized Americanos the next morning to stave off hangovers.

It was surprising, actually. You’d never been great at handling your liquor - something you insisted you got from your father - but you were out all the time now and always with them.

Yejin, he didn’t mind. She’d appeared in FaceTimes with you often enough that he’d developed his own sort of rapport with her. She didn’t give a shit about the Korean music industry and treated him like anyone else, albeit with a lot more scoffing English than he’d ever faced before.

It was her cousin that left a bad taste in his mouth, a mixture of vinegar and battery acid. Not that Kim Woosung was a bad person - at least, from what he’d heard from the people here, and definitely not from you. Rather, it was jealousy, that cruel green monster rearing its ugly head. It’d made a home in his chest, unleashing balefire at anyone remotely close to the aching thing in his chest.

Because that’s what you were - his heart in human form.

But he’d never expected you to disappear halfway across the world. He’d always thought you’d be here, holding his hand. Now he had this gaping you-shaped hole in his chest and he didn’t know how to fill it. Truthfully, didn’t know if he wanted to.

“Maybe,” he relents, quiet as a mouse. He knows he isn’t fooling anyone by the whispered admission but it’s a shutting door, sealing the conversation for another time.

NOVEMBER 30, 2017

He can feel the stare burning into the back of his head before the words reach his ears.

“What time did you sleep last night?” There’s no judgment, no anger - just soft shades of concern and coaxing swept across each syllable. That’s why Namjoon was such a good leader - he knew how to approach his members. Understood them, possibly, better than they did themselves.

“I don’t remember.” Jungkook’s answer is full of apology, a guilty smile framing the pink turn of his mouth and forcing a dimple into his cheek. He thinks it must’ve been around two or three in the morning, as he’d stayed up to talk to you after your first class. Stayed up after being out all day and practising for hours.

The shadows under his eyes might as well have been a glaring neon sign or an advertisement for the sleep-deprived.

Namjoon says nothing, his expression still endlessly kind, just barely touched with reproach by the line of his lips and the subtle tension in his jaw. He’s careful - he needs to be when it comes to matters of the heart with his maknae. Because despite his dismissive laughter and playful nature, Jungkook was also one of the most sensitive members. He just hid it well - sweeping it behind his bunny smile and witch’s cackle.

Consideration stretches silence on for a beat longer before the taller of the two is smiling, crescent moons forming his eyes. A hand cards through silk the colour of smoke and he regards the younger boy with tenderness. “Don’t forget to take care of yourself, okay?”

“I won’t.” What Jungkook means to say is he’ll try to remember. He has to, for them. Because his actions weren’t just his own - hadn’t been since he’d committed to this crazy wild path years ago - and he has to be considerate. Has to be better. “Thanks, hyung.”

“Just watching out,” comes the elder’s response with a noncommittal wave of his hand, focus already reassigned to the book laid across the table in front of him. He’s so immediately absorbed into it that Jungkook’s a little envious, legs of his chair dragging over linoleum as he edges himself into Namjoon’s personal space.

It’s a testament to their close bond that he doesn’t even flinch, simply shifting ever so slightly to the right to allow Jungkook a better view over his shoulder.

Maybe this is what he needed - a distraction.

“Hyung.” The inflection immediately perks Namjoon’s attention, head turning just so to acknowledge the other’s address. “How do you...” A prolonged pause as Jungkook mules his next words over, finger resting delicately on his cupid’s bow. Was he really doing this? “How do you... distract yourself?” Okay, so not quite the question he’d meant to pose, but good enough for the time being.

Straight brows pitch higher, shooting up in surprise. Whatever Namjoon had been expecting, it isn’t this. “What do you mean distract myself?”

Suddenly, Jungkook’s on the spot, the full weight of the rapper’s stare turned on him. The focus makes him waver, teeth wearing through the supple interior of his cheek and the soft petal of his bottom lip. Fingers fidget, push and pull on the sweater paw he’s formed.

“Uh.” Good one, JK.

He clears his throat once, twice. He looks a little chagrined, like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

“When you’re going through things—” The attempt at ambiguity is as transparent as the windows around them. “—that are hard, how do you distract yourself? How do you forget about it?”

“Well, you don’t just forget about your problems.” Something about Namjoon’s expression has him looking away, flustered. “I say it’s always better to try to fix your problems than to run from them but,” and Jungkook latches onto this inch of give, “if you need a distraction for a while, find something that takes up the extra time you’d otherwise spend stressing about the problem. A hobby, maybe.”

Well, he had tons of those. He gamed in his downtime - his Widow headshots were unparalleled, if he was being honest. He filmed whenever they were out; he’d even cut and uploaded his and Jimin’s recent trip to Tokyo. He worked out, forcing his body into a state of fatigue that left his thoughts far too tired to run cruel circles through his mind. But it was never enough.

“I have hobbies. It doesn’t work.” There’s a desperate edge to his words that he hadn’t meant to let slip. “It’s fine. Whatever.” Again, another door closed. Slammed shut by his own foot in his mouth.

“Then maybe it’s an issue you can’t just distract yourself from.”

Of course Namjoon’s right. Jungkook knows that but it doesn’t help the bitterness that bleeds onto his tongue and rots enamel. “That’s not an option.” Rather, he wouldn’t let it be. There were do’s and don’ts in best friendships and confessing your unrequited love was on the hard list of don’ts.

“Jungkook-ah...”

“What?” It explodes off of his tongue, though he doesn’t mean for it to. The nerves are fizzling in his stomach, ricocheting from his mouth like fireworks into the quiet between them. They’re too bright - demanding attention. He thinks, if they were real, they’d paint pretty silhouettes of the girl he can’t get out of his mind.

“Just tell her.”

“No.”

They’re an immovable object and an unstoppable force.

Harder now, edged with exasperation and so much concern it makes Jungkook’s heart stutter in his chest. “You have to.”

“I can’t.” Emphatic, spoken with both lips and eyes. They beg for understanding, like a man lost at sea desperate for a ship on the horizon. Because that’s exactly what he is – a lovelorn sailor swept to his doom by the siren call, one he’s utterly defenceless against. He wouldn’t be like this if he had any other choice.

“Okay.” A pause, a sigh, a relent. “I’m here if you need anything.”

DECEMBER 14, 2017

It’s two weeks later when he needs that anything, driven to it by the radio silence he feels in his bones, tearing apart each and every part of him like a black hole devouring the stars. Because rather than it being a tangible pain he can distract from - replace with another, sharper sting - it’s become a dull ache that exists in every action and inaction, engulfing his thoughts even as they try to focus on anything else.

He thinks he can’t be held responsible for the choices he makes when there’s too much going on in this head of his, his thoughts far too jumbled to be held accountable.

So he smiles at the very pretty girl that’s been deemed the anything he needs and tries to focus on the way her mouth curls, painted an intoxicating shade of ruby red. He trains his attention on the flutter of her lashes, the coquettish way she ducks her head when he meets her stare. He memorizes the way her voice pitches and drops, sugary sweet and decidedly feminine.

Does it because it’s the only way to fill the lovesick hole in his heart, even if it doesn’t really work. Even if the puzzle piece doesn’t quite fit, corners snipped and reassembled to take up the space the essential piece has left behind.

“I can’t believe you asked for my number,” she's saying, all rose-tinted cheeks and a smile he finds endearing. Fingers - short, slim, dainty - smooth over the ceramic of her cup and she peers at him from over the edge. It’s meant to be sly, to draw his attention to the way her mouth curls around the lip, and for a moment, it does. It piques something in the back of his mind, apathetic green monster rearing its ugly head at the prospect of something new.

Something not named Park Soomi.

He latches onto the interest with both hands, proverbial grip torn apart by rug burn and his attempt to hold onto it. He needs this. He needs this so fucking bad. “Why not?”

“I mean, you’re you.” The way she says it makes the hair on the back of Jungkook’s neck rise and the fingers in his lap curl into fists.

It brews bitterness on his tongue - the aroma of his coffee lost to the taste. He can’t help the reaction, even while he knows he can’t blame her for it (nor should he).

After all, she had the Namjoon stamp of approval. And if there was anything he trusted, it was his leader‘s judgment.

“I’m just a normal guy,” he insists, mouth full of laughter he forces out. He says it with as much meaning as he can, though he knows the words don’t hold much weight. Not when they’re so at odds with the truth. Luckily, the two aren’t mutually exclusive.

She doesn’t have a rebuttal now, only choosing to offer that same soft smile.

It doesn’t trap him like a star in the galaxy, but it holds his attention. It reassigns it from the hole in his chest to the brightness of her teeth and the sweetly rounded cupid’s bow and that’s enough.

“I’ll prove it to you.” Whether he means the words, he’s not sure, but they come of their own volition, sounding off like a promise. He thinks he can feel warmth spiking across his neck, creeping up past the collar of his flannel once the words settle, a blanket draped over the cozy space they've carved out in the hole-in-the-wall cafe. When her eyes follow the heat, coaxing it higher with her stare, he knows it’s there. It makes him swallow thickly - was he in over his head?

When her hand drifts - those big doe eyes of his tracking every movement - and fingers ghost over the tops of the back of his, he knows he is.

“You’re dangerous, huh?” He asks, though he knows the answer. Can see it reflected in the impossibly dark depths of grey circle lenses, contrast stark against the perfectly layered and blended makeup smudged around her eyes. It’s something he’s used to - that idolizing, somehow endlessly adoring stare he’s seen a million times, in the sea of faces he performs for - but here, it feels different. A little closer to home.

"Only if you want me to be." And he thinks he does.

DECEMBER 21, 2017

"Good morning, sleepyhead."

Your voice cuts through his early morning exhaustion, striking a proverbial match as neurons fire off beneath his skin, nerves fizzling in his stomach. It rings clear across the airwaves and for the first time in what feels like ever, it feels like nails on a chalkboard. For the first time, it doesn't have honey melting into every crevice, warming him from the inside out.

The smallest flash of irritation flares - a lightning strike in his jumbled thoughts. It's so drastically different from anything he's ever associated with you. Maybe this was good. Maybe this was progress.

"You called." Deadpan, because Jungkook's still half-asleep but more than that, he's rough around the edges, your hot and cold treatment of him the past few weeks simmering bitterness in his veins. "Finally found some time for me?"

The intake of breath has him immediately regretting the words, a breath sucked in sharply through his teeth. He imagines you're doing the same, by the silence that stretches on. That, or you're tearing a hole through your cheek. He wants to tell you to stop - to apologize for being an asshole at 7 o'clock in the morning, but he doesn't.

"I've been busy with exams," you finally speak and it sounds so small, his heart twists itself over and over. It doesn't break, though, and that's a feat he never thought he'd accomplish.

"I know." It’s all he can say, an octave softer but still miles away from the sunny warmth he's used to spilling forth like an overflowing bucket of yellow paint. It feels strange to hold himself so closely, refusing to allow his abundance of affection colour every syllable and sweep him headlong into the love he feels for you. "Did you need something?"

Another inhale and - maybe his ears are playing tricks on him but it sounds strange, wet - you're speaking as quietly as he's ever heard, as if you're afraid your words will elicit an reaction somehow worse than what you've already faced. "Did you want to watch a movie tonight?"

