#it isnt beta read!!

[steppin-on-the-last-train]

The End of Love

Natasha Romanoff x Taskmaster!Reader

Although I encourage everyone to read this, full disclosure it is male!reader. I tried to keep specified pronoun use to a minimum, but it can’t always be helped. There might be some mental rewriting required if you decide to go on.

Synopsis:

“You think too much,” she says.

You can’t argue with that. Because now that you’re looking at her in the light and you’re so close you can see each fractal of green in her eyes you're thinking there’s nothing more intimate than this.

She’s not your friend but if she were she’d be your best one.

Or, a look at who Natasha Romanoff was before the Avengers. Told through the eyes of the person who loved her the most.

Word Count: 43,000

Foreword: I wrote most of these scenes out of order and then proceeded to edit nothing so if something disagrees with something later on that’s why.

Acknowledgements: One) Title from the song with the same name by Florence + The Machine. Two) The final scene with Willem is indeed a copy from that scene in Good Will Hunting. Three) All rights to the original media.

It’s spring and something has shifted. You’re in bed with her when the feeling hits you. You are in bed together, legs twisted together under the sheets, the callous pads of her feet warm against the inside of your calf. You wonder if she feels it too.

You’ve been like this for hours. Nothing more, not tonight. Just the simple act of breathing in tandem with someone. Of holding tight until you don’t know how you could ever part again. 

She likes you because you are hers. Her mission partner, her choice, hers. There is power in choosing who you give yourself over to. And you understand but you prefer this. You hate to disappoint her, to stop her after just a kiss, knowing there is want for much more.

But her head is tucked beneath your chin and she’s so close she might as well have burrowed herself inside you and you hope it’s enough. Because this is safe. Her, always. But there are some things which you can’t speak. So she starts with a kiss on your cheek and you end with a kiss on her lips.

You are not at peace, but for now, wrapped in her arms and the scent of something that is so distinctly her, you are content. And you’ve done this so many times before, too many but somehow not enough all at once. 

The first time had been after your plane went down shy of returning to the Red Room. You were smaller then, less muscle and too long limbs and grief enough to suffocate. The walk back had taken two nights to complete. You would freeze to death if you didn’t share body heat after the sun went down. You both knew this. You slept back to back, bundled in extra shirts and the parachute from the jet. You both pretended you didn’t trust each other just a little more in the morning. 

Now you roll and stretch and Natalia makes a small noise of protest. You tell her you’re getting a glass of water, ask if she wants one too. She doesn’t answer.

The air in the motel room is stale and the light in the bathroom stutters like a heartbeat trying to stave off death. You fill a glass under the tap and drink until it’s empty again. Your breath wavers ever so slightly. You push down on the countertop a little too hard, your palms beginning to sweat. 

Then she’s behind you with a steady hand creating a rhythm of up-down, up-down on your back. You had tried to be silent, hoping she would not notice. You didn’t want her to see you like this. But she extricated herself from the warmth of the bed to be by your side anyway.

She knows you. And it’s terrifying.

She is not gentle but in these moments she is human, and so are you. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. You are not a person who apologizes. So you say it when the only thing it can mean is nothing. When it’s as weightless as the breath from which it comes from.

“It’s okay.” She is not a person who forgives. She is both the bullet and the finger behind the trigger. She is the dazzling starlet who shines the light in your eyes so you do not feel the knife in your back.

Your reflections in the mirror do not feel real. You make a point not to look too closely. Because when you do you see with the eyes of those who would put a bullet in your head for this. No, not quite. Because they would do much worse.

Lately you’ve been dividing time by the moments with Natalia and the moments in between. By one stolen night followed by a week, five weeks, a dozen. You never know. And it’s an adjustment because you can’t quite pinpoint the moment you stopped sleeping down the hall from her more nights than not.

You spend the time without her taking orders, putting on the Taskmaster mask, leaving messages in the form of bodies with sword-shaped slits. Then you’re still taking orders but wearing a different sort of mask, one where they can see your face but still can’t see you and you’re shaking hands and learning real politics is nothing like what you’ve studied. 

“You see what sort of dogs I have to deal with?” General Dreykov asks. Ever since the military dress uniform appeared in your room and you flew to Moscow as his “second” he’s been speaking to you more and more as a peer. Far from most of the time. But occasionally. Enough for you to remember and collect like they were some sort of medal. 

And Madame B, who has always detested you for being too emotional, had finally seemed to approve. One day on your way out after you had been training some of the young recruits she spoke to you across the wasteland of the dance studio. You stopped at the doorway to turn back toward her, but she stayed facing the wall like it was a window to another studio where she must judge a dozen more girls with bleeding feet.

“I never understood why he kept you around.” She always spoke clipped, enunciating each syllable like the crack of a cane. “You were an insolent child. Yes, you can dance but this power makes you think you’re invincible.” You watched her, too stunned to feel indignant about the criticism, too apprehensive to notice how small she was now that you were grown. “But. Perhaps it was not such a bad idea to rear you here. You will lead with an iron fist. And most importantly, you will understand.”

You left without saying anything.

What was there to understand. This place was all you knew.

You come back with a hand on your cheek. Natalia is staring into your eyes like they reflect the answer to life. But if your eyes were mirrors all she’d see was herself.

“You think too much,” she says.

You can’t argue with that. Because now that you’re looking at her in the light and you’re so close you can see each fractal of green in her eyes you're thinking there’s nothing more intimate than this.

She’s not your friend but if she were she’d be your best one.

She asks you to come back to bed. You nod and follow her into the dark. She is sitting up. On your stomach you drape yourself over the edge of the mattress and take her hand. Already you mourn this night. You cannot enjoy the time you have when you don’t know if it will be your last. You have become far too important to each other.

You can tell she feels the same. Misery has settled over the both of you like a cold, wet snow. She is tense as she runs her fingers through your hair. You lay your head in her lap and close your eyes against the danger lurking outside.

It is spring and something has shifted.

—

And it is that stupid feeling which makes you turn yourself over to the Americans after she is captured. That feeling which has transformed since you were small and angry. That feeling which has always been evolving; this new chapter taking an ugly turn. Perhaps you have let this go on for too long.

You are grown now, but still very much full of rage.

They show you a file they have on you which you think looks very hastily put together. Because they would have no reason to suspect you of anything. That’s the way your life has been curated. There is what you do in the daylight and what you do in the dark with a skull mask over your face and a hood over your head. These people are not the same. 

But you’ve made a purposefully big mess on American soil as Taskmaster and they’ve finally connected his face with the official headshot of one Junior Lieutenant of the Russian military.

Is this you, they ask and despite the handcuffs cutting into your wrists and the four guards with guns on their hips you laugh and call the man asking an idiot. The other guy is your twin brother. 

You don’t think he appreciated your answer because the next thing you know you’re being cuffed on the ear.

Along with the picture of you in your official uniform there is a mugshot of you from the day they brought you in. You don’t often see photos of yourself. The guy in this one looks dangerous. There are also two very grainy, very dark photographs pulled from security cameras of a figure who might be you from assassination runs you went on. You recognize yourself in one, and you’re pretty sure the other is of someone in a Halloween costume.

They’ve taken you in with nothing but the clothes on your back and your weapons and a watch of Dreykov’s he had given you a few years ago.

Even though your stomach is empty and your face is bruised you don’t help them put the pieces together. You tell them the same thing you’ve been saying. You know they have the Black Widow. You want to talk to her.

And weeks later when they think they have broken you down and built you back up with S.H.I.E.L.D.’s name around your neck they let you out of your cell.

The guy who slapped you that first day is your new handler. His name is Richard Kremer. You don’t think he likes you all that much. He’s old and he acts like he can go back and win the Cold War if he gets you to roll over.

But you’ve learned he can’t hit you now that you’re not a prisoner. So when you tell him you know his type, that he probably got discharged from field service because he broke down and nailed some kid in the head all he can do is tell you to shut up. I’m right, aren’t I? You ask and he is silent. Oh come on G.I. Joe. He tells you to get out and you happily oblige.

It is when you are outside on the track one day that you finally see Natalia again. You are allowed time outside with supervision–like you are a dog–and you don’t think you’ve ever been happier to see the sun. It’s just you, the rubber beneath your feet, and the wind in your hair. Because you are not worried about the rookie who’s been assigned to watch you. You can pretend you are somewhere else. You can pretend you are running back home instead of pacing holes through this American ground.

You tense when you hear another pair of steps. You do not want to go back inside. Five more minutes. But you look over your shoulder and the figure has bright red hair and astonishment in her eyes. 

You are so surprised to see her because you thought maybe you weren’t going to again that you stumble in your haste to stop. You skid and your feet fly out from beneath you. You catch yourself on your hands, bits of track sticking to your palms. 

Natalia laughs and you can’t fight the grin on your face. She offers a hand and you take it. You let her pull you to your feet. She doesn’t stop there. She is strong and you fall into her. You throw yourself over her, wrapping your free arm around her back. Your hands are still clamped tightly together. You are too relieved to see she is okay to care about who may be watching. Let them see. They know why you came here. And right now, she feels so familiar. 

She pulls away first. “You’re here,” she breathes, eyes wide. Her irises glitter in the sunlight. “Блять. I didn’t believe it.”

“You’re okay,” you say, still breathless. “They didn’t kill you. I thought they were going to kill you.”

“No, they didn’t.” She grows serious, the initial shock wearing off. “Change of plans, I guess.”

You switch to Russian now because you are finally leaving this place. “What idiots. To spare us both. Natalia, we can be out of here tonight.”

She stares at you for a moment, looking guilty. Finally, she shakes her head and very slowly explains, “I’m not going back to Russia. I’m staying here with S.H.I.E.L.D. We’ve come to an agreement. I’m going to defect.” You are bewildered and it must show in the whites of your eyes because she reassures, “I’m okay. This is my choice.”

You don’t know what to think, much less what to say. “Are you serious?” 

“Yes.”

“Look, it doesn’t matter how they’re threatening you. I can get you out.”

“I’m not under threat.”

You narrow your eyes at her and back up a step. They must have messed with her mind, then. Because the Natalia you know would never do this. She was vicious like the edge of a blade and she was strong-headed like no one you’ve ever met. She could not be harnessed.

She grabs your hands. “Look at me. I’m still here.” You jerk because it is like she can read your mind. “It is better here,” she says. “They’ve offered me freedom and protection. That’s all.”

“How could you–” you start, but words don’t feel like enough to convey your disbelief. You shake your head. This can’t be happening. Because you’ve quit and run without permission. You were going to get forgiveness on your return. But you can’t go back without her. You tell yourself it’s because they wouldn’t accept that kind of failure, but you think she would be a tolerable loss compared to you. No. You don’t want to go anywhere without her. “You have to go back. We need to go back. I came here to free you from them.”

“And I’m telling you there’s nothing to free me from,” she says. “I’m using them to free myself.”

But you don’t hear her. You leave, a new word coloring the image of her.

Traitor.

And she’s dragged you to hell with her.

—

Inside your pillowcase is the newest spot you’ve chosen to hide your stash of stolen items. It’s not much, a rock from outside, a fork from the cafeteria, a broken matchstick you found on the ground. 

You are not allowed to have things. Nothing is yours, they tell you. Everything is shared as part of the collective. Don’t get caught up in the scheme of materialism. That’s why everyone takes turns doing the laundry and scrubbing down the showers and disposing of waste. But you don’t really want these things to own. You only do it because they tell you not to.

They found your collection when you put it under your bed and when you began carrying the things in your pockets. Both times they beat you for it. You’re sure they’ll find this one and make you count to fifty instead of twenty-five but there is something rotten inside you and you can’t help it. Maybe after this time they’ll finally thresh it out. 

It is night and you grope through the dark until you find the items. You find all three tucked safely where you left them. But something else pokes your finger as you retrieve your things. Your hand grasps a fourth item and you can’t see it but it feels like a small needle. You don’t remember taking this. Did someone put it here? How did they know about your stash? 

You lay curled on your side and take turns holding each item. You decide the mystery object is definitely a sewing needle. Maybe you did take it and you forgot. You move on. You’ve found a good rock this time. It is small and smooth and almost perfectly round. 

You think about throwing it at Madame T’s head. Then, you hide them again and fall asleep.

You wake up with a cold hand over your mouth. You slap it away and tackle the offending person to the floor before you’ve formed your first conscious thought. 

“Сука!” She hisses as her back lands on the wooden floor and you sit on her stomach. “When are you going to stop doing that?”

You stare down at the vague outline of a body before you slowly let her up. “When you stop waking me up by choking me out.”

“I’m not choking you. And it’s not my fault you cry in your sleep. I’m helping you. Would you rather have a guard come in here?”

“I do not cry in my sleep.” You wrinkle your nose.

“Yes you do. Like a little baby.” You imagine her smirking through the dark. You don’t know who keeps visiting you in the night, only that it’s the same girl each time and she’s probably in your class. You can’t see anything at night here. You know her voice, but there is little speaking during the day. And none of the girls talk to you anyway. Her hair is a little past shoulder length, but that’s the way most of theirs is. 

And she won’t tell you who she is. 

“Shut up,” you say, shoving her in the shoulder. 

“Hey, no fighting in the dark. It’s not fair.”

“I’ll stop when you tell me who you are.”

“What, so you can rat me out?” You’re sitting close so you don’t have to talk very loud. You can feel her breath against your face.

“I won’t,” you say. “I promise.”

She laughs. It is too bitter a sound for someone your age. “Like that means anything.”

“I’m going to figure it out eventually.”

She shakes her head, hair swishing against your cheek. “You haven’t yet. And you never will.”

“Yes I will.”

“No you won’t.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Yes,” you say, pouncing on top of her. You’ve taken her by surprise. She reacts quickly, rolling the two of you an extra time so she can sit on your chest. 

“I’m too good for you,” she says. 

“Arrogance will get you killed,” you retort. You struggle beneath her but you’re about the same size and she knows exactly how to pin you down.

“That’s a big word for you. Who’d you copy that one from?”

You ignore her, still focused on trying to get up. 

“Stuck?” She asks, her voice light. “Don’t start fights you can’t win, Markov.” She lets you up and pads toward the door. “See you tomorrow.”

Another week passes and something else appears inside your pillowcase. It’s a ribbon from a ballet shoe. You take it out and hold it up in the light of day. You know for sure, you did not take this. Someone else was messing with you. Or helping, you don’t really know.

You watch the girls around you. There are the mean ones–which are most of them–and the nice ones–of which there used to be more. You think it’s one of the nice ones who comes to you at night because she is waking you from bad sleep. But then again she likes to argue and wrestle with you. So maybe it’s a mean one.

You keep fighting and dancing and learning things like how to blend into a crowd and how to craft the perfect lie. You don’t find out who’s been adding things to your collection. But you hope you do before the guards find this new hiding spot. 

They find it when you have to strip your bed for laundry day and realize you have nowhere to hide the new things. You stuff it all in your pockets again and they call you stupid for not learning your lesson last time. So they drag you screaming and kicking downstairs and strip you naked. You bite one of them when they try to tie your hands to the pole because you remember what they told you would happen for the third time you were caught stealing. A boot collides with the side of your head and you go limp for a second. The big things in your life make you forget how small you are. 

There is a moment to breathe and for the ringing in your ears to subside. Then, just as the world refocuses, hellfire is released upon your backside.

You lay upstairs on your stomach and do not sleep. There are deep trenches of blood carved into your back. You could barely crawl into your unmade bed after they dumped you back on the floor in your room. 

You find a flower when you have to go outside the next day. It is bright and yellow and a rarity out here where everything is dead most of the year. You don’t take it.

The fourth night after you finally sleep, your body forcing itself to shut down despite the pain. You are getting better. But not fast enough. 

You only groan when you wake and realize there’s a hand on your face. 

“Shhh,” she says. Then she is silent. You think she is looking at the door. 

You push yourself up, drawing blood as you bite your lip. You slide into the corner away from her. “I can’t do this tonight,” you say. “I’m so tired.”

“I had to. It was going to be them or me.” She pauses. Then, slowly, the mattress dips as she climbs onto the bed.

“I’m serious,” you say. You are hurting and she is strong. She cannot know this. “It’s not fucking funny anymore.”

“Geez, I’m not going to hurt you,” she says. “I would’ve done that a long time ago if I wanted to. Here. Take this.”

“I can’t see you.”

“You are impossible.” She brushes your arm. You recoil. She grabs your hand. It feels odd, like she’s trying to be gentle. She flips your palm up and places something in your open hand. It’s soft and delicate and feels a little like rubber. You roll it carefully through your fingers. You brush your other hand over the top and feel the petals. They are silky. Nothing can compare. It still smells like outside, like life. 

You realize she is the one who has been collecting prizes for you. 

“You’re trying so hard to watch out for me you forget I’m looking out for you too,” she says.

“I can’t take this,” you say. “They’ll find it. You have to take it back.”

“No,” she says. “Scoot over.” 

You obey, trying to hide how much it hurts to move. She takes your spot in the corner and you hear a ripping sound. “What are you doing?” You hiss.

She doesn’t answer. “Give me the flower.” You hand it to her, brushing her hand as you do. You wait in silence until she turns back around. “There’s a little hole in your mattress. I put it in there. They won’t find it. I promise.”

“Like that means anything,” you say, mimicking her tone. And as you do, you realize who you’re speaking to. It just clicked. You know this voice. “Natalia.”

“Look who’s finally earned his detective badge.” You wish you could see her smile instead of just hearing it.

—

You stay at S.H.I.E.L.D., thinking she will see sense eventually. You can’t leave the campus yet so you spend a lot of time wandering and watching. You count how many paces it takes to get from one building to another, estimate how quickly you could run. You look up at the buildings, wonder if you could climb any of them. Every day that passes is excruciating. You can feel the Red Room getting farther away. It’s been far too long since you’ve been in contact with them. You haven’t had the chance to tell them you’re coming back. That you’re not a traitor.