He has to applaud you for your insistence, though the tiny, bitter part of himself glimpses that flair of annoyance at the edges of his vision once again.

"I'm busy." It's the truth but it's not something that's ever stopped him before. Jungkook was notorious for making time for you, rearranging his schedule enough to make Namjoon want to rip his hair out. So it's odd, even to him, that the next words - the lie - rolls of his tongue so easily. "We're working on a new routine tonight."

"Oh."

The single word has enough weight to crush his heart beneath your heel. How fitting that it's actually the opposite now, and your own is crumbling beneath his foot. At least, that's what he thinks - assumes by the dead silence that follows it.

"Sorry then." You're trying so hard to keep your voice chipper that it leaps higher than is natural and rings in his ears, making him grimace. Even if he didn't know you so well, he'd be able to read you like a book. You're far too transparent. "Good luck. I know you'll do great - you always do."

A thanks is all he offers in response, ready to end the call and only stopped by a heart-wrenching last goodbye. "I love you, Kook."

He wishes he'd hung up faster.

Instead, he utters a soft "you, too" and ends the call. He has a date to get ready for.

DECEMBER 22, 2017

When he stumbles through the front door of their shared apartment, he can still taste the sticky, not unpleasant sweetness of her lips. It tingles his tastebuds like fresh berries and makes him laugh a little to himself, back of his hand rising to wipe away the residual gloss.

Peeling off his shoes - he’s careful not to cause too much of a ruckus because it’s almost one in the morning and the last thing he wants is to wake anyone up - he finds himself humming quietly. It’s low in his throat and muddled by the taste of beer but it’s there, sweeping the quiet from the entryway as laces untie and boots are neatly tucked away out of sight.

He’d had fun, much to his surprise. Honestly more than than he’d expected, because he'd never been the biggest fan of upscale restaurants, or bustling bars, or glossy pink lip gloss. But that'd changed in the span of one night, all those strange things somehow sparking a bunny smile and his trademark, boisterous laughter.

Because Jungkook likes that she comes with all of that and she’s everything he needs - at least for now.

She’s a breath of fresh air in a life dominated by strict practice schedules and mandated appearances. In a way, she’s everything he'd ever hoped for in a distraction - pretty, fun, a little demanding. She keeps him on his toes in a way he isn’t used to, never giving his thoughts enough time to re-centre on the silhouette that exists like a cookie-cutter carving in his chest.

A temporary fix, possibly - surely - but he didn't mind. Couldn't find it in himself to when he'd found some semblance of peace for the first time in weeks.

"Did you tell Soo we had practice tonight?"

The voice breaks him from his thoughts, shoots an arrow that lands bullseye on his heart, and he gasps. He hadn't noticed the figure lingering in the kitchen, hunched over their kitchen table with one headphone in and a sketchbook in his hands.

Of course Taehyung would be awake. Why was he surprised?

Oh, because of the question. The one he hasn't answered, instead gaping at the other like a fish out of water. Mouth opens around sound that doesn’t come out then closes and repeats itself twice more. Taehyung doesn't repeat himself, simply staring at Jungkook with an expression that cuts him to his core.

Because he's not angry, or judgmental. No, he's disappointed. It's written into the arches of his brows, the way his headband-covered forehead wrinkles just so.

"What?" It's soft, hesitant, careful. There's already embarrassment crowning, locking into the column of Jungkook's spine and rooting him all the way through to his feet. It keeps him from advancing further into the apartment, caught halfway between the adjoined living space and the hallway that beckons him to the safety of his bedroom.

Instead, his gaze swizzles, bounces and leaps between the door at the end of the hall and the other member sitting at the table, focus trained wholly on him. It's hard to meet Taehyung's eyes - and that feels uncomfortable in a way he doesn't want to think about.

"Did you tell Soo we had practice tonight?" Finally repeated, verbatim, in that some low drawl of his.

It's posed as an innocent question, all sleepy eyes and carefully trained mouth. It makes Jungkook's own purse, tongue rounding the hollow of his cheek. Though he knows he shouldn’t, the desire to bite back stirs in his stomach and he has to clench his fists at his sides, nails digging crescents into the flesh of his palms.

“Why?” He’s aware he’s answered a question with another question - something he finds infuriating himself, but he can’t help it. He’s not ready for the lecture he’s sure will come.

Taehyung shifts, arms folded across his chest, and says nothing. It’s somehow more unnerving than if he were to tear into Jungkook.

“We were talking earlier. She asked how practice had gone.” There’s a sour edge to Taehyung’s explanation, colouring words highlighter yellow and toxic green. “Imagine her surprise when I had no idea what she was talking about.”

Jungkook knows there’s no point - no reason to voice the shame he already knows stitches his features together. Taehyung presses on, nonplussed by his maknae’s discomfort.

“You didn’t tell her you had a date?”

“Why would I?” It’s defensive, juvenile, a world away from what he wants it to be. It garners him a look that teeters dangerously on flabbergasted, Taehyung’s groomed brows gathering tightly over his stare.

For what it’s worth, his words are measured - far more reasonable than Jungkook deserves. “Because she’s your best friend?”

“I don’t need to tell her everything,” and while that’s true - it somehow doesn’t feel great with life breathed into it. Fully realized, it’s harsh and covered in thorns that catch on the way out of his mouth, tearing up the insides of his cheeks with razor-sharp edges.

“She was hurt.”

That should be enough. At any other time, it would be. It’d have Jungkook crawling on his hands and knees - anything to wipe that sadness from your face. But here and now, caught between a rock and a hard place, it means nothing to him. At least, that’s what he tells himself, forcing down the bile that rises in his throat. “Then she should mind her own business.”

Taehyung knows this isn’t the Jeon Jungkook he knows. Knows that this version of their beloved maknae is but a caricature carved from hurt and frustration and bruises that bloom like weeds. It doesn’t mean it’s okay.

“You don’t mean that,” he says kindly, softer than he has the whole interaction.

“I do,” comes Jungkook’s immediate retort, though it lacks any real strength. It’s small, like it wasn’t meant to be said.

“You need to tell her.”

It’s not the first, second, or third time he’s heard these words; he wishes it were the last.

“No.” And he’s walking away again, disappearing into the safety of his own room where he spends the next five hours wide awake and miserable.

DECEMBER 25, 2017

It’s the first time he’s spent Christmas without you. It feels wrong, like any other Monday morning rather than the merry day it is. There’s no golden tinsel strung throughout his thoughts, no cheerily sang carols on repeat in his mind. The magic is gone - stripped away by the loss of you.

You haven’t spoken to him in days. Since his little white lie - because that’s all it’d been, he tells himself - had come to light, you’d made yourself scarce. There were no more stories posted to social media, no mentions of your name from the other members. It was like you’d disappeared, taking all the sunlight with you.

Where he’s once laid his head and called home, there was nothing left.

“Come have breakfast, Jungkookie.” It’s Jimin peeking into his bedroom, small hands curled around the door frame. His hair’s a little wonky - sticking up at odd angles - but he appears happy, like he should.

Jungkook wonders how he looks. If the shadows under his eyes give away all the demons that make homes in the hollows.

“I’m not hungry.” Or rather, he didn’t have an appetite. Didn’t have much of anything, truthfully.

“You need to eat.” It’s the same wide-eyed concern he’s seen edged in everyone’s expression. It makes his throat constrict, the thing in his chest thumping an erratic rhythm as it threatens to launch itself out of its brassy, broken confines.

Shoulders shift, rise and fall like a breaching wave, and he shakes his head again. “I’m really not hungry.” Even to his own ears, he sounds strange. His words are held together by flimsy strings, knots frayed and ready to split. There are stirrings of guilt, tendrils of it curling like smoke through his lungs. It’s only a matter of time until the fire engulfs every inch of him, scorching all in its path.

He thinks he wouldn’t mind, if it’d replace the ash that lingers in a fine layer over each thought.

What had happened to his distraction? Where was it - she - now when he needed it most?

Namjoon’s words reverberate in his skull, rattle around like coins in a pocket. Maybe it wasn’t something he could distract himself from. Why hadn’t he listened? It would still suck, surely, but he thinks it might not have mutated, shaped into this new divide by his own hand.

Because now there were miles between you and he only had himself to blame - his own face reflected back at him when he sought to find an answer for the radio silence.

It felt worse than he could’ve imagined.

“At least come join us.” Jimin is insistent, refusing to let Jungkook wallow in his own self-imposed misery. Hands coax, tugging at the hem of the younger’s sleeve. It doesn't move him from his spot, two feet planted firmly as the wheels of his desk chair roll in a semi-circle and return to their original position. They both know Jimin's weight means nothing against Jungkook's but the dancer is insistent, refusing to budge from where he stands, chest to shoulder with the stubborn boy. "Jungkookie."

When Jungkook remains steadfastly focused on his computer - on the glowing lights of his keyboard, the front page of Naver - Jimin sighs loudly. He feels a little bad about it. Jimin's not the reason he's in this position.

"Jin-hyung went all out. You don't want to miss this."

It's a good tactic. Any other day and Jungkook would've jumped at the thought of a feast. After all, he was a growing boy which meant he was always, always hungry.

As if in response - in a great show of rebellion - his stomach rumbles, breaking the silence he'd meant to drag on. Betrayed by his own body.

He blanches in the same instant Jimin grins, full mouth spread around a smile that screams victory!

"Come on." This time, Jungkook relents, lets the other's hands coax him from his seat. He's still a little begrudging though, shoulders inched forward and chin tucked against his chest in an exaggerated display of resistance. He even drags his bare feet a little, but Jimin is wholly unbothered.

Because whether the maknae believes it or not, his members know best. They know the size of his heart and the fact that a very vital piece seems to be missing. But that doesn't mean they can't fill it in the ways they know how, with boisterous laughter and his favourite ice cream, hand written letters and silly elf hats.

They might not have been his Christmas miracle but that didn't mean they wouldn't try.

JANUARY 1, 2018

He thinks it should be easier. The worst had come and gone, after all.

He'd spent the rest of the holidays occupied with public appearances and precious moments with his hyungs, exchanging small presents and doing everything he could to keep his mind off of you. It'd worked, for the most part. He hadn't had enough time to wallow in that pit of despair he'd come to call home, instead pulled from it by obligations and the hands of his loved ones.

And yet he can't help the way he checks his phone, turns it over and over in his hands like another flip might throw the universe into motion, righting its off-kilter axis.

"You look stressed." A voice purrs - but it's not you so he doesn't really listen. Doesn't even flinch when a warm body settles itself against his side in a veil of vanilla powder and glossy curls. "What's wrong, babe?" There's a hand on his knee and lips at his ear, roses painting the shell as she presses herself closer.

Jungkook’s certain it's meant to be reassuring but he can only lean away, eager to put as much space between them as possible. For the first time, it feels wrong. Like the distraction wasn't made for him, but by him. This isn’t what he wants. It throws every action, every minute adjustment of her features, into stark relief.

So it's impossible to miss the look on her face, how it screams hurt and surprise and what the hell are you doing?

"What?" The word comes in a pair - from him and her. It's almost comical how she sounds in comparison to him, all edges and affront to his soft utterance. There's venom in her single syllable, laid there by a sharp tongue and sharper teeth. It's the first time he's been on the receiving end of it and he has to admit - he hates it. It gnaws at his insides. He realizes he's letting her down.