The only thing that makes life bearable is Natalia. She said she just wants to be called Natasha now and it confuses you even more. She really is changing.

You tell them you want to defect too. You pretend like you are fine. Like you are not in fact drowning.

You spend time in Natalia’s room, which is exactly like yours but she has a couple of books and a badly drawn picture of what looks like a person. You can’t really tell.

You point to it. “What’s this?”

She smiles. She’s been doing a lot more of that lately. It’s certainly not the worst thing. “It’s you. In your combat suit. You like it? Clint drew it.”

“He must be some kind of artist then. I could barely tell that that thing was a human.”

She laughs, and for a second the sound makes you forget how she has turned traitor. Because it is sweet and real and uniquely hers. “Look,” she says pointing. “This is your mask. See the eyes and the jawbone?”

“So those are teeth?”

“Yeah. And this arc is the hood, and these lines are the cape.”

“What are those?”

“Your katanas.”

“Why are there five of them?”

“There’s not. These are the swords,” she says, pointing to two lines angled toward the bottom of the page. She moves her finger to three lines above the figure’s head. “I think these are anger lines.”

“Anger lines?”

“Yeah. To signify danger. You know you’re pretty scary in that thing.”

You shrug. “Sure, I guess. And what did I do to have this honor?” You ask.

“You put yourself on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s shit list.” She takes her attention from the sketch and looks at you. “Clint said they didn’t know who they had at first, so he drew me this.”

“And you kept it.”

“I needed decoration. What’s better than a picture of you?” She smirks and nudges you in the ribs. “Like a guardian angel.”

You nod because she’s flirting with you and it’s making your head spin just a little bit. You like her even though you know you shouldn’t and you think she likes you too. You aren’t dating because people like you don’t ‘date’ but there’s something, just below the surface. Like an undertow waiting to drag you under if you wade out too far. You can sense it, like a coming storm.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” she says. “Why did they send you after me? And in such a dramatic fashion. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I don’t know,” you lie. No one sent you. Maybe you were already out in the middle of the ocean. “You’re the best they’ve got. There’s two dozen widows but there’s a reason you’re the one everyone’s been chasing.”

She shakes her head. “No. You’re the best they’ve got. Dreykov would never trade you for me.” She’s looking at you like she knows you’re lying. You hate to find that there’s hope in her expression. Like she’s waiting for a confession. But the truth is unacceptable. You cannot say you ran after her like a prince in a storybook. You cannot open yourself up. 

She has never hurt you. And you will not give her the opportunity now.

So you gamble on the chance she doesn’t know for sure. You shrug and look away. Because you’ve never been as good as her at hiding things. “Guess he did.” You open your mouth again.

“I’m not going back,” she interrupts because she knows what you’re going to say. She puts a hand on your chest, the other on your cheek. “We can make a place for ourselves here.” Despite her conviction she still sounds disappointed. Doesn’t she know she’s won?

“I know,” you say.

Eventually a month goes by but you have not left. By some sickness she has you trapped. This is why Dreykov had warned you against the widows. Because they spun and they lied and now you could not bear to leave her in this strange place.

There are weekly mandatory shrink sessions you must attend as part of your agreement. You aren’t cleared for missions unless you get their green light. It’s a whole fraud that seems to have everyone in this country up in arms but you are sure it’s just S.H.I.E.L.D. trying another clever way to extract information from you. The discussions at least have been mildly amusing. You don’t have much else to focus on right now.

You’ve been transferred to a different “professional” twice now. The first one had obviously been scared of you so you played into it. He was asking you about your life and about guilt so you spent the entire hour making up stories that were unbelievable even by your standards. You told him your job used to be to torture political enemies and captured agents. You stared him down and tried to blink as little as possible when you told him you enjoyed skinning them alive and hearing them scream.

So the next time you go in it’s office 109 instead of 212 and there’s a woman instead of a man. She’s kooky and has you lay on a couch as she asks about your childhood. So you tell her a story too. 

“My father,” you start, even though you hadn’t had one since you were six years old. But none of these people knew anything from where you came from. “He was a terrible alcoholic. He used to slap my face and shake me like a rag doll. I mean, is that what a real man is supposed to be?”

“No, honey. But it’s okay. You’re safe now. Go on,” she says. “How did that make you feel?”

“It made me so angry, doc. So one day I said to him, ‘I’m gonna show you what I’m made of.’ I grab his shotgun that he keeps under his bed and blam! Gunpowder and lead.” You open your eyes and her face is looming over you, confusion starting to bloom. You break out singing, because this is the good part. “I’m goin’ home, gonna load my shotgun. Wait by the door and light a cigarette. He wants a fight, well, now he’s got one. And he ain’t seen me crazy yet!”

You’re smiling because you heard the song on the radio once and you’d remembered it and the singer’s accent after all these years. Her confusion has turned to anger and suddenly the session is over. Oh no.

Kremer has a talk with you after this incident. He tells you to cut the shit and sit through it like everyone else does. Then he reminds you what will happen if either him or one of these therapists deems you unfit for work at S.H.I.E.L.D. But you don’t care. They’re not going to get the best of you twice.

But you go another week to a new office with something to prove. You’ve got a winning streak to maintain. This guy has glasses and graying hair and a stomach that’s a little round. There are shelves and shelves of books and you pace the room, grazing your hand over the spines.

“You got one in here that’s going to tell you how to fix me?”

“Hello,” he says. “My name is Dr. Francis, but you can call me Willem.” He is soft spoken and you think you can break him like you did the first one. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

“Okay Willem. Sure.” You slouch across from him in a chair level with his. He’s not behind a desk like the first man or hovering over you like the woman.

“Do you like to read?” He asks, because you’re still scanning the shelves.

You used to, but not really anymore. “I’m not working here because I’m some genius who sits around reading all day.”

“No. Certainly not.” Was he making fun of you? “Has anyone told you how this works?”

You shake your head.

“Well I, along with my colleagues, are not ‘S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.’ We’re privately contracted. You know what that means, yes?”

“It means you probably get more money for sitting around and talking nonsense all day.”

“Sure. You’re not wrong. But it also means I don’t owe S.H.I.E.L.D. anything. Whatever is said in this room stays in this room. My only obligation is to make sure you’re not a danger to yourself or others.”

You eye him and his cardigan, wondering how he could walk out of the house with something like that on. “That’s what I’ve been missing!” You snap your fingers. “You’ve got my full trust now Willem, goodness I can’t believe what a great resource this is. What do you want to know? I’ll tell you everything.”

He chuckles. “You’re funny, aren’t you?” 

“I’m only as serious as this whole charade is,” you say gesturing around at the office which looks so out of place here at S.H.I.E.L.D. The clutter on his desk in the corner, the old wood furnishing, the acoustic guitar lying among stacks of books. “But okay sure. Let’s say you’re not going to turn around and blab to Kremer so he can be more efficient about making my life harder. You’re only here to make sure I’m not a danger.” You make little air quotes with your hands when you say this. “You do know what kind of missions are conducted here, no?”

“Of course. I did my time in the military.”

“Really?”

“This surprises you.”

“Yeah, I mean, come on,” you wave your hand at him. “I could kill you with my eyes closed.”

He raises his eyebrows. “I have no doubt you could. But as I was saying. I don’t mean you can’t be dangerous. Just that you have to know when to pick it up and put it away. For example, now was not the time to threaten me with mortal violence.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, getting out of the chair. You couldn’t do that. Violence was who you were. And you were tired of this anyhow.

 You make it to the back wall where there’s a window and on the sill there’s a picture frame. You pick it up, showing it to him. “Is this your family? Your kids are pretty cute.”

“Watch it,” he says.

 You flip the frame around and look down at it. “How old are they? The little one can’t be older than eight, no? What a shame I know her father’s name.”

Maybe it’s because you don’t actually plan to find his family or maybe it’s because you’ve underestimated him that your heart pounds when you look up and he’s in your space with a serious look on his face. 

“Don’t fuck with my family or I will end you.”

“Touchy, touchy,” you say.

“Get out.”

And that’s how your first interaction goes. So you’re surprised the next week when you hear you’ve been ordered back with Dr. Francis.

You stroll into the office like nothing ever happened. “You again. How are your kids doing?”

“Shut up and sit down,” he says.

You mock pout but sit anyway.

“How old are you?” He asks.

“You’ve got my file. I’m sure it says somewhere in there.”

“Yes, but I want to hear it from you.” He’s wearing another ridiculous outfit. A gray polo shirt with a brown patched cardigan.

“So you can make some big point about how I’m young and don’t know anything, right?” You ask. Because this feels awfully familiar. 

You remember a time when you were twelve and told this Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR) officer named Evgenia you were eighteen when she asked. Zhenya laughed and said, yeah right, if you’re eighteen then I’m forty. When you’d finally told the truth she looked at you funny. Do you know what this assignment is? You told her this was a joint mission to take out high-ranking members of a certain Russian mob family who had overstepped the line between civilian and state.

You’re a little young for this, no? She’d asked. 

No one had ever given pause because of your age before. You assured her you were capable of this assignment. 