Like Frankenstein, he's created a monster he can't control.

"What's your problem?" She's far less angry than she deserves to be. If he were in her shoes, he'd be black and blue, howling at the moon. Instead, she's still soft, affection dulling the bile that rightfully rises in her throat. Even now, he can see the way she looks at him - larger than life, with stars in her eyes.

Jungkook doesn't find it in himself to answer immediately, instead staring adamantly at an indiscernible point behind her. "Nothing." It's the farthest thing from believable, a lie that fixes itself between them, bright red and beguiling.

"It doesn't seem like nothing." For what it's worth, she's trying. He can tell she is by how her tone changes, adapts to the relutance he shows. She's trying to coax something more from him, shifting slightly closer when he doesn't immediately recoil. "The fireworks are on. Let's go join everyone else."

It's a great idea in theory but it's the last thing he wants to do. So he says as much, shaking his head in the same moment.

"I'm heading home." It doesn't matter that he's nowhere near their dorms or that she suddenly looks like a kicked puppy. All Jungkook knows is that he has to be anywhere but here. "Have fun tonight."

He's rising before she even has a chance to respond, flipping the hood of his sweatshirt up over his carefully styled strands. When she reaches for him, he retreats a step, putting as much distance between them as he can in the small room. It isn't easy - she's everywhere, light reflecting off the sequins of her pretty white dress, the scent of her perfume presenting itself with every inhale.

"I'm sorry," he says and he means it, despite the disbelief that paints her features.

Without looking back, he disappears out the door, sliding past the milling bodies, the various performers and staff that wander the halls. Excitement still buzzes among the dispersed crowd and he finds himself getting swept up in the occasional hello, deterred from his mission over and over again.

It isn't until his phone rings, tone interrupting the one-sided conversation, that he's able to pull himself away. He thanks his lucky stars - until he sees the caller ID.

Because it's you. You - the person he's been waiting for all this time.

It has his heart hammering in his chest, his grip on the device suddenly so tight he worries he might crack the screen. You're finally calling him. After weeks, you were there, familiar contact photo beaming up at him.

"Hello?" He can hear the hope in his own voice.

There's a long pause and he feels his throat constrict. Had you not meant to call? Was it a pocket dial? A million questions run rampant through his thoughts, kicking up dust and gravel that he nearly trips over in his haste to get a response.

"Soo?"

"Happy New Year, Jungkook-ssi." The way you say his name makes him want to cry with relief because there's tenderness still, hidden beneath the soft, half-whispered greeting. You sound exactly like you always have, if not a little quieter, with more reserve, and he wants to live in the sound, how it settles into his head like it belongs there.

"Happy New Year," he echoes back in a voice thick with emotion.

You were finally home.

notes. this chapter is the painful brainchild of mine and @keywepie and as such, is dedicated to her. thank you for letting me talk your ear off and i’m sorry it took so long!

and yes, this kook is very different from the present-day kook in the series but that’s the point. he was!! hurting n sad!! and way younger!!!!!

#goldenclosetnet #heartsforbts #ficswithluv #bts #bts fanfic #bts fic #bts fluff #jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fic #jungkook fluff #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader #jungkook x oc #work.zip #bestfriends.zip #sweet.doc #jungkook.doc

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rohad93 · 4 years

Text

Sea Glass: Chapter 15

18+

At sun up St.Lucia had come into view on the horizon and Yellow was more relieved then she could describe. She was ready to be back on her own ship, but more importantly she was ready to be off The Menagerie.

She had sat out on the deck the entire night. She didn't trust any of the members of The Menagerie outside of Blue and Rose not to stab her in her sleep… that and there was the precarious situation she found herself in with BLue at the moment.

They had not spoken nor shared a glance since their encounter the previous night. She couldn’t look at her and she didn’t know what to say after she had run away from her last night.

Yellow leaned against the railing of the ship, arms crossed over her chest, glaring at the ever slowly approaching island port and stewing. She was mad at herself.

Mad at herself for being an idiot and a coward; for running away from Blue.

She hissed through her teeth at herself and turned to look at her feet, eyes narrowed, her wrist was throbbing this morning.

She sighed heavily and looked up, watching the crew go about their daily chores of swabbing the deck and tightening the rigging.

The captain’s cabin door swung open and Blue came strutting out. She evidently changed clothes and brushed out her hair, it hung loose across her back and shoulders, a few braids scattered among the straight strands. She looked fresh and clean again for the first time in weeks and Yellow couldn’t help but watch her, despite the knot of shame and embarrassment that taken up a semi-permanent home in the pit of her stomach.

Blue glanced around and for a brief moment their eyes locked, but the look in those cerulean depths made Yellow turn away, eyes going back out to the ever approaching island, jaw clenched tight and shoulders bunched up around her ears.

She didn’t look up again but she heard Blue move away, unable to look up at her face again.

How quickly it seemed she could turn something that was already a mess into one of even greater proportions.

She could only assume that Blue was less than pleased with her, she knew she would be were their places reversed.

Her whole body tensed, fists clenched as she kept her arms crossed, drawn tight up against her.

She wanted to talk to her, to try and explain what had happened last night but she had no real explanation for it herself. She hadn’t had enough time to think about it.

It was just too much too quickly for her.

Yellow couldn’t remember the last time she had been so physically enthralled by someone as she was with Blue, probably because she never had before.

Blue had a special talent for getting under her skin, both in the irritating sense and the… less irritating sense....

She was exceptional at setting fire to every nerve ending in the blonde’s body and causing her mind to phase in and out of coherent thought whenever it suited her to do so.

Yellow scowled to herself. That was one part of the problem though.

Yellow hated not being in control of herself and Blue excelled at making her brain turn into goo, for relatively short periods of time but that was much too long for Yellow. She felt like a fool standing in front of Blue, something else that irked her incredibly.

What’s more she was sure Blue did not understand that Yellow had absolutely zero experience to draw from for this particular facet of life.

After joining her first crew she had completely spurned all emotions like that, all they had done was get her branded and chained, she actively spent the majority of her adult life repressing them, they had never served any practical purpose to her.

So last night, with everything finally laid bare between them, Blue’s hands sliding through her hair and the high pitched call of her name in a voice that set fire to the blonde’s skin without any effort, it had all been too much.

Like an errant spark from a fire into a barn hayloft.

Blue set her on fire. Everything was a smokey haze and the fire spread so quickly she wasn’t sure where to focus on first and instead panicked and ran.

She scowled angrily to herself. So many emotions that she wasn’t used to all vying to be at the forefront of her mind and Blue’s fingers on her scalp and hot breath in her ear had just caused a complete and total shutdown.

Blue brought out a plethora of emotions in her and she’d had all night to evaluate them more closely, one by one rather than all of them in the span of a few seconds.

It was hard for her to put an exact name on it, considering their previous relationship and years as… less than friendly acquaintances. She wouldn’t say enemy because all her enemies were at the bottom of the sea by now, but her feelings for Blue were there, a complicated and unnameable mish-mash of annoyance, attraction and fondness that she couldn’t describe, but they could at least all be summarized quite easily.

She wanted Blue, in a multitude of ways.

But had been too panicked to capitalize on the opportunity when it had finally, truthfully, represented itself to her last night. Blue practically offered herself to her, only for her to turn and run the minute it happened.

Now she didn’t know what she could even begin to say to make this right with Blue, or even that she should try.

She would not beg, she had made a mistake but maybe Blue was past the point of forgiving her and she had her pride, it would not allow her to bend a knee to Blue and beg for a second chance.

No, she had made her bed, now she would have to lie in it.

No matter how much she hated it.

~ ~ ~

When the ship pulled into port the crew went about their duties of tying things down and dropping anchor. Though Yellow could tell just by watching them that they didn't plan on staying very long, just long enough to drop her off.

Luckily, at the other end of the docks she could see it.

The Cluster

It looked just the same as the last time she had seen it, for which he was glad, because a small part of her did worry that the crew fighting amongst themselves may have destroyed it.

The gangplank was lowered and Yellow looked up as Rose approached her, Blue stayed where she was on the other side of the ship, arms crossed over her chest and watching. The look on her face was one Yellow could only describe as hurt.

The younger woman looked rather nervous and twitchy as she stopped just a few feet from Yellow.

“You better hurry off,” she finally said, nodding to the plank, making Yellow blink. Rose glanced over her shoulder and Yellow understood.

Blue wanted her gone, and quickly.

She didn’t blame her at all. She couldn’t stand to have Blue looking at her like that another moment. It dug painfully at something in her chest.

With a jerk of a nod she turned on her heel and started off, pausing just a moment, to look back at Rose, who still looked more than a little pensive, words on the tip of her tongue.

‘Tell her I’m sorry.’

That’s what she wanted to say, but she didn’t, she couldn’t

She swallowed them, even as they threatened to stick in her throat and carried on down the plank, it took effort not to look over her shoulder, but she didn’t and instead made a beeline straight for The Cluster.

The plank was down and Yellow hurried up it. She was quickly noticed and the same shouts that had echoed on Blue’s ship now filled the deck of The Cluster as the crew noticed the blonde appear on deck almost immediately.

“Captain!”

“Your back?”

“You’re alive!?”

When all the yammering pirates gathered around her had calmed down enough to let her talk she explained where she had been to them, though the heavily edited version. There are some things her crew, nor anyone else, ever need to know about her chained adventure on the sea.

Jasper is exceptionally glad to see her and once things settle they ask her where they’re headed next and Yellow smirks to herself.

She had a debt to repay.

But a few things had to be taken care of first.

Her jacket was practically in tatters, as was her shirt. Her gun and saber had been taken away and her hat had vanished.

A trip to the markets was the first order of business.

~ ~ ~

With a bath, change in wardrobe and armed again, Yellow felt far better, despite the gnawing in her stomach that appeared whenever she thought of Blue, but that was something to examine later. She had another matter to attend to at present.

Yellow walked through the woods with Jasper and Joe on either side of her as they approached the farm house.

The barn door swung open and Greg appeared, a sack of grain slung over one shoulder as he muttered curses under his breath.

He swung around to face them and jumped, the bag falling off his shoulder as he stared at the three with wide eyes, his jaw ajar as dark eyes flickered between the three of them.

“Y-you!” Greg finally seemed to get a handle on himself as he pointed at Yellow.

“I have an offer for you, Greg.” The blonde started without preamble.

“Offer?” He blinked.

“You want to sail, don't you? Well I happen to find myself in need of a new cabin boy on my ship.”

“Cabin boy?” he repeated dumbly and Yellow rolled her eyes

“Yes. Do you want it or not?” She crossed her arms over her chest as she looked down at the shorter young man.

“I do!” He jumped. “I… don’t even know who you are…” he trailed off. Yellow had forgotten about that little bit.

“Are you daft?” Her first mate couldn’t contain herself any longer. “This is Captain Marigold Faust!” Jasper snarled out and Greg’s face stayed frozen in a look of confusion before slowly morphing into one of disbelief and awe.

“You’re the infamous pirate, Yellow Diamond!” He squawked, hands slapping the sides of his face.