She let it go but didn’t stop calling you “kid” for the whole two weeks. You hated it until you realized she didn’t mean it in a bad way. It was kind of nice, actually. To feel looked after. Carrying things on your own was so exhausting.

She made you try Oreshki as you sat in a hotel working on the mission reports because she couldn’t believe you’d never had it. Then she asked what your parents were feeding you at home because she’d never seen someone your age so strong. You told her your parents were dead and she’d stared at you for a few minutes. You pretended not to notice. 

When it was time to go back she told you to look after yourself. She seemed reluctant to let you go.

You assured her you would be fine. You always were.

Now you stare at Willem and wonder where he wants to go with this question.

“Something like that,” he says. “Come on, it won’t hurt you.”

“I’m twenty-eight,” you lie. Because there’s no way the number in the file isn’t just an estimate.

He’s quick with his response. “No you’re not.”

You’re about to tell him yes, you are but there’s something in his eyes, in his posture. He’s confident you’ve lied. “Fine. I’m twenty-two. Happy?”

“Exactly. You’re twenty-two. You’re a kid. You’ve barely reached the age we let kids have alcohol in this country. Tell me, have you ever read anything by Shakespeare?” You shake your head. “You ever swam in the ocean?” Another no. “Been to an art museum? Hiked up a mountain? Fallen in love?”

You stop him then. “Love is a scam. It’s some great ideal everyone chases like an idiot because they think their worth resides with another person. It’s an opiate for the masses. You tell someone they’ll be fulfilled if they find this ���love’ and they’ll blind themselves in pursuit of it. People are more easily controlled when they are distracted by emotion.”

“I don’t think so. And I’ve been in love for twenty years. Almost as long as you’ve been on this earth. Love has brought me great joy and great sorrow. But you wouldn’t know about that. About giving yourself over to someone else. About allowing someone to open your eyes, to challenge you. I am not distracted by emotion, and even if I was I wouldn’t care. Because at least I’ve lived.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

He raises a hand. “Or you’re a coward. You want to think you’re above it all. You had Dr. Casey thinking you were a psychopath. You wanted me to think you were a monster. But you’re not. You’re a scared kid with his chest puffed out. You’re the kid who pushes others on the playground because you’re getting pushed at home. But guess what. I can’t be pushed.

You’re scared to talk because you don’t know what might come out. Scared to let people in because you think they won’t like what they see. How many people have you talked to since you’ve been here? How many people knew you, and I mean really knew you back in Russia? What about that young woman who got here a couple weeks before you? You’re unique. I’ll bet I’ve never met someone like you and I never will again. So I can’t get anywhere, I can’t start if you don’t help me. You have to talk to me.”

And after that he dismisses you, just like that.

The next time you come back the ball is in your court. He doesn’t talk to you, just sits and stares expectantly. Well two could play that game. You’ll show him you won’t talk if you don’t want to. So you sit and count away the seconds and leave when the hour is up.

Another week passes and you’re in his office again. And he’s silent, again. 

You won’t be the one to break. But you’re looking at the guitar on the stand in the corner with all its dust and you think it’s as safe a conversation starter as any.

“Do you play?” You ask, nodding at the instrument.

Willem sits up and blinks a couple times like he hadn’t been expecting you to speak. “No. Not really anymore. And to be honest I could never really play even when I used it. Shame, it’s a beautiful instrument.” He gets up to retrieve the guitar and begins to tune it. “I’ve never really had the ear for music.” He plucks at a string and goes onto the next one.

“Wait,” you say. “Go back. That one’s not right.”

“Too flat or too sharp?”

“What?” Just turn it a little more.” He complies and finally it sounds right. You nod and he goes to the next.

“I didn’t peg you as the musical type,” he says as he plays and you nod or shake your head.

“I’m not. Just a feeling, I guess. I know what notes sound like.”

“But you don’t know this is the ‘E string?’”

“No, nothing like that. I can play a song though.”

“Let’s hear it then, champ.”

He hands you the guitar and you play a song you saw someone playing one time on a mission in Mexico City. There are the movements of the man in the street who had captivated you to stop and watch, and there are your own hands, years later, mirroring his. 

When the song finishes Willem is quiet, then asks, “When did you learn that?”

“I didn’t really learn,” you shrug, like it’s not a big deal. “Saw a guy do it once. Copied what he did.”

“Do you know what chords you used? Can you play anything else?”

“No.”

“Unbelievable.”

You smile, because you have impressed him. “Neat party trick, huh?”

“Seems like it could be more than just a party trick.”

You tilt your head back and forth because he’s right but you don’t want to talk about that. “I don’t use it to sing pretty songs, that’s for sure. Where’d this interest of yours come from anyway?”

“My wife got it for me actually. When we were overseas I used to go on and on about missing music. About how I was butthurt having to join the army because it meant I never got to learn how to play the guitar. And she remembered. And the first Christmas after we got home, even though we barely had enough money to get by, she got me this. That’s part of what love is.”

“She’s ex-military too, then?”

“Yes,” he says, like he’s trying to recapture an old dream. “Let me tell you something. Wait, actually, this first. You ever been in a warzone?”

You hesitate for a second and he must see the debate in your mind so he clarifies.

“I mean a real warzone. Out in the trenches with a couple hundred other guys trying to fall asleep to the sound of bomb fire. Not knowing who’s going to have their leg blown off or their head opened up before the next sunrise. Knowing you’re all out there as nothing but cannon fodder, that everything they told you about the army before you left was nothing but a load of horseshit. And you ate it because your life was shit too.” You shake your head. “Well, it’s damn lousy. You have to keep each other’s chins up somehow. There was this joker in my squad, you see. Terrible sense of humor but we all laughed anyhow because things were just that bad. One day, she looks over at me and says, “Imagine this. Two fish are in a tank. One looks at the other and says, ‘Hey, do you know how to drive this thing?’””

You blink at him but can’t help the laugh that escapes. “That has to be the most awful joke I’ve ever heard.”

“It is!” Willem agrees. “But you know what? That’s the moment I fell in love with my wife.”

Now you are surprised. “Because she told you a bad joke?”

“No. Because she was so serious she didn’t know how to be funny but she always cracked herself up anyhow. And I loved her for it.”

“She was?”

“Pardon?”

“You said she was serious. Is she dead?”

“No. We are,” he pauses, quieter now. “We are separated for now. I suppose it’s been long enough that I've started talking about her in the past tense.”

“But you said she’s your wife.”

“She still is, nothing’s official, but,” he trails off, like he’s given up already.

“What?” You smirk. “You cheat on her? She cheat on you? Found some other guy who thought she was pretty and laughed at her dumb jokes?” When he doesn’t react you try something else. “You beat her up?” His head snaps to you and his eyes harden like you’ve pulled out a gun. “That’s it, isn’t it? You talk about war and all this stuff like I need a lesson but you can’t even handle it yourself so you spend all night drinking and you come home and she’s there with her ‘where were yous’ and her idiocy that you didn’t see before because you told yourself you were in love but now she’s annoying the life out of you so you try and put her head in the wall. Right?”

His glare has faded and it makes you a little nervous because it was always a bad sign when Dreykov stopped yelling and got quiet. “Yes,” Willem says calmly as if you hadn’t just gutted him open. “There’s one thing you’re wrong about though. I never had to tell myself I was in love with her. I just was. And I still am. She was right to kick me out.”

You puff your cheeks and blow out air. “You are a bigger идиот than I thought. Have you apologized?”

“Yes. I did the next morning when I realised what I’d done.”

“And she didn’t accept it.”

“No, she did,” he says, dragging a large hand down his face. “She did but I thought some time apart would be for the best.”

  “So you could get yourself a shrink.”

“Not exactly. They say therapists make the worst patients. I’ve found that to be true.”

“Well,” you say. “Sounds like you’re a coward too.”

Willem smiles. Just the smallest upturn of his lips. “Time’s up.”

—

The wilderness is no place for two children. Especially not the barren wasteland of Siberia. The boy has a rifle slung around his shoulder and no coat. The girl has two coats. Blood from a wound on her side drips out onto the snowy terrain underfoot. But she is strong. She refuses the boy’s offers to help her walk.

A long trail of footprints in the otherwise unblemished landscape leads back to a small massacre site.

The children are hungry but cannot stop because something is chasing them. It’s why they had to leave the little house with the fire and the old woman. 

They will hide, they will kill, they will walk until they collapse so the ground may swallow them whole. 

Because the wilderness is no place for two children. It certainly cannot be the place for three.

—

More weeks pass and you keep living and you try not to think too much about how Natalia is doing fine for herself. She has a team now with agents called Barton and Hill and Coulson and May. 

You do not talk so often, even if this is the most freedom you’ve had to talk since you’ve known each other. At first you tried to convince her to go back but no. She is adamant about staying here, about untying herself rope by rope from the Red Room.

The things you exchanged seem so trivial now. You know her favorite color is blue and that she is fine with coffee but would much rather have tea and that she has a scar beneath her collarbone. But here such information is freely given. 

You see other men talk to her in the cafeteria, watch her in the gym. She has always been the most beautiful woman in the room. 