“Yes, and you did Blue and myself a service and I’m not in the habit of leaving my debts unpaid. Do you want to sail under me, or not?” She narrowed her eyes at him. She had spent enough time on land lately and she was quite eager to be back on her ship, away from here and so she could finally sleep for the next two days.

“I…” Greg trailed off, glancing between the pirates and then back to the farmhouse on the other side of the property.

His still hanging open mouth shut with a click.

“Yes” He nodded.

As they were walking back to the row boat out on the shore so they could return to the ship Greg had a certain thought.

“Wait… did you say Blue… like, Blue Diamond?!” He yelped remembering the sickly woman he had poured medicine down.

Yellow’s shoulders bunched up around her neck at the name being shouted out loud and her jaw clenched.

“Yes…” She managed to bite out. The two other large sailors at her side seemed to know better as they glanced at each other but said nothing while they followed their captain.

“That was Blue Diamond! Wow… even sick as a dog she was still just as beautiful as they say.” He said more to himself but stopped when the loud growling sound came out of the blonde. Greg looked at the tall womens black coated back. She didn’t turn around but Greg could practically feel those scary amber eyes on him and quickly shut his mouth.

“Let me offer you some advice.” The large, bald sailor had slowed down to walk beside Greg. “Don’t talk about ‘Ol Blue when the Cap’n is around,” he said quietly. Greg nodded dumbly, watching the blondes back, face scrunched up in confusion.

Once they were back on the ship Yellow made a beeline for her quarters with orders for Joe to show Greg the ropes and to set sail. Some merchant ships would be moving through the waters just north of them and they could use an easy job.

Once the door was shut behind her she hung up her hat and coat and flopped gracelessly onto the bed with a frustrated sigh.

Seemed no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t totally push away her thoughts of Blue. She’d been managing all day because her crew knew better than to mention that name in her presence but now the thought was stuck at the forefront in her mind.

She slung an arm over her eyes and sighed wearily.

#bellow diamond #blue diamond #yellow diamond #pink diamond #Steven Universe #AU #fanfic #Pirate AU #pirate

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uhgoodmoni · 3 years

Text

Nothing That Lasts Forever

A BTS Horror Fanfiction

Warnings: Major Character Death, Blood, Demons, Fighting, Verbal and Physical Abuse, Mention of marijuana, Death, Cursing, Fire, Unintentional Self-harm, Gore. Yoongi's injury

Ao3 link - Wattpad link - Soundtrack

Trailer - ch1 - ch2 - ch3 - ch4 - ch5 - ch6 - ch7 - ch8 - ch9

Chapter Seven: Joon’s Call

WARNING: THIS CHAPTER INVOLVES HEAVIER TOPICS, as the author I got stressed writing this so if you get anxious easily then I don’t suggest you read any further. The next few chapters are very heavy, especially if you don’t like to see our boys hurt. Please remember that I have tagged Major Character Death. Please remember that this is an act of fiction and I do not mean any harm with my work.

Last warning: I - your author, genuinely cried writing some of the next chapter(s). I'm still not trying to spoil anything but from here on out the story gets a lot more serious and heavy. I know I said I wouldn’t put warnings and author's notes but I think that if you want to finish the story you should know it's not an easy ride. Anyway, good luck.

Yoongi's POV

I look back, as I head out the door. The sky is already darkening. From the clouds maybe. Or maybe my sense of time is jumbled. I don’t know. I pull the phone out, keeping an eye on the bars as I move across the clearing. I stare back to the cabin, the yellow light of the living room shining through the windows. Through a few trees. The time says one pm. I shudder thinking of how it felt like only moments ago that Jungkook and I awoke. The chill from earlier still clings to the air, the clouds from yesterday have returned.

I ignore the tug of the cold. The tug of branches. The tug of guilt for leaving them behind. I hike up the path, staring ahead and not knowing what’s in the trees. Keep moving forward. Keep moving forward.

My legs ache as I reach the top of the path. Still no service. Keep moving forward. It has to work, we have no other choice. It needs to work. I reach the top of the hill, the wind chill hitting my body and giving me a breath of fresh air. Cool air, filling my lungs and relief fills me. The air here is different.

My knees buckle, and I take a seat, taking in as much as the air as I can. It feels good. The air here. Refreshing. It feels almost normal. I feel almost normal.

‘Ding’

My eyes twitch at the sound. My cell phone again. Thank god. It works. It really will work. There’s service here. I lift it up to my face, the screen lighting up enthusiastically, only at 10%. Three bars, enough for more texts to come through.

Joons “Hey, how’s it going?”

Joons “too busy having fun to answer?”

Joons “don’t make me worry too much why isn’t Jungkook or Hoseok answering either?”

I inhale deeply, desperately unlocking the phone, pulling his text open, and pressing call. My hand flings the phone to my ear, grateful to hear the ringing sound. A tear slips down my cheek.

“Please please,” I mumble, my lips sticking together from dehydration and dirt. “Joon answer.” clenching the phone, my butt lifts from the ground. Praying that standing would give me better service. “God come on,” knowing that praying is to no avail.

The ring ends short, a whir on the other end. I glance out to the trees below. The city horizon a blur in the distance. Fuck. I realize. No one is gonna help us. No one will find us in time. We are utterly and completely alone. I should have known. The hope drained from Hobi’s eyes. How have I maintained any? My fist flexes against the cold case of my phone. Unreliable piece of shit. Shit.

“Yoongi you there?” Joon’s voice echoes from the speaker. My whole body unclenches. Breath falling from my lungs, finally I can breathe out. His voice. I missed his voice. He knows what to say. I need him to say them. He will know how to help. He will know what to do. Namjoon. He can help. Please help.

“I…” the sound flys from me, escaping into the air, that feels so normal. I’m too overwhelmed to speak. It’s not normal.

“Hey, are you okay? There isn’t service? I thought you said that there was wifi?” He continues, the cool breeze blowing my own words away. What do I even say? I’m not even sure what’s happened myself. I don’t know anything. I’m so confused. I don’t want to die. I don’t even know if Hoseok or Jungkook will be okay. If they even are okay. “Damn I get it when Jungkook doesn’t answer but didn’t think I’d be lecturing you.” My face contorts at this. Hearing him speak so normally. It’s not normal. It’s not. God, please.

I’ve missed his voice.

“Joon.” My teeth grind together, finally speaking coherently, but still choked up. I flip back to the trail towards the cabin. Slowly getting darker there. Not another night. No. We are leaving tonight. We can get help before it gets dark.

He gives a short huff, “Okay. I’m listening.” His voice is smooth, and I know he knows something is wrong. He knows. He always knows. Trying not to sound stressed, not to elevate the situation. But I know. I know he’s worried. I know he’s close to… “Yoongi.” I know. I know.

“Pleas…” It cuts, the call ends, bars depleted. I swallow all the moisture left in my mouth. I’m unable to see the screen through my tears, phone held out in front of me. An awkward groan escapes my lips. “No…” my hands crawl into my abdomen as I wretch over. Nothing comes from my mouth. My hand still grasping the thing that failed me. “MOTHER FUCKER” My palms hit the dirt, saving my face from kissing it. My shoulder pangs at the sudden movement.

I frantically wipe my eyes, glancing down to my phone, at 3 percent now. “What the fuck.” I whisper, pulling myself into a seated position. Tree’s shadows disappearing in the haze. Wherever the sun was, it had been going down. Time. I look to the clock. Eight pm. Lies and fucking bullshit. I don’t understand. Lies. I blink at my tears, falling, falling. Eight pm. Fuck. How can it be possible? Another moan crawls from my throat.

“Stupid motherfucker.” I whisper to the phone, staring down at it, laying in front of me. “FUCK.” My head lifts to the sky, voice shaking. My fingers slide across the grass, searching. A rock finds my hands. “FUCK,” I bring it down once. “FUCK,” Twice. “FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.” Over and over.

Rolling to the side, the stone has done its job, making the useless, even more… useless. My palms are scraped, one nail broken. I guess I should go back to them. I shouldn’t leave Hobi alone while Jungkook is incapacitated.

I shouldn’t have.

Picking myself up, my feet follow the trail back. Its getting darker and darker. My eyes are tired. The clock. Ticking. Not that it mattered. We’re fucked. Would it really matter if I made it back or not? One pm or eight pm. Too late.

“Yoongi!” A cry comes from ahead. It’s desperate.

Too late

“Yoongi!” My eyes lift to the yellow lights from the cabin windows. I don’t remember walking all the way back. “YOONGI” My eyes widen as I realize Hoseok is shrieking. Why did I become tired? Why did I slow? My hopelessness is getting the better of me. Fuck. I fling my feet ahead, dashing to the open door.

“Hoseok?” I speak into the chilled air. The living room is void of his presence. My eyes fall to the floor, Jungkook where I left him. Shivering and unconscious. Shit. Shit. Not again. I can’t see him like that again. “Hobi?” I call out into the house, all the lights still on.

“Yoon..” Jungkooks muttering makes me jump, but I quickly go to his side. He’s pale, hands cold as I grip them. I shouldn’t have gone. We should have figured something out together. His eyes flutter open, looking over me oddly.

I swallow removing my hands from his. “What’s something only you would know about me?” Now this question was starting to make sense. After Hoseok…”

With a blink, he repeats the same from earlier, “You talked to me when I was feeling sad” he releases a weak chuckle, “after Jin Hyung was talking about enlistment…” He starts with a frown.

My jaw clenches, interrupting him; “Something else.”

“What?”

“Something else, Koo.” I repeat firmly. He wouldn’t say the same thing twice… It’s not right. That’s something obvious to me.

“I…” His eyes glance over me again, scanning over slowly. “I can't,” He speaks clearly, sitting up to face me. My breath is surely hitting his nose but I feel no air from his lungs. His chest isn’t moving either.

“Koo.” My eyes widen, as a grin fills his face.

His head tilts slightly, “Who’s Koo?” it cooes, licking its lips. I flip, starting to push myself up, but a strong grip finds my wrist. It yanks me closer, squeezing, too tight.

“Ahh,” I cry out, pulling with my free arm at his tattooed hand. It holds me close. Staring me down. The A on his knuckle, completed. It isn’t Jungkook. That I am sure of. “Stop,” I whine, the hand maintaining strength in holding me to it. Why? Why is it doing this? This pain? This fear? The itch, the silence.

It blinks, pushing itself up from the ground, twisting my wrist up with him. “Where is he?” I spit up at him, still on my knees. “Where is Jungkook?”

It shows teeth, rotting, and a slimy green. “Who?” it chuckles, lifting me up to stand next to him. I wince as its nails dig into my wrist, reaching at my right hip with the opposite hand. “Koo?” It mocks, digging its nails there too.

“You fuck!” I cough, slamming my free palm against its arm. Nails piercing my side, I kick at him. “Stop, stop, stop.” I cry, looking desperately over my friend. Or really just something that looks like him. Kicking at his legs weakly. Even the real Jungkook is stronger than me, but this is a new strength.

“Stop stop stop.” It whines, faking its tone. “You…” I stare into his eyes, bloodshot, as its mouth hangs open, an unfinished sentence hanging in the air. “Fuck!” It screeches, lifting me into the air. My legs dangling, swinging at his body.

“Jungkook STOP.” Tearing at his wrist, I glance around the room, the lights flickering. The claws relieve themselves from my flesh, shoving his palm into my chest, my back making contact with the wall. Glass shatters around me, the gold-rimmed mirror hitting the floor with my body. “Aghah.” I give a groan, my wrist already weakened, catching my fall. I choke out a breath as the rest of my body finds the wooden panels of the floor. My lips purse together, no air in my lungs, a pressure deep in my ribcage. Broken? Bruised? The strong force of his push makes way to a pain in my chest. The glass, sharp beneath my fingers, as I feel around. Screwing my eyes shut, I search for a breath. But there is none. No air in the room. My hand presses into my chest, struggling to breathe, glass pressing into the print of my fingers.

“Jungkook STOP.” It screams right back, A deafening pitch, making me drive my forehead into the wood. My limbs spread out across the floor, hands fumbling at the wall not getting a grasp. I wince, my shoulder blades aching in pain already. The bad shoulder, already showing signs of pain I’ve felt over the years.

Before I get a chance to look up, fingers curl themselves in my hair, ripping upwards. I sob, staring up at an unrecognizable body, through the tears and the mishapeness. Breath finally finding itself painfully into my lungs. Air forcefully shoved down my throat as I suck in as much as I can.

“I don’t know who that is” The thing says plainly, a thumb crossing my forehead. Letting out a hack, I squirm to no release. With a firm grip on the back of my neck it lifts me to my feet once more. The bruises forming on my back tender as it presses me into the wall, hand snaking around my throat. Already struggling to breath I tug at his arm, tattoos blending in a mesh of flesh.

“What the fuck…” I gag, my tiptoes holding up my body. Blood streams from the ducts of his eyes, skin a ghostly pale. “Jungg..” It squeezes harder, the pressure just relieved forming again in my chest. “Wake” Kicking at his legs, “up.” No reaction, only increasing the pressure on my throat. Oh god. Please. Jungkook wake up. Still, tears stream down my face. Is he even there any more? The smirk on his face tells me no. If he is, his empathy would bring him back. He cares too much for others. Other’s tears bring a flood of his own. Why is this happening to us? Will I die? No, I can’t die. I don’t want to.

“Jungkook…” I struggle, “We have to go home.” blood stained eyes blinking, running them down over me in constant observation. “For our brothers, for the lives we lead.” With this plea the grip lessens slightly. He’s there? It has to be possible. “There’s so many people out there waiting for us to come home.” It smirks, tightening its grip once more.

Jungkook is gone.

Freely the tears fall, his hand clamping down. More and more. “Koo..”

At this rate I will be too.

I feel helpless. It’s strength is immeasurable. Still, it wasn’t instantly snapping my neck. Pain and suffering must bring it some sort of satisfaction. The tears that I let go. If only I could hold them in. Hobi might still be out there and I won’t be there to help him. He has to be terrified, what if he already is gone too? Why the fuck did I leave him? I’m so stupid. I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have.

“Hoba, I’m so sorry…” I blubber, barely keeping my eyes open.

From the side hallway, a body. Slowly I peer over, seeing Hobi, safe and alive. He’s sliding across the wall, hand over his mouth, tears streaming down his face. We make eye contact, him nodding slowly as he creeps closer, limping.

I squeeze my eyes shut, gulping. Shoving my legs out at Jungkook. No oxygen left in my body. Please. I kick and kick. Not really doing anything against the figure holding me in place.

“Let him go.” Hoseok screeches, taking a jump against Jungkook. All three of us fall to the floor. Gasping for air again. Still a shadow of a grip is left on my throat. Air returns to my lungs suddenly, and I try to look up at the others.

Jungkook, huffs, flipping on top of Hobi and punching him straight in the face. Hard. Too hard. I sniffle, barely able to see, but I shuffle my hands, reaching for a piece of glass from the shattered mirror. Jungkook’s hands form around Hobi’s throat who isn’t fighting back. The glass pricks at my palms.

My knees struggle to lift me up, but unbalanced I stand over Jungkook. He is gone. It’s not him. He would never hurt Hobi. He would never hurt me. He is gone. My hand tightens around the long glass, piercing my palm, raising it over him. It’s not him. I shake, crying hard, as I bring it down into his back. He’s already gone. I press it deeper into him, my palms screaming from the slits. It’s not him. You needed to get Hobi. I choke out, shoving the large limp body off of Hoseok.

“It’s not him.” I wail, pressing my bloody hands to my eyes. “Not him.” I curl back down next to Hoseok who is breathing heavily. I can’t look back up, not at him. Not at the body. But it is him. It was. He is still in there. And I took any chance of him getting back. I ended him. I killed him. I squeeze my hands, blood pouring from them.

I killed Jungkook.

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benditlikepress · 4 years

Text

no man is an island

what started out as a heartfelt attempt to write something coherent and meaningful turned into 9000 words of completely unedited mess because I cried a minimum of 17 times while writing it

would recommend reading on ao3 due to length, kudos and comments are always appreciated <3

@coffeedepablo @saraluvstiva @slouchingprovocatively @wanna-be-bold idk anyone else who might wanna read!!

Wednesday 8th June 2016. Cairo.

Ziva had her second panic attack at the terminal waiting for her flight.

It was the first one she actually recognised as a panic attack, though, rather than an impending sign of death or the psychotic break she had probably been dodging for years.

Perhaps it was the loneliness she felt. Perhaps it was the very real possibility Tony wouldn't show up. Perhaps it was memories of the last time she saw Tony in Africa, almost 10 years ago. Perhaps it was even thoughts of the other Tali; the one who would come with her to the opera house and stare up at the lights with such joy and freedom in her eyes. Ziva had her head in her hands as she tried to steady her breathing and a young woman had knelt in front of her to check if she was OK, but she was dismissed with a grateful but stern voice.

Ever since she woke up she hadn’t been able to shake the fear that this was the wrong thing to do. That no matter how many precautions she’d taken, she’d be putting Tony and Tali in danger just by seeing them. The thoughts followed her through her flight, on the bus journey, down streets and alleys, only getting louder. But this was the only way. Tony was going to have found her, one way or another. Best to be one step ahead.

Maybe she had only realised recently just how well she knew him, but there was no doubt in her mind he would come. Just as he thought he knew her all those years ago when he tracked her across the world to Beersheba. He would go there, she was sure of it. Even if he was furious with her, even if he hated her, he would still find out for himself whether she was alive or dead.

And so she used the one thing only they in this world shared, and she had written a letter and buried it in the box in the grove where they had placed her 'I Will' list, marked with a small white stone. If she knew him like she thought she did, he would find it. And he would find her.

She'd written more in the letter than simply a list of dates and locations from which he could pick a meeting place. She'd written three pages of things she thought she'd struggle to say out loud. Apologies probably took up two of them by themselves.

While she was sure he would go there, she didn't know if what he read would be enough to convince him to follow her wishes. She waited each day after Adam took Tali away, and on the 8th day she had got her answer.

"Cairo. We're OK." was all the message to her burn phone said. Ziva checked her diary - the date she had given Tony for Cairo was the upcoming Wednesday, in a hotel she had found online. She called immediately and booked a room under the name Sophie Ranier, and then she got a bus out of the city and dropped the phone in a garbage can on the side of a nondescript street, covering it with newspaper.

She had got into Cairo that morning via a flight that landed in Aswan, a long and distracted mixed-method route paid in cash seeming safer than a short direct flight. Adam arrived via Alexandria; Ziva had asked if he could get to the hotel and stay for the duration of Tony and Tali’s stay, just in case.

She had rented a family room, not really thinking, and it had 3 beds – a double, a single opposite it, and a second single which was tucked away awkwardly behind a partition wall. Ziva paced the room now wringing her hands, walking between the beds, until she couldn’t stand it any longer and pulled the desk chair across the room to the window.

She couldn’t quite see out of the window when sat on the chair so she sat on her knees, elevated a little, and looked out onto the street below.

Hours passed. She didn’t move an inch, aside from getting up for a glass of water after about 2 hours to calm her nerves. It reminded her in a strange way of a stakeout, a bygone activity from a job that seemed like a lifetime ago.

It was late afternoon when she spotted them. She saw them coming from a mile away; a magnetic pull of her eyes towards a man in light trousers and sunglasses carrying a small girl on his hip and a duffel bag over his other shoulder.

She watched them cross the street, and for a second it was like they were moving in slow-motion. This already felt like a bad idea, but seeing them come towards her it took every ounce of strength Ziva had not to open the window and scream at them to run, leave, get as far away from her as possible.

Reception were under instructions to ring her to check the identity of anyone who came to visit her, and even though Ziva had watched until they entered the building via the entrance below the window she somehow still jumped when the phone rang.

The receptionist told her that her husband was here. She didn’t correct him.

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

Ziva considered it a victory that she didn’t find herself close to another panic attack while she waited the painstaking few minutes for them to get up the stairs. When the door knocked loudly, she was already waiting beside it.

She opened it quickly and barely gave the two of them a glance before she grabbed her daughter’s face, kissing her and hugging her. Tony struggled to put her down on the ground as she did, and Ziva bent down to meet Tali halfway so she could look at her properly. She was wearing a flowery t-shirt Ziva didn’t recognise, and her cheeks were pink from the heat.

“I missed you so much, Tali.” She kissed her again and felt Tali grin into her cheek as she pulled back, her hands tugging playfully at Ziva’s hair.

“Can we come in?”

Tony’s voice shook a fraction as he spoke, and the sound was so familiar that it was almost muscle memory that made Ziva rise back to her feet to look at him. She didn’t really give herself a chance to, though, before she pulled him tightly towards her.

She had expected it to be a little awkward, and maybe it was, but it was apprehensive and nervous rather than disconnected or angry. Tony’s hand instinctively found the back of Ziva’s head and she squeezed his shoulder tightly, moving her head away from his chest look him in the eye. He looked older. More mature. Exhausted. His hair was longer, almost tucked behind his ears, and he had the tan of someone who had once again spent his summer crossing the world looking for her. She pressed the pad of her thumb to his lips, a promise of conversations that needed to come, and he nodded slightly as though he understood before she turned her attention back to Tali.

"Thank you so much for bringing her." Ziva spoke too quickly as she leaned down to gather her in her arms and brought her inside the room, cradling her to her chest in the same way she had done when she had last seen her. She whispered to her quietly, apologies and love and the girl looked at her curiously.

"It's ok, but.. hey," Tony raised his voice a fraction to tear Ziva's attention away from her mutterings. A concerned hand made it’s way to her jaw. "Are you OK?"

"I am fine. Thank you for bringing her." Ziva repeated. "You did not have to."

"Of course I had to. I needed to see you for myself. Plus.. she's your daughter, Ziva."

There was disbelief in Tony's voice as he spoke, as though he was still trying to get his head round the concept. Ziva caught his eye and there was a brief second of silence as though he’d said something shocking.

“My back is on fire,” Tony eventually launched into a too-casual conversation as he dumped his bag onto the floor and looked around the sparse room. "I accidentally left her stroller in the lobby of Mossad headquarters. Don't ask. I think it's going to get mailed to me with a severed torso inside."

"Why were you at Mossad?"