And it is one day when you are eating lunch together that another agent approaches. He has an apple in his hand and sits next to Natalia like he knows her. “Natasha,” he greets. You don’t like how close he is. He extends a hand across the table. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting,” he says. “I’m Agent Matthew Hunter.”

You take his hand and shake it, squeezing a little harder than necessary. “Nice to meet you.” This is a lie. He is entitled and he is American and you would prefer he left you alone.

“Matt,” Natalia says, smiling.

He turns to face her like you aren’t there. “Listen I got to run, but I haven’t had the chance to say how great of a job you did on the Berlin mission last week. I wanted to catch you before I forgot.” 

She licks her lips and turns her shoulders toward him. “You weren’t too bad out there yourself.” 

He waves her off. “Are you kidding me? I have never seen someone handle a room like that before.” Agent Hunter looks at you next but his body is still facing Natalia. “Did she tell you about this? I mean what a fucking bombshell.”

“No,” you say. “We haven’t had the chance.”

“Ah, well. You should really ask her. Hell of a story, hell of an agent.”

Natalia looks down at her lap, her cheeks reddening ever so slightly. 

“Anyway. I have got to go hit the gym. No days off, am I right?” 

He is looking at you and expecting a response so you just say, “Sure.”

“Alright, nice to meet you, man. See you later Nat.”

You watch him walk off like he owns the place and it’s only when you turn back that you realize Natalia had been watching him too.

You take a drink of water and ask, “Do you like him?”

She snaps her attention to you. “Who, Matt? Yeah he’s nice. A bit talkative, but that’s all right. What did you think?”

You ignore her question. “No, I mean. He was flirting with you.”

“I know that.”

“So,” you gesture. She would lead you in circles until your head twisted off if you let her. “Are you going to get with him?”

Her smile fades like you’ve asked if she was planning to kill him instead. “No. I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Why not?” You ask. “He’s handsome, young enough. You said you liked him.”

“Because I don’t want him.” And there is this look on her face like you have grown a second head. “I’m not just going to go run around sleeping with people.”

“I didn’t say you should. I was just wondering because I could tell you were into him.”

She scoffs. “I’m not ‘into him.’ He’s friendly. He gave me a compliment. What's so bad about that?”

“Nothing. It was just a question, that’s all.”

She is quiet for a moment, dragging her fork through the last grains of rice on her plate. “You know I like you too, right?”

“Of course. And I like you.”

“No. I mean, in the way you think I like Matt.”

Now it is your turn to choose silence. The two of you kissed and shared a bed sometimes when you had only ever slept alone before. And Natalia was the only person you’ve had sex with, at least in any way that counted. But that didn’t mean anything. You didn’t know any better and neither had she. There was bad and there was worse. You just happened to be sufficient for her when the bar was six feet under the ground. 

“You know, that doesn’t mean anything. You don’t owe me,” you say.

“I know I don’t owe you anything. It’s not about owing,” she says, shaking her head in incredulity. “You’ve been weird since we’ve been here. It’s not a death sentence anymore.”

“I’m saying just because we got together before doesn’t mean you can’t go after this guy now. It was a matter of circumstance you know. There was no one else to choose so you chose me, I get it.”

Her eyes narrow as you say this. You speak for her, but you do not know.  “What are you talking about?”

But you’ve built up steam now and you think if you stop you won’t get the words out because you’re sure they’re not true. You speak for the man you want to project. The one Dreykov would approve of. “And you’re pretty and you came on to me so,” you shrug. “But come on. You were a warm body. So were a lot of the other widows. And so was I. Let’s not make it a bigger deal than it is.” 

But it is a big deal. You ignore all the times you held each other in the middle of the night. The time she taught you how to braid her hair. All those times you made each other laugh. These are the things you take great effort to minimize.

And you are so focused on pushing her away because you are a bird with its wings clipped hurtling toward the ground that you don’t notice her own rage building.

She is used to being silenced. She just never thought you would join the long line of others who’ve treated her as lesser than. She thought you understood, that you were different.

“Fuck you,” she says, looking you straight in the eye. You can’t read the expression on her face. She has always been good at making her face vacant, like marble.

She leaves. Not that there was anything to leave in the first place. 

You tell yourself this is what you wanted. For her to be free. Free of you and free of any guilt that might plague her. Not that the Black Widow felt guilt.

But if this is what you wanted, then why did you feel like you had just severed a limb?

But you are fine too. You have a team with agents called Rumlow and Ward and Rollins. They are callous and crass and they remind you of the guards back home. They do not care where you have come from, despite the fact you still bear the title Junior Lieutenant, technically. Despite what everyone else thinks.

You are strong like the fabled Captain America and could home a bullet into any target with a blindfold on. That’s all they care about.

They say they do not care about your accent that you wear like a scarlet flag. And sometimes, you join them when they go out to drink. Ward and Rumlow are outspoken. Rollins is not. But they all share the same cynical view of the world. And so do you. Maybe that’s why you get along.

There is control and there is chaos. You are all agents of the former.

After word about your squadron placement gets around, no one eyes you in the hall like they want to fight. No one questions your–albeit minimal–authority. At least not to your face.

Missions with them are quick and bloody. You use a rifle most of the time now. One that is bulky and can fire an unnecessary amount of rounds per second. You are a strike unit, so you creep up to the outside of an office or warehouse or home and when everyone is crouched like predators in the shadows you jump out with blazing muzzles. You can’t really call what you do fighting.

It is one day you are out with them that you run into an old friend. She is one of the ones you are hunting. S.H.I.E.L.D. likes doing that, you’ve figured out. Sending you out on missions to destroy what you’ve spent your life building. What you were supposed to sit at the head of the table of one day.

They want to see when you might snap. They want you to cut and run. They do not believe you can change. You don’t believe it either.

But she tells you, and oh is it nice to speak Russian again, that Dreykov wants your head. You cannot go back. You hadn’t wanted to be a traitor, but you’d lit the torch when you let the Americans take you in. And now when you look back, the bridge is engulfed in flames.

She says rumor of your defection has grown and spread like a tumor on Dreykov’s name. You’ve humiliated him by turning your back, and now he is losing power.

“But,” you say. “I didn’t. I don’t want–I’m not loyal to S.H.I.E.L.D.”

She stops you. “It doesn’t matter.”

“But I’m still–”

“You’re not listening to me.” She grabs you by the arm. “If you go back there you will die. Apparently Dreykov was kind of a black sheep. They were all looking for a reason to strip him of his rank, and now that he’s lost his two best weapons no one will listen to him. The entire Red Room is on alert, looking for a way to capture you.” She stabs a finger to your chest.

“Oh,” is all you can manage to say. “But there must be some way to clear this up. If I could talk to him I know I could explain. Or if I could get back. If I talked to the Headmistress.” You know she would understand and she would not be mad. Because she was stern but she never hit you. You used to talk every week in her office, just the two of you. You missed her.

Your friend shakes her head. It’s a “no,” but it’s also full of admonishment. 

“What?” You ask.

“Always so eager to please.”

“It’s called having honor.” 

There are footsteps outside the office you’ve pulled her into. She tugs on your arm and you retreat around the corner.

“We don’t have much time,” you say.

She’s silent for a moment, then, “Come with me.”

“What?”

“I’m leaving. It won’t be hard. No one will be looking for me as long as you have that S.H.I.E.L.D. emblem on your chest. I’m saying you should leave too.” She puts a hand on your cheek, makes you look her in the eye. “We could be extraordinary.”

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Why not?” There is disbelief, there is frustration. “You just said it yourself. You’re not loyal to them. And these brutes have nothing on us. We can disappear.”

“You should go. I really think you should. It’s what you’ve always wanted, right?”

“I wanted it with you.”

“Goodbye, Svetlana,” you say, kissing her on the cheek. She is still.

On your way out, she speaks up. “It’s because of her, isn’t it? It’s funny. You’ve always been so blind when it comes to her. You think anyone can know the Black Widow? She will drain the life from you.”

She leaves you with a note with an address on it.

“In case you change your mind.”

When you get back you hide the slip of paper in the nightstand with Dreykov’s watch.

—

You pull on the hideous shirt with the too large sleeves and try not to think about how ridiculous wearing tights is. You grab your shoes and head down the hall to the other dressing room. 

When you enter the dancers that are actually a part of this company stare at you. The four widows–excluding Natalia–don’t bat an eye. Modesty was a long lost concept for all of you. Especially around each other. Nastya looks over and smiles at you. You wink back.

The understudy for the lead part–who like the rest of you earned the role after members of the main cast suddenly became ill the night before–finds you like a heat-seeking missile. Her blood red hair is pulled back tight in a bun, and the fluorescent lights pale her skin to a moonlight shade. She looks like she has come from another world to ravage war upon this one. She is muscle and sinew and bone. She is magnificent. 

She snakes an arm around the back of your neck and kisses you on the jaw. She wants them all to see. You are hers in this show and hers backstage. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

You go out and perform on auto pilot because you watched a recording of the show once and now the movements are ingrained in the memory of your muscles. You focus on the crowd, try to spot your targets. There is a war going on in the shadows. You’ve all been sent to end it. To show them the Red Room is superior. They won’t even know what hit them. 