"Apparently some kind of bat signal is alarmed when I cross the Israeli border. Cute, huh?" Tali began tugging at Tony's sleeve for his attention. He brought a hand to her chin. "Ima will play, honey. Abba's back is hurting."

Tony had always been one for pet names, but hearing how naturally they spilled from his lips towards their daughter was something else entirely. Ziva realised she was still stood in the centre of the previously-silent room, watching the two of them drop items and talk at her like a hurricane had just hit.

She sat on the edge of the closest bed and Tali immediately put her hands and arms on her knees, clambering to get onto her. Ziva lowered her own arms to get a hold of her and pull her upwards, settling her down on her lap. She cupped her daughter’s face again, wondering if she really had grown up in the last few weeks or if it was just her imagination.

Tali grabbed for Ziva's necklace - a comforting motion she did often. Ziva's eyes were drawn to the gold around Tali's own neck. She looked up at Tony and he looked embarrassed for a brief second.

"You kept hold of this?"

"Did you think I would throw it away?"

Ziva wasn't sure what to say to that - the weight of the implications in the things that weren't being said. She turned the Star of David over in her fingers a couple of times.

"What's going on, Ziva?" Tony broke the silence first, and there was a sigh in his voice that could've made her smile if it was in a less ridiculous circumstance.

"Honestly, I am not quite sure yet. There is a woman who is after me. Really after me. She is not going to stop. I do not know how I know her or what I have done to her, but that is what I am trying to find out. She does not know about Tali - she does not know about any of this, which is why the best place for her to be is safe with you far away from me, and for everyone else to think I am dead."

Tony took her words in for a moment, exhaling loudly.

"Have you talked to Gibbs?"

"No, and you cannot call him. I do not want anyone else putting themselves in harm's way over this."

"Who knows you're alive?"

"Adam, a woman called Odette, and you. Nobody else. Adam and Odette are helping to keep me safe. I had to tell you because.. I knew you were going to come and find me. The safest way for that to happen was for me to arrange a day to meet with you. I could not bear the thought of the two of you not knowing the truth." Ziva played with the hem of Tali's shirt as she spoke. She was in her own world, talking to herself happily.

Tony eventually offered a "Thanks. For telling me." but it seemed ludicrous and his voice faded a little as he spoke. "I don’t like lying to them, but I won't tell anyone if you don't want me to."

"If I thought there was any other way, I would not ask you to. Is Gibbs looking for me?” Ziva’s voice was steady and perhaps even a little hopeful, in spite of the fact that it was simply another thing to worry about.

The sadness that briefly crossed Tony’s face was not how he expected him to react. “I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him since I left, actually.”

“Do you think he will? I need to know what to expect. He could be in danger.”

“I think you’re ok, Ziva.” He said her name quietly, and the little furrow in his brow made her realise he was worried it would upset her. She took a breath.

“That is for the best.”

“I’m sure if he knew..”

“He doesn’t. So it does not matter.” Ziva shut down the conversation before they could get into it. He believed she was dead. That was that.

“Down, ima.” Tali’s voice recaptured Ziva’s attention, and she was straining from Ziva’s lap to get back onto the floor. Ziva dropped her down and Tali made a beeline for Tony’s duffel bag. She moved a few pieces of clothing around in there haphazardly until she emerged victorious with Kelev in her hand and sat down on the floor at Ziva’s feet.

“It is her birthday on Sunday.”

“I know. It was the first thing I checked, knew it would be coming up. Is that why you wanted to come to Cairo now? Like you did for your sister?”

Ziva nodded slightly, and maybe it should’ve surprised her more that he would remember something like that. It didn’t, though. She stopped being surprised by his thoughtfulness a long time ago.

“Have you brought her presents?”

“Not yet. Senior has bought the entire department store. I haven’t had the chance, I’ve barely had time to think.” He exhaled.

“How are you?” Ziva asked anxiously, not sure she actually wanted to know the answer.

“I don't know what the hell I'm doing." Tony eventually responded, and when he laughed sarcastically Ziva heard a wetness that made a lump form in her own throat. “I left her stroller at Mossad headquarters, who does that?”

"No parent knows what they are doing at first."

"Yeah, but most parents have a baby and another parent. I've suddenly got a toddler and I've never spent more than a few hours around a kid since I was one myself." Ziva stayed quiet as Tony continued talking, words spilling out as though he’d been holding onto them for weeks. "An hour will pass that will be fine and I'll feel like I'm getting the hang of it. Then a switch flips and she's crying and I'm crying and I'm calling Jimmy Palmer in the middle of the night DC-time asking him how you get kids to eat food."

She couldn’t help but fidget then, guilt and anxiety and self-loathing creating a mix that made her feel like she was about to throw up. Her eyes flitted around the room and she tried to block out the voices in her head, refocusing on Tony’s.

“Senior’s been great, though, if you’d believe that. I’ve decided not to be resentful about it.”

“Maybe it is his way of making up for his past mistakes. It is difficult to be vulnerable about something like that, maybe he wants to show that he is sorry.”

Ziva felt Tony’s eyes burning into her crown as she bent her head down towards Tali on the floor, talking in jumbled sentences about an adventure Kelev was on and hopping him along the carpet. She ran her fingers through Tali’s hair and bent her lips to the top of her head, kissing her and smelling her as though it had been years rather than weeks.

“Yeah.” Ziva still didn’t look at Tony, but his eyes tracked hers down to Tali. “I didn’t realise it was such a short flight. She didn’t sleep at all.”

“Did you come straight from Israel?”

“We stayed there for a little while. I’d bookmarked Cairo on your little itinerary.”

"You cannot stay here. You know that, yes?"

"I know."

She wasn’t sure if he could tell how close she was to falling to apart.

"You need to book the next flight home."

"Paris."

"Sorry?"

"Paris is home now. I've rented an apartment. Just.. so you know where we are."

“You really left for good?”

“It’s just a job.”

Hearing those words from Tony was like a slap in the face. He made it sound so simple. Didn’t seem to understand the impact they had as he pulled his phone from his pocket to look up flight tickets.

For as long as Ziva had known him, his job was everything to him. It was all he had going for him a lot of the time, though Tony was never one to have admitted he was lonely. The idea that he could drop his career like that, drop everything like that, for Tali? She'd been afraid he would do that when she was pregnant, and he'd resent her from pulling him away from what she thought was his home. That his job was his life's purpose. It was obvious now that she hadn't been thinking clearly. She knew him better than that.

His brow was furrowed as he typed on his phone.

"Next flight is 1:55am direct to Paris."

"That will have to do."

Tony nodded, his lips in a tight line as he began to type again. Ziva watched his expression, mostly unreadable, but when Tony's face was unreadable that meant something in itself.

"I'm so sorry for dragging you into this, Tony."

He looked up from his phone after a moment. "This is for mine and Tali's safety, right?"

"Yes."

"Then there's nothing to apologise for."

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

Surface-level conversations and brief attempts to capture each other’s eyelines followed after Tony confirmed the flight for take-off in several hours’ time. Ziva tried to steady herself. Tony smiled as Tali presented toys to them.

"Ima.. knee." Tali suddenly tugged at the bottom of her leggings.

"Oh yeah," Tony fumbled in his pocket. "She, uh, fell over outside the airport. I stopped to buy some band-aids."

"She hates band-aids. She'll never wear them." Ziva said as she rolled up Tali's leggings. Her knee was grazed, little flecks of blood still present. "Oh no, Tali. Did you hurt yourself?" The girl nodded solemnly, looking down at her leg. “Get a wipe to clean it.” Ziva directed at Tony, but when she looked back at him he was already in his bag retrieving one.

Ziva wiped the cut slowly, making soothing noises as Tali fidgeted and whined.

"Let's see," Tony turned the band-aid in his hand. "Do you have a knife or anything on you?"

The knife she produced from the holster at her waist had jagged edges and a harsh end.

"I don't think that's gonna work."

"Adam is next door, shall I get him?”

"No, it's ok. You stay here, I'll go to the front desk."

Tony began to walk towards the door but a wave of anxiety hit Ziva and she stepped after him, grabbing his arm. He turned at the action, her grip tight on his shirt, and looked at her pleading expression.

"Call down and ask them to bring some up."

Tony looked at her for a long moment, and presumably he could sense the anxiety surrounding her because he didn’t make any effort to argue, dropping his arm as she released his shirt slowly and walking to the phone on the table by the bed. He picked it up and brought the receiver to his ear, before smiling.

"Uh, what's Arabic for scissors?" Tony asked sheepishly, and even though Ziva was sure the receptionist would speak English the smile on his face made her feel 50 pounds lighter. She took the phone from him and asked for a pair of scissors, and the receptionist told her they would be with her momentarily.

“Why do you need scissors?” Ziva asked as an afterthought, realising she hadn’t questioned whatever it was Tony was thinking of.

“Aha,” was his only reply, though he aimed it more at Tali than her and Ziva watched as he poked her on the end of her nose.

Tali climbed back onto Ziva’s lap as they waited, feeling sorry for herself. Ziva rocked her a little, remembering when she was a baby and she’d walk her around the house for hours holding her in her arms trying to get her to sleep.

Tony answered the door (though Ziva would rather have done so herself), and when he came back towards the bed with the scissors he picked up the band-aid and turned his back to them.

"Here, Tali. Look what I have."

Tony held something up in his hands, and Ziva strained her eyes to see what it was. He had used the scissors to carefully cut the band-aid into the shape of a heart. "I have a special sticker for you! Cool, huh? And when you put it on your knee it makes it all better, like magic." He took the paper sealant off the band-aid and lifted the outside to his lips, making a dramatic noise as he kissed it. He held it out in front of Ziva and she copied him in a slight daze, watching as he then placed the band-aid onto Tali’s knee.

Tali didn’t seem to have an adverse reaction but Ziva was fully distracted now, watching Tony’s animated face as he smiled at her daughter. At their daughter, who he hadn’t even known existed until a couple of weeks ago. She’d never seen the light shining in his eyes like it was now; natural and instinctive and innocent. Was it possible to love someone that much so quickly?

Tony’s head eventually lifted upwards to Ziva, and he looked at the watery expression in her eyes with a slight frown. “What?”

“You should stop giving yourself a hard time.”

Tony looked back down at Tali and at the precisely cut heart shape now stuck atop her knee. “It’s nothing.”

“It is not nothing, Tony. I have never once got her to keep a band-aid on.”

“Well, I could’ve taught you.” It was said easily but both of them felt the force as the words hit. “I didn’t mean it like that.” Tony immediately conceded, with a shake of the head.

“I know.” Ziva resisted the urge to allow shutters to come up, ignoring the voices in her head.

"Listen, can we talk? There's some stuff that needs to be said, but.." Tony looked apologetically at Tali, sat on Ziva's lap still admiring the 'special sticker' on her knee.

“She should sleep before you take her back on the plane.”

They managed to get Tali onto the bed behind the partition wall, figuring it might provide a slight noise barrier.

It didn’t take long for her to fall asleep in the end, the excitement and travelling of the day so far catching up with her. She lay curled on her side with Kelev towards her chest. Tony stood up first, watching as Ziva stroked her hair out of her face a few times.

“C’mon, don’t want her to wake up again.” Tony placed his hands lightly on the top of Ziva’s back between her shoulders as he spoke.