You have a break to watch Natalia perform her solo. You stand in the right wing and watch her under the spotlight, dazzling the crowd. Even here she is dangerous. She is like a panther getting upwind of its prey. Every move is measured, every step beaten into submission because of how many times she practiced. She makes herself delicate, but you know better.

There is a part where she almost rushes off stage as if reaching for something, but an invisible force drags her back to the center. You are standing in the spot she reaches for. Maybe you knew she would end up here, maybe you didn’t. It doesn’t matter because her eyes snap open and for a half second you lock eyes. The audience members aren’t the only ones she’s made believe in her desperation. 

After the first act ends Anastasia and Yeva leave for the targets’ hotel where they will be waiting. The four of you who are left finish the show and keep eyes on your targets. When you take your bow you are holding Natalia’s hand. Then you slink into the shadows, ditch the outfit, and put on your mask and hood. 

You leave as a unit out a back door and climb to the roof. It is raining outside. Not more than a drizzle, but the brick underfoot is slick and your targets will be hiding under coats and umbrellas. Stefanya kneels to assemble a rifle that had been packed into a violin case. You crouch in the shadows, feel the rain begin to soak through your pants. 

The crack of the rifle is loud like lightning and the crowd parts around the dead man. An ambulance is called but you know it is too late. The four of you split there. You will find each other later in an apartment building across town. 

You know Natalia will beat the ambulance to the hospital and an accident will befall the entourage of the dead. Nowhere is safe.

You follow a fleeing family of four to their car. The father is a high-ranking official of your enemy, the mother a scientist. They both know tonight is no accident. They run into the dark, down an alleyway instead of along the main road. Smart. You watch them go. You know where they will end up. 

You get in a vehicle which has been left for you and follow them out of the city. You drive until the houses have become sparse and so has the light. The rain is pouring down in sheets now. You step on the gas and flip the car’s brights on. The front of your car rams into the back of theirs. The sedan spins out of control, tires squealing against the wet asphalt. The car drifts into a ditch and you pull up beside it. 

You step out of your car and draw your swords. Because this is a message, not an accident. Two shots are fired your way. You duck behind the car and let the guy shout insults at you. But you hear the fear in his voice. He saw who they’d sent for him.

You rush through the dark, cape heavy and soaking behind you. You ram your fist into the passenger window and slide the end of one sword through the woman’s mouth. There are more shots but you have already disappeared again into the night. 

The children in the backseat scream. Their anguish refuses to be drowned out by the storm. You hear them as if they are crying right into your ears. The man gets out and slams the door shut. You see him in the flashes brought by the lightning. He yells for you to come out. So you oblige. You launch yourself onto the car roof and stare down at him. Here I am, you say. He points the pistol at you and you slice his hand off. He goes down, still cursing. The last thing he does is ask you to leave the kids out of this.

You go up to the backdoor. Didn’t he know? This was a family affair.

You tell yourself what you have done tonight is for the greater good. Many more will live off the blood of this sacrifice. 

When you get back to the rendezvous point you find only Stefanya and Marina. You were supposed to be the last one back. Where are they, you ask. They are quiet. Stefanya looks you in the eye and says none of them ever showed. You know she is lying. You take a breath and step closer so you may look down on them. They are not intimidated by you. Even in the dark, even with the rain outside, even with your face behind a mask they know you will not hurt them. 

Because you all grew up together. And that means something. 

So you draw back your hood and remove the mask. You let them see the worry in your eyes. Come on, you say. What happened.

They are quiet for a moment longer. Then, Marina whispers. Yeva and Nastya never returned. Natalia went after them. She told us not to tell you. 

You put your gear back on and rush out the door. Stay here, you call over your shoulder. You fly through the night to the hotel they were supposed to be at and find Anastasia sitting against the wall bleeding. She raises her gun at you when you barrel through the window. You take off your mask and rush to her. Nastya, you say. She is shot and she should be dead but widows are not ordinary humans. You ask if she is all right and she laughs. Clearly, I am not. She already has a shirt tied around her stomach and she is holding another tight to staunch the bleeding. 

Natalia has been here, you say. Yes. You ask where she has gone and where Yeva is. She tells you she doesn’t know. That Yeva and she were ambushed and overwhelmed. The room is trashed. Bullet holes in the walls and broken furniture. There are bodies littering the floor. They must have had two dozen men up here to overpower just the two of them. 

You ask if she will be all right if you go. She tells you yes she thinks so. Then you hold a hand out. She takes it. Her hand is clammy and cool to the touch. Are you sure, you ask. Because Katya might actually kill me if you die on my watch. Go, she tells you. Find Yeva. 

So you leave out the window and try not to think about it all being too late. If they had the chance to drive off they could be out of the city by now. You weren’t even supposed to be out hunting for them. You should’ve taken Stefanya and Marina and gone back to base. The others’ failure was theirs alone to bear. So you stand in the dark collecting raindrops, wondering why this has come as an afterthought. You realize in your haste you’d left your mask back in the hotel room. Water drips down your face as you stare up at the sky. Maybe the stars know.

Then, through the stench of the storm and the dirt and oil the rain has sloughed from the ground you smell blood. It is sharp and metallic and unmistakable. You trot down the near pitch black alley in search of the source. There are a number of irregular shapes down a perpendicular alleyway. You can barely see they are there. You stop, your boots splashing in a puddle. 

With measured steps you stalk forward, unsheathing the swords on your back. The shapes are bodies of men in ruined suits with ruined faces. One’s eyes have been gouged inward, pushed deep in toward his brain. Belly-up he stares unseeing into some void. And as if he hadn’t suffered enough he is also eviscerated. Guts and blood leak from him onto the dirty ground as if from an overfilled trash bin. No wonder you were able to smell it.

There is another with his throat slit and his head bashed in. Another with his jaw ripped wide open. He has been shot, but only in the leg. None of these men went out with a clean death. All of them suffered.

You find Natalia in the middle of the carnage, holding another body. Yeva is limp in her arms, eyes closed. You kneel beside both of them. She’s gone, Natalia whispers. You try to ignore the awful pang in your chest. Because she died in the service of her country. She died a soldier’s death. It is an honor. 

But alone in the rain in a struggle is no way to die. Dark blood is still seeping from the hole in her forehead to stain her blonde hair. She looks so young. 

There are footsteps at the entrance to the alleyway. Stefanya and Marina have Anastasia supported in between them. Stefanya is taller than them both which makes it an awkward position but they have made it. You’re not surprised they didn’t stay at the rendezvous either. 

The cops are here, Marina says. We need to go.

Natalia stands, Yeva in her arms. You pull your hood deeper over your face and lead them away. In a stolen car you drive out of the city. There’s a field and it’s on its way to being flooded but it will have to do. You have no tools so you dig with your hands and you try to ignore how familiar the action is. Even Nastya insists she helps. 

Dawn has already broken when the grave is finally dug. You lower Yeva’s body in and replace the dirt under the young sunlight. None of you care about the consequences the day will surely bring.

Very few will ever know that she lived. And only you will know about her death, about this gravesite. It’s only fair you take a moment. They tell you you are nameless, faceless, inconsequential and that it is selfish to believe otherwise.

But dammit Yeva was a person. They refused to give her a place in the world. So you suppose that’s what the four of you have done now. What a shame it could only be given after her last breath.

—

The next time you’re being briefed on a mission there are forty agents in the room. You go to the side of the room where your squad along with the rest of the platoon are standing. Rumlow tells you there must be a big fucking fish to fry.

Crowded on the other side of the conference table are members of STRIKE Team: Delta, including Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff. You lock eyes with her for a moment but you turn away because Agent Matthew Hunter is right there next to her. Rumor has it they’ve been “going out.” Last week Ward asked you how it felt to have some tool like Hunter steal your girl. You told him she wasn’t your girl. That she’d be fucking a new guy in another week. You don’t know why you said that last part.

Then everyone is quiet because Fury is here and the Director never bothers with things as trivial as mission briefs.

Turns out there’s a huge freaking terrorist compound in Iraq and you’ve been authorized to take it out. Agent Barton is in charge of tagging the leader. Everyone else, don’t get killed.

So you fly out in three separate jets and you’re on the one holding a mix of both teams. Everyone’s keeping to their own side but Natalia comes over to stand by you.

“Hi,” she says. 

“Hi,” you say back. You hadn’t realized how much you’d been missing her. But now that you’ve heard her voice and she’s so close your shoulders are almost brushing it hits you like a bucket of ice water. “How’ve you been?”

“Good. It’s odd though, you know.” 

“What is?”

“Not speaking with you.” she says. “I mean we’re in the same building most of the time now. It’s just been too long.”

“I agree,” you say. And because you cannot bring yourself to admit you feel less alive when she’s not around, that now that she’s here you have to stop yourself from grinning like a moron, you say, “I don’t think we’ve been on a mission together yet. Not since coming here.”

She’s looking at you and now you’re thinking about the furrow in her brow and the shine in her eye when she’s thinking hard. The little things you’re sure only you know because you’re the only person she’s shown them to. “You’re right,” she says. “We haven’t.”

“Kremer was probably scared shitless about the potential the two of us have together.”

“Kremer?”

“My handler. He’s an absolute asshat. I feel like he had one look at me and has already sentenced me. Nothing I do can change his mind.”

“That’s too bad for him,” she says. “He’s missing out on a great agent.”

You finally allow a smile to crack through. “How’s Barton?”

“He’s good. I think the two of you would get along.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you both know how to be a huge pain in my ass.” She smirks and you shove her lightly on the shoulder.

“Oh you don’t know what you’ve got yourself into Romanova.” 

She takes your hand and traces circles on the inside of your palm. “You’re the only one who calls me that anymore,” she murmurs.

Your face flushes because you hadn’t even realized what you’d said. “I can stop. I just, I forget sometimes. And besides.” You lean in and switch to Russian because someone is always listening in. “Natalia Romanova is the strongest person I know. I don’t think you should be ashamed of her.”

She turns her face toward yours and responds in kind. “You don’t have to stop. I like what it means when you say it.” You can feel her breath on your cheek and you wonder if she might kiss you. But she pulls away to smile at you again. “And you’re the only one who can pronounce it right anyway.”

You touchdown and by some force of habit you and Natalia pull away from the others and slink into the shadows. You pull your pistol out and shoot a figure with his gun out before Natalia can get to him.

She turns back to you. “Since when do you use a gun?”

You shrug. “Since I became American.”

“You don’t have your swords?”

“No. Those are still confiscated. But,” you take a retractable blade from your belt and unsheath it. “I’ve got this.”

“Can you use it?”

“Well enough,” you say. You could use a sharp stick if you needed to. “Actually, it’s quite different from using my katanas. First of all there’s only one of whatever this is. It’s pretty terrible. Americans have no idea about blades. Whoever made this shaped it like a toothpick.” You thrust it forward into the empty air. “You can’t slash with it, which is what you want to do,” you say, drawing an arc this time.

“Easy, tiger. I can’t believe I almost forgot how much of a nerd you are.” You’re about to retort but she stops before a corner and gives you a look. Down the hall there’s an open door and a light on. You edge up to it and count four guys smoking and playing cards. As one you jump out, Natalia covering you as you barrel into the thick of it. There are two guys with bullet holes in them and one writhing on the ground from one of her taser discs.

You’ve plunged your sword through the last one and are still trying to wrench it free when she kicks the one getting shocked in the head. Finally you get it free, his ribs cracking from how hard you had to pull it out. 

“That’s disgusting,” she says.

“Oh please,” you respond, wiping the blade off on your sleeve. There’s blood on your hands and face and more spreading over the concrete floor. “You’re the one who likes making messes on purpose. I told you this sword is atrocious.”

She shrugs. “I only do that if they really deserve it.”

“So that’s like everyone, right?” You turn away from her, shaking your head hard enough you know she must see. “It’s appalling really. I mean have some decorum Natalia. Twenty-three times is a lot to stab someone, you know.” 

Silence is the only answer you receive. But the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and in a flash she’s on your shoulders trying to bring you down.

You keep talking in between the short bursts of laughter rising from your chest. “At that point it’s disrespectful.” She covers your eyes with one hand and your mouth with the other. Then she twists with just enough force to signal she wants you down and you get to your knees to soften the blow before you completely collapse on your back. 

“The cops can’t even recognize the poor bastards.” She’s on top of you with a glint in her eye like she’s hungry. You put your hands up. “Please don’t, oh no I have an ounce of cocaine I still need to snort tonight.” She puts the handle end of a knife against your cheek and drags it down toward your chest. “I have so much to live for,” you say, suddenly putting on an American accent.

She cracks, a little smile emerging on her face. She stands before she thinks you’ve seen and leaves the room. “Get up. We’ve got a job to do.”

“I saw that,” you say, jogging after her. 

“Saw what?”

“You think I’m hilarious.”

“No, I think you’re dumb.”

“I can be both. It’s called having range.”

You wouldn’t say you enjoy what you do, but it’s all you know. At some point you had to become numb to it or you’d drown in the guilt. But you have missed working with Natalia. Your team is fine. But it’s different when she’s had your back in the field since you were ten years old. When you could pass out right now and know she’d keep you safe. When you know exactly what move she’s going to make next.

The end of the hall splits off and you go left while she goes right.

You pass a couple of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and give them a nod before turning down another hall. You check another room and there’s a woman in there with a gun.

You raise yours, and you don’t know why but something makes you hesitate. Maybe it’s because you don’t think she’ll shoot. Maybe it’s because there’s been this bug in your ear nagging about innocence until proven guilty. 

But she doesn’t and there’s a shot and a bullet in your side. You don’t waste time before you fire a return shot that shatters her kneecap. She drops her gun and goes down screaming.

Rage explodes hot in your chest. At her, for shooting you. But mostly at yourself for slipping. “You bitch,” you seethe in Russian. The pain in your side is mixing with the anger in your chest and the storm is deafening. 

“I’m sorry. Please don’t kill me,” she sobs, laying on the ground. “I didn’t mean to. I’m not with them. I won’t fight anymore. Just don’t kill me. I’m sorry.” But you’ve seen this act before. You won’t underestimate her twice.

“Shut up,” you say in English. You put your foot on her broken knee and stand on it. She wails even harder. You’re looming over her as you unsheathe your sword. Her sobs are the only sound left in the room. You seethe in silence. Like you always have. 

You raise the blade above your head like an executioner with his axe and bring it down over her neck. Her head comes apart from her body. There’s a thud as she settles on her back. The sword snaps as it strikes the concrete from the weight of your full strength. You stumble forward. Sometimes you forget how strong the serum has made you.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Just the sound of your ragged breathing. You can’t tell if you can’t catch your breath because you’ve been shot or because of something else.

Then, “Holy shit.”

You whip around and aim your gun at the voice by the doorway. 

“Woah, woah, woah. Don’t shoot me, partner,” says Agent Hunter.

Блядь.

You put your weapon away but don’t say anything.

He looks at the blood on your face and the broken sword you’re holding onto like a lifeline and the body at your feet. The woman’s eyes are still open. Locked in a panicked gaze. Then he blanches and turns away. The sound of him throwing up almost makes you hurl too.

“Hunter,” you pant, finding your voice.

But he’s backing away with his hands out like you’ll get him next. “You’re sick.”

More footsteps come down the hall and a group of agents checks on him. It’s over for you as soon as the first new arrival sees the body and the blood on your hands. Oh my god, he says. The judgement rolls through the crowd that’s begun to amass. 

Agent Hunter is out of your sight now but you can hear him. “He fucking killed her. She was on the ground begging for her life and he fucking chopped her head off.”

Your face heats up and your heart is pounding something crazy in your chest because you still haven’t caught your breath. There’s too many people in the room. Too many eyes on you. You can hear every gasp, every hitch in their breathing, every whisper. It’s driving you nuts. Why can’t they just mind their own fucking business. 

They’re going to kill you for this. You’re injured and vulnerable. There’s a dozen of them now and they’ve all got guns. 

“What the fuck are you all looking at?” You yell. “Get out!” 

They stare at you for another moment before shuffling away. 

You think you see a glimpse of fire-red hair in the crowd. There one second, then gone. Like the flicker of a flame.

Rumlow is the first one to approach you. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t come too close. “Come on, man,” he says in the same rough voice he always uses. The familiarity is good. “It’s time to go.”

—

The girl with the blood red hair stops at a small grove of trees. She tells the boy it is time. She cannot go further.

The boy stops because the girl is the strongest person he knows. If she says she cannot go on she must mean her feet have fallen off. But he is also confused because there are supposed to be weeks and weeks left. This is not right. 

The girl curses and curls into a ball at the base of a skinny, bare tree. Because she knows this too. Stupidly, she thinks if she makes the area around her stomach just a little warmer everything will be okay. She is desperate.

But their luck has run out. The girl was good at keeping secrets and when the secret could not be kept any longer a man named Ivan put her on a long-term espionage mission. The boy has always disliked this man whom the girl looks to like a father but he owes him for this. 

But things went sour as things happen to go and when the girl sent the message from the cabin the boy should not have come. But this was a thing worth running for. 

Miracles do not exist.

The boy sinks into the snowy ground next to the girl. She turns her face toward his and they press their foreheads together Like a kiss, but with the tenderness that can only be born from the innocent. I love you, the girl tells him. 

The boy tries to be brave even though he is scared. I love you too, he says. No matter what happens.

—

They make you go to medical when you get back because everyone was watching you on the plane and it was obvious you had a bullet in your side.

You sit in a private room that’s got a door instead of just curtains between beds. But it’s not really private because there’s a doctor and two armed guards at the door. All three of them stare at you. They haven’t gone so far as to handcuff you but you know you’ve taken a huge step back. 

The doctor introduces herself as Helen Cho and asks, “Are you able to remove your shirt?”