She stood up, trying not to feel anxiety rise again as they walked out of the alcove the bed was in and back into the main area of the room.

“If we talk quietly, we should be ok.”

“She’s a heavy sleeper. Not like her mom.”

The word hung between them. Ziva sat back down on the chair she had pulled up to the window earlier. After a second of hesitation, Tony perched himself on the edge of the double bed, facing her.

"So what's Adam's deal? Is he hired help now or what? Bodyguard?"

"No. He is just helping me out. I asked him to stay here today for you and Tali; to keep you safe."

"I called him, y'know. He told me he was in Brussels, hadn't spoke to you in years."

"I hope you understand why he said it now."

"I get it." Tony nodded, his voice quiet and sincere.

"I know that you and Adam have not exactly been best friends, but I understand he helped you a lot that summer." That summer. "And I hope that is enough for you to see that he can be trusted. I can count on one hand the amount of people on this earth I can say I truly trust, and the two of you make the cut."

"If you trust him, I trust him."

Conversation died down again. Tony sighed. Ziva looked around the room, casting a glance at what she could see of the hazy summer sky. He cleared his throat and she turned her head back like it was a cue, but he stayed silent. Their eyes locked and they exchanged a small smile.

"You grew your hair out." Ziva said eventually, and clearly it wasn't what Tony was expecting because it took him a second to reply.

"Yeah, I did." He tucked one of the strands behind his ear. Ziva could see how it was slightly unkempt at the sides - like he'd been doing that a lot recently.

Ziva had cut all of her own hair off a week before finding out she was pregnant. She had wondered at the time if it made her look different, or if Tony would laugh at her for thinking it would. For a brief second she had considered sending him a photo, but that idea died as quickly as it formed.

It had grown back now – another stark reminder of how long it had been since they’d been like this. Able to look each other in the eye, breathe the same air, say the things they really wanted to say.

"So, uh," Tony began, hesitant. "Funny thing happened to me recently. I found out we have daughter.”

"That is funny." Ziva dared to joke, though she knew it was on thin ice. It landed, though, and Tony actually tipped his head back and laughed as though Tali wasn't asleep a few steps away. "I think we could talk around it all night if we do not confront the issue."

"You're right."

"In the interests of disclosure, I have seen a little of you together. Photographs. When you took her to the park when she first went to you."

"Should've known I was being watched."

"She loves the park."

"That's what I figured. Kids love the park, right? I've taken her to a different one every day, pretty much."

"I am sure she loves that. She seems happy."

"I think she is, mostly. She has tantrums but so do all kids. She's started calling out for me during the night which is taking a little getting used to."

Ziva cast the comment aside immediately, refusing to acknowledge who she might have been calling out to before. "She recognised you?"

"Yeah. I wasn't sure if she was just along for the ride at first, but I found the picture from Paris and she pointed me out."

The six years that had passed since that trip were so storied it was hard to believe it had happened to the same people. Memories of Tony's hands round her waist and his breath in her ear fluttered through her mind.

"I told her about you. Everything I could. I wanted her to be able to recognise you and see herself in you from the first time you met. And when she got older I did not want her to have any reason to resent or blame you for not being in her life from the start."

"You always wanted us to meet?"

"Of course I did." Maybe Ziva's voice was a little disbelieving that he would think that, though why wouldn't he?

"Then.." Tony stopped himself. Since he had arrived it was clear he was fighting his kneejerk reactions to try and pose his thoughts in a more productive way. Ziva wished he wouldn't. Wished he would lash out at her, shout and scream like she deserved. “I’m just trying to understand.”

“Did you read the letter?”

“Yeah.”

“All of it?”

“Yeah, I did.” Tony paused like he was expecting another question, but Ziva was waiting for him to talk. “I..” He began, stopping again immediately. “I don’t know where to start.” Ziva nodded, and she felt guilty at the tears she could feel stinging in her eyes. She’d cried more in the past three weeks than she thought she had in her lifetime. “I wish I could somehow show you it from my perspective because that would be easier than me trying to explain what’s been going through my head the last few weeks. The last few years. It’s like everything I thought I was sure of has just been flipped upside down. Hey, I don’t want to upset you..” Tony seemed concerned now as Ziva wiped her eyes and shook her head. “I really just want to get my head around all of this.”

“I know. I am sorry. It is not fair of me to be upset about this.”

“Don’t apologise, feelings aren’t about fairness.” Tony dismissed her quickly, in that no-nonsense way he always did.

“I wish there was a way I could explain it that would make sense, but I do not think I can do that even to myself.”

“You said in your letter you were punishing yourself.”

“I think so. I think I took out my own.. self-pity, on Tali. I did not think I deserved you, and so when I found out I was pregnant I could not bring myself to call you. You had gone back to your life and I thought I would ruin that for you the way I thought I ruined everyone else’s. The longer time went on, the harder it became. I convinced myself you would hate me when you found out, more every day, and you would have been within your rights to be furious that I could keep your child from you. It was selfish of me to put myself above her. That is the best explanation I can give. I was scared, and I was wrong. Wrong about a lot of things.”

Tony nodded slowly. He ran his bottom teeth over his top lip.

“It is ok if it takes you some time. I realise dumping all of this on you does not exactly make it easy to process.”

“No.” Tony chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “I think it’ll take me some time, you’re right. I know you wrote that I should destroy the letter, but can I keep hold of it for a little while?” Ziva hesitated, and Tony watched her eyes dart to where he had tapped his pocket. “Just a couple of days so I can read it a few more times.”

“A few more days.”

Tony kicked his legs out so they were stretched out in front of him. If she wanted, Ziva could have touched them with her own.

“She looks just like you.” It was almost a comment to himself, Ziva thought, spoken down at his shoes on the carpet. He smiled.

“Maybe. Her personality is all you. Ever since she started to move around and talk, it is like there are two of you.”

Ziva’s smile was brighter than Tony’s, nostalgic, and he didn’t meet her eyes until she stopped talking. Common ground passed between them.

“I don’t want us to just sit here in silence while I try and process all of this. I’ll have time to do that when me and Tali go home.”

Ziva checked the time. Just after 7pm – still a couple of hours before they would need to leave. “What do you want to do?”

Tony’s expression changed then, to one of too-bright friendliness. He patted the space beside him on the edge of the bed. Ziva didn’t hesitate to stand up and sit next to him, holding her hands in her lap.

“How are you?”

Ziva actually scoffed at the question in spite of herself. If only he knew. “It is probably not the best time to ask me that question.”

“Right. Um..” Tony looked across the room with his eyes squinted for effect. “Y’know, I’m kinda drawing a blank here.”

“Difficult to know where to start.”

“Yeah, you can say that again.” Their eyes met and both of them smiled, even a little shyly. “3 years, huh?”

“I did not ever think we would go this long without talking.”

“Even when you left?”

“I suppose I was not thinking that far ahead. I am sure it will not surprise you that I was flying by the seat of my hands trying to start again.” Tony’s face broke into a bright smile and he shook his head, lifting a hand and running his fingers over his forehead. “What?”

“Nothing.” Tony cleared his throat as his face became neutral again. “Do you still think it was the right choice?”

Ziva pondered this for a moment, as though it hadn’t been her first thought every morning and her last one before she went to sleep for large periods of the last 3 years.

“I do not regret leaving NCIS. And I certainly do not regret the time we spent together in Israel. But I regret not calling you the second I found out I was pregnant. A lot of the time, I regret leaving you at all. I think I needed some time to find clarity on that. And I don’t say this with any kind of expectation that you might..” Ziva’s words fell away when Tony placed a finger on her nervously clenched fist. She closed her eyes for a second and took a deep breath. “I do not know if it would have changed any of the things that are happening now. Maybe I would have still ended up having to send you and Tali away, I do not know. That is probably not something to dwell on.”

“I’m sorry you had to do that. I know it must’ve been difficult.”

The words would’ve seemed simply polite coming from anyone else, but for Tony to say them considering the circumstances made Ziva’s chest constrict. “After I handed her over, I had a panic attack.” It still felt strange to say out loud, but she was making a concerted effort to be as upfront with Tony as she could afford to be. He deserved that much, at least. “I have never had one before. I thought I was dying.”

“You seem a little nervous today.”

“I am.” Ziva smiled self-deprecatingly. The finger that Tony had placed on her fist became three.

“Has it been like this since Tali came to me?”

“Not always. But a lot of the time, yes.”

“I think it’s natural to worry about her. Especially with everything else’s that’s going on.”

“I wasn’t worried about her being with you.”

“No?”

“No. I was worried about her getting to you safely. About you coming looking for me and putting yourself in harm’s way. What you would think of me. When I would get to see her again. But I wasn’t worried about her being with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I know you.” Ziva’s voice was soft and knowing and she smiled looking down at his hand where he had placed it back between them. “I know how seriously you take duty, and I know that you are loyal and caring to a fault. I trusted you. I trust you. And maybe before I trusted you because I knew you would see it as your duty, but now,” Ziva smiled. “You cut a band-aid into a heart for her. That’s not duty. She is a part of you.” She placed her hand on his chest over his heart, and he looked down at it with the slightest of smiles.

"How do you know if you're doing a good job?”

"You are doing a good job. Look at her. I could not ask for anything more. And, Tony.." Ziva implored him to look her in the eye. She grabbed his hand between hers tightly. "You will not accept thanks for taking care of your daughter, but I want to say it anyway. From the bottom of my heart. I never had a doubt about you but seeing it is something else entirely. Watching how comfortable and content she is with you.. well, it is one less thing to worry about. It is a lifetime of gratitude I will owe you."

"You're right, I can't accept it. But I'm glad it's helping." Tony squeezed Ziva's hands a little. "So you've seen photos of us?"

"Yes. Sorry if that is uncomfortable, but they have been destroyed. They were just for me."

Tony nodded, mulling over the words. For a terrifying moment he seemed to get suddenly choked up. He cleared his throat.

"I think.. I mean, if it’s safe. If you wanted to watch us sometimes, you should do that."

"Really?"

"It’ll help me too. Knowing you might be there."

The words caught in Ziva's own throat now. She raised her hand to Tony's cheek and he lowered his head a little to deepen the contact. His face looked more vulnerable than she could remember it.

"Whatever you need."

"Ziva, you know what I need."

The timing wasn’t right, but the timing was never going to be right, so she kissed him then while she still had the chance. Barely a second's hesitation between his words hitting her and her leaning in to capture his lips, and in an instant he had a hold of the sides of her face as though this was what he'd been waiting for all along.

They were comforting, and loaded, and Ziva had never felt before how peaceful it could be to kiss someone. For a second, everything in her brain stood still.

All she'd thought about since laying eyes on him again was how it would feel to touch him, to kiss him, but she'd been so desperate to hear him get things off his chest and so unsure of what to expect that she hadn't allowed herself to dare presume it would happen.

She certainly hadn't allowed herself to think about Tony's hand making its way through her hair, the little noise that came from his throat as her tongue made its way into his mouth for the first time.

“I’ve missed you so much.” Tony whispered the words against her lips and Ziva’s chest tightened. “So much.” He repeated, thumbs stroking backwards along her jaw.

Ziva resisted the urge to climb into his lap, or to push him backwards onto the bed. Not when he had to leave soon. Not with their daughter sleeping a few feet away – the reminder almost made her laugh. Her hands were behind his neck and his skin was warm from the heat, comforting her as she nibbled at his lip.

It was Tony that pulled back first, but he sighed as he did. The longer this went on, the harder it was going to be for both of them. He kept a hold of Ziva’s face and pulled it down to kiss her slowly on the forehead before letting her go.

She touched her fingertips to her bottom lip when they pulled apart, feeling the ghostly pressure against her skin.

“We should..” Tony began, looking at Ziva for a cue.

"Let's sleep for a little while. You have a long night ahead."

Tony nodded, and kicked off his shoes without hesitation. He scratched the back of his head, surprisingly self-conscious. “So uh, what about you? Where are you going next?"

"Adam is leaving when you and Tali do, which means I should be able to lie low in Cairo in a different hotel for a couple of days. It is probably best if I do not tell you where I am thinking of going after that."

"Don't trust me not to follow you?"

"I do. I think it is just easier if you know as few details as possible. For all of our sakes. I do not want you thinking about it."

"You know that isn't going to stop me."

When she kissed him this time, it felt like a message. “I know.”

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Tony sighed as he got into bed, over the covers, and Ziva remembered his back. She watched his facial expression for a moment from her position at the foot of the bed, gauging what he was feeling. He smiled a little as she walked over to the other side and climbed next to him.

If she could do anything right now, she could be there for him, and maybe in turn that could repair some of the sharp raw pain in chest. She wasn’t the only one that was struggling, but she was the only one that could make either of them right. She curled herself around him, attached at every body-part possible.

“Is this all really happening?” Tony mumbled into Ziva’s hair as he placed her head on his shoulder. She chuckled lightly.

“Go to sleep.”

“Hey,” Ziva lifted her head again to look at Tony, and he kissed her slowly. Ziva’s eyes didn’t immediately open when she pulled back, but when she did she found Tony staring at her. “I’m really trying to not make this any more difficult than it’s already going to be. If I start, I’m never going to stop. I have to leave.”

“I know.” She gave him a peck before settling her head back down on his chest. “I know. Just go to sleep.”

Every conversation between them had been a little bit frantic – too much to say in too little a time, and without the ability to filter in any other way than to just stay quiet. It was quiet now, though. Ziva felt his breathing start to steady and she tried to match her own to it. The fan on the ceiling buzzed as it turned. On the other bed, Tali stirred and mumbled in her sleep.

Tony fell asleep eventually. Ziva lay with him for a while, watching his eyelashes flutter and his mouth move and she tried to memorise his face how it was now - take in every new line, every feature that had changed since she last saw him. She drifted in and out of sleep, finding herself powerless to do anything but watch him as though he would disappear if she kept her eyes closed for too long. She ran her hands slowly through his hair in the same way she had always done to Tali when she was sleeping, slowly separating strands between her fingers over and over.

Slowly, carefully, she removed herself from around him and climbed off the bed. When she got to Tali’s bed she sat on the floor alongside it and did the same: memorising her sleeping features, running light fingers over her eyelids and nose and mouth and cheeks, counting the faint freckles on her arms. Her gaze kept catching on the Star of David around her neck, thinking about what must have been going through Tony’s mind when he gave it to her.

Tali was still but it felt like time was moving too quickly, and Ziva resisted the urge to wake her up as she stood up again and got back into bed next to Tony. He hadn’t stirred.

She lay back down on her side, head resting on her hand with her arm bent up at the elbow.

It took a long time for him to register her presence, which was unlike him. She guessed he hadn’t got much sleep in the last couple of weeks. He opened one eye and blinked a couple of times as he saw her watching over him.

“What time is it?”

“9:30.”

“How long have you been awake?”

Ziva smiled a little. “I have not been to sleep.”

“You’ve just been watching me?”

“I watched Tali for a while too.” Ziva defended half-heartedly, her voice barely above a whisper. Tony chuckled while closing his eyes, stretching his arms. He settled down again looking up at her, his eyes tired but a little pleading.

“I don’t think I can leave again, Ziva.”

“You have to.”

“I know I do. I don’t think that I can.”

Ziva sighed slowly as she stroked his cheek, being careful to take notice of how his skin felt against her fingers.

"I realise I have done nothing for a long time to earn your trust, and if you don't believe it for your own sake, please believe me for Tali's. I could not be without her for a second longer than is necessary. When I am done, I will find you."

"If you need me, you call me. We'll figure it out."

"Tony, I am not going to do that. Tali needs you."

"If you NEED me," Tony stressed, "we'll figure it out."

Ziva knew she wouldn't call him but she nodded anyway, a shared pretence neither of them bought. She leaned down and kissed him, capturing his bottom lip between hers.

“Thank you for coming. I am hoping knowing you are both alright will make this easier.”

"We'll be waiting. Both of us."

"It could be years, Tony. It could be never."

"I know that."

"I could not ask you to.."

"You're not asking me to. I'm telling you what's already a foregone conclusion in my eyes. When you get back, when you get back," he repeated, emphasis on the word, "I will still be here. We can have a... well, we probably passed second chance about 10 years ago. Whatever number chance we're on. And we can get a first chance at being a proper family, the three of us."

“I have never really been a part of one before.”

“Neither have I. We could get a dog or something.”

Ziva laughed though the sound was wet with tears, kissing him again hard and quick. His eyes were shining when she lifted her head away, an easy but thoughtful smile on his face.

“I love you.” Somehow the words were the simplest thing in the world to say at that moment, after years and years of not even being able to say them to herself.

“I love you too.”

“Sorry I could not tell you before. Sorry about everything.”

“Shh,” Tony quietened her, tucking her hair behind her ear and encouraging her to place her head back down on the crook under his arm.

They lay there for a while longer, swapping stories about Tali as Tony drew soft patterns on Ziva’s back. He had acquired a remarkable amount in such a short period of time, though Ziva’s favourite was probably the one where Tony had forgotten to strap Tali into her stroller and she had waited until he turned to shut the door to the building, hopped out of her seat, and gone running off down the road laughing at the top of her voice. The thought of the danger should have scared Ziva, but it didn’t. She was with Tony. He’d protect her.

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

Both of them got quietly fidgety as they watched time pass, knowing they would have to get up.

“We need to get to the airport.” Tony was the first one to break, kissing Ziva’s temple slowly.

“I wish you didn’t have to.”

“Please don’t say that. Not now.”

“Ok. Ok.” Ziva repeated the word as though to reassure herself, and as she sat up Tony’s arm stayed attached to her back. She could see Tali still fast asleep from this vantage point, and climbed down the bed towards hers.

She woke her up with whispers, and Tali wiped her eyes and looked a little dazed.

“Home?”

“Abba is taking you on a plane to go and see your new bedroom.”

“Pop?”

“Yeah, Pop’s going to be there. He’s really excited to show it to you.” Tony appeared over Ziva’s shoulder, stepping into his deck shoes.

The two of them made their way around the room quietly, packing up the things Tali had somehow scattered the room with in just a couple of hours. Ziva took her to the bathroom and caught a sight of her own reflection in the backlit mirror – the bags under her eyes, her unkempt hair. When she ran the tap to get Tali to wash her hands she splashed some of the water onto her face, rubbing it dry with her palms.

They re-entered the main room and Tony was stood near the door, hand over his eyes and head pointed down at the ground. He recovered quickly enough to plaster a smile on his face as Tali ran towards him so he could put on her shoes.

Ziva listened to them talking as she turned her back, taking a few deep breaths. When she felt like she could, she went into the plastic bag she’d left by the foot of the bed and retrieved a stuffed camel. Cheesy, but a reminder.

She placed the toy behind her back as she approached them, waiting until Tali looked up at her before revealing it and holding it out. “Happy birthday, Tali.”

Tali took the camel, delighted, and clutched it to her chest. “Thank you.” She eventually squeezed out.

“You’re welcome, my love. Make sure abba buys you everything you want, yes?”

Tali looked up at Tony, who rolled his eyes with a smile. He took a careful step back when Ziva bent down in front of Tali, holding her small hands with one of hers and running her other over Tali’s hair and cheek.

She knew more big, dramatic goodbyes would only confuse or upset her. She didn’t allow herself to cry, instead smiling as she picked up Kelev from the floor and made sure she had him and her new camel toy in either of her hands.

"Ima has to go away again Tali, OK? And I don't know how long for. But abba told me he's really excited for you two to have fun together. So you and me have to say goodbye now."

Tali leaned forward in expectation of a hug, and Ziva wrapped her arms around her so tightly she thought she might break. She whispered “I love you” into her hair in English and Hebrew, pulling away to kiss her twice and standing up again before it got any harder.

Looking Tony in the eye was harder than she expected. His head was tipped a little and he was giving her half a smile that was betrayed by the water in his eyes.

“I’ll see you soon. Ok? Soon.”

Ziva nodded fiercely, pressing their foreheads together as though she were willing it to be true. Tony raised his hands to hold her face, kissing her slowly and purposefully. Ziva breathed him in, and when he pulled away she followed him, capturing his lips twice, three times, in quick succession.

“See you soon.” She repeated, defiant. She stepped away from him before she couldn’t.

"Walk or carry, Tali?" Tony held his arms open to demonstrate his point and Tali immediately lifted her own so Tony would lift her, settling her on his hip. Ziva noticed the way he grimaced a little as he straightened his back. She picked up his bag from the floor and placed it over his other shoulder, stroking the strap until it lay flat on his shirt.

“Make sure she doesn’t drop Kelev. And remember her stroller next time.”

“I will if I ever want to walk again. Ok, give ima a kiss.” Tony tipped Tali a little towards Ziva, and Ziva grabbed Tali’s head and kissed her on the lips before adding ones on her forehead and cheek for good measure. She lifted her hands to Tony’s cheeks and kissed him again too, rubbing her thumb towards his chin.

“I love you both. Be safe.”

“We love you too. Take care of yourself. Remember, you call me if you need to.”

Ziva nodded again as Tony opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, her hands running over Tali’s arm on his shoulder and along his back until they were both out of reach. Tony knocked Adam’s door twice as they walked past – his own signal to pack up and leave.

She stood watching them as they approached the elevator, and though they were still within talking distance Tony got Tali to wave goodbye. Ziva tried to smile, taking a mental image of the two of them as they got onto the elevator.

As soon as the doors closed she went back into the silent hotel room, taking back her old position sat on her knees by the window. It took them a couple of minutes to appear. Tony’s head flicked up in the general direction of the room, and she watched as he tried to calculate the right window. She held up her palm to the glass and he caught sight of her then, smiling and raising his free hand before looking away and pressing a slow kiss to Tali’s cheek.

She watched them disappear back down the street, lit in the darkness by streetlamps and headlights, and only when they began to blur out of view did she allow the tears to fall.

#ncis #tiva #ziva david #tony dinozzo #tivali #tiva fanfiction #tali #my fanfiction #mine #what's truly mad is how many tags i use that basically mean the same thing #anyway if i didnt post this today it was never going to be posted #if you get to the end i salute you it probably reads really weirdly #the overriding message behind it is i love tony and ziva and i shouldnt write things while crying at 4am

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