You don’t want to take your shirt off. It leaves you too vulnerable. And you don’t want them to see your back.

“Agent, there’s a bullet in your torso. Remarkably it hasn’t hit anything vital. And by some miracle you’re sitting up like nothing’s wrong. But I still need to take it out. It’s not supposed to be in there.” She is direct but still somehow soft-spoken. You don’t like being in this white room with these strange people but you suppose she could be worse.

You fidget with your hands. You’ve washed them but there’s still red on your palms, dried flakes under your fingernails. Finally, you say, “I can get it out myself. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”

“I would be more comfortable if you would let me do it. Have you ever extracted a bullet before?” You shake your head. “It’s tricky, it requires precision, and it hurts the person it’s in. It’s hard to keep your hand steady when you’re in pain.”

You glance up at the agents keeping guard. “Sure I know.” 

Doctor Cho notices and waves at them. “Would you mind giving us some privacy?”

“Ma’am, we have orders to keep him under supervision.”

“He’s injured. You can stay right outside the exam room. Nobody is going to disappear into thin air.”

“But–”

“I’m the doctor. And this is my patient. You can wait outside,” she says sternly.

And this time they listen. “We’ll be right outside.”

She turns back to you. “Better?”

You nod slowly, finally drawing in a larger breath. Your side ignites in fire and you gasp, which only makes it hurt worse. Your hand flies to the wound, hovering over it. 

“Getting shot isn’t fun, is it?” She asks, not waiting for an answer. “Now there’s two ways we can do this. You can lay here and let me help you or I can have you sedated.”

“No,” you wave a hand at her. “No, don't do that.”

“Okay I won’t,” she assures. “But I’ve been at this long enough to know some people need a little extra help. It’s all right.” She pauses. “I still need to see the wound site. I’ll walk you through it every step of the way,” she offers.

“You will?” 

“Of course.”

You hesitate. Maybe it’s to stall a little longer. Maybe because you actually care. “You’re not worried about being in here alone with me?”

“Why would I be? You’re not going to attack me, are you?”

“No,” you say. “But you have to be wondering why I’ve got a couple of angry looking sitters.”

“Sure,” she shrugs. “‘I’m curious. But I don’t make a habit of judging people I don’t know. And besides. I’m a doctor. I’d treat you no matter what.”

“So there’s no limit?”

“No, I’ve got a limit.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“It’s for people who think they can talk their way out of treatment,” she says, looking you in the eye. “Come on.”

Slowly, you maneuver your right arm out of the t-shirt. The movement stretches your side and it hurts but you grit your teeth and push through the pain. You leave your shirt on around your neck and left side. The wound is still oozing blood just above your right hip. You figure she has enough room to work.

Doctor Cho sighs. She takes a once-over glance at your body. Her attention locks on the bullet wound then flickers to your back then refocuses again. 

“You’re probably going to want to lay down.”

You oblige and she comes over with gloves on her hands but no mask on her face. You’re grateful for this. The doctors in the Red Room always wore masks and headgear that made them look less human. They also didn’t talk. Not to you anyway. And their notes always had the word “Subject 094” instead of your name.

You swallow as she sits on a stool by your side with a pair of forceps and a pen light. You don’t know when you'd gotten so sweaty. 

“I’m going to locate the bullet and extract it. Sound good?”

You nod and she waits. “Yes,” you say. 

She clicks on the flashlight and puts a cool hand on your stomach. “Last chance. You sure you don’t want to go under for this?”

“I’m sure.”

She presses down lightly with two fingers around the entry site. It hurts but it doesn’t really hurt until the fourth spot she touches. You suck in air through your teeth and clench your fists.

“I started working in the medical field because I wanted to cure cancer,” she says. “My passion was research, but my parents wanted me to get my M.D. They said there’s no success in research. So I did both. I have an M.D. for them and a Ph.D. in biomedical research for myself.” 

You focus on her words, imagining a younger Doctor Cho in your mind. She can’t be much older than you. “You must be some kind of genius,” you grit around a clenched jaw.

She blushes, and even though there’s a pair of forceps lodged way too deep inside your torso the pain eases a little. “Nothing like that. I just worked hard. And you know the crazy part? I ended up loving the patient work almost as much as I loved running tests in a lab. So my parents had the right idea after all, just for the wrong reasons.”

You’re looking at her face now instead of her hands and trying to memorize the slight purse in her lips and the brightness in her eyes. This is her arena, her fight.

“Сука!” You curse and jolt a little.

“Steady,” she says. “I’ve got it. Just have to pull it out.”

You try to draw in deep, steady breaths through your nose and out your mouth. “Great.” You can’t watch anymore so you squeeze your eyes shut and tell yourself pain is only a mental construct even though it really doesn’t feel that way right now.

There’s a clink and a rattle and Doctor Cho says, “The hard part is done. I’m going to clean, stitch, and bandage you now.”

“So you’ve given up on curing cancer to take bullets out of idiots instead?”

“No. Actually, I work in research almost full time now. They’ve got a pretty nice lab here. You should stop by, if you’re not too busy catching more bullets.” She doesn’t look you in the eye as she says this. 

“This is my first time getting shot.”

“There shouldn’t be a first time,” she counters.

“You said you do research almost full time now. Should I feel special, then?” You smile.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re a disturbance to my day off, actually.” She takes a bottle of water and flushes it through your wound. 

You hiss. “Please remind me never to get shot again.”

“If you come through here injured again I’ll kick you out,” she says, smiling. “I thought you all had armor for this type of thing. What’s it called, again? Oh, yeah. A bulletproof vest.” She wipes the rest of the blood from your skin.

“I don't wear those. Too much of a restriction on movement. Agility is the most important thing out there.”

“I don’t know about that. Sounds like I’d want this thing that keeps me from ending up on the wrong side of this bed.”

You shrug. Because she’s running thread through your skin and it hurts more than you try to let on. Maybe she has a point.

Doctor Cho retrieves a roll of bandages from a cabinet in the corner. “This part will be easier if you stand up.”

You stand and stumble. You have to catch yourself on her shoulder. “Sorry,” you say. “Might have lost a little bit of blood recently.”

“You don’t say.”

You fix her nametag, the picture smiling shyly back at you.

She wraps the bandage taught around your stomach. “No strenuous activity until I clear you, understand? Nothing that raises your heart rate too much. And I want to see you back in three days. Think you can manage?”

You shrug back into your shirt. “Does that mean I can’t go to my underground fighting club tonight?”

She makes an overexaggerated frown. “I’m afraid so.”

“Thank you, Doctor Cho,” you say earnestly.

“Don’t mention it.” And as you put your hand on the door knob, she adds, “Call me Helen.”

You smile over your shoulder. “See you in a few days Helen.” 

Your personal guards march you down to Kremer’s office. You tell them you’re sure you can get there on your own but they’re not in all that talkative of a mood.

Kremer is standing over his desk, arms braced against the wood like he’s trying to ground himself. He has his glasses on but removes them when you enter. He makes a dismissive motion with his hand and the guards disappear, shutting the door behind them.

“Sit down,” he says. When you don’t move he says it again, louder. “Sit down! That’s an order.”

You sit but he doesn’t. He stands, hovering over you like some angry buzzard.

“What the fuck was that? I’ve got a dozen eyewitness reports saying you beheaded some defenseless woman. You want to tell me something different happened?”

“Sir,” you start, cautiously. Because even though a plan is already in your mind to bolt you would rather not have to sleep with one eye open tonight. “I don’t know how you have a dozen eyewitness reports. Agent Hunter was the only one present for the moment of death.”

“I don’t care,” he says. “I don’t fucking care if it was one person or fifty people or just God himself as witness. Did you do it?” “She shot me first. She wasn’t exactly defenseless.”

Kremer mutters to himself under his breath. “But you didn’t need to chop her goddamn head off! I’ve seen the pictures. Looks like an excessive use of force to me. Was she threatening you when you did it?”

“She could’ve had another weapon under her shirt or in her waistband. I made a call.”

“Hunter said she was sobbing, begging you not to kill her.”

“That doesn’t mean anything! She could have been acting. I’ve seen it done a hundred times.”

“You Reds and your excuses,” he shakes his head. “It’s my ass when you pull some stunt like this, do you understand? I don’t know how you did it back in Russia but here we don’t go around beheading people like barbarians. And if you don’t want to end up in some hellhole I suggest you get yourself up to our bar, quickly.”

“You think I did that just because? The bitch shot me first! I just spent twenty minutes having a bullet dug out of my stomach because of her.”

“Yeah, I think you did,” he points a finger at you. “I think you’re a fucking animal who was just waiting for some excuse to make another person suffer. I know your type. You get off on this kind of violence. If it was up to me you’d be rotting out in the middle of the ocean right now.”

“What the fuck?” You sputter. “I don’t–”

“We’re done here. You’re on a month’s suspension.” He sighs, putting his glasses on and sitting down. “But if you step one toe out of line you’re out of here.”

You stand up far too quickly. The ache in your side flares like you’ve ripped it open again. 

“And I think you should know,” he adds. “Fury has given me complete authority over this matter. Whether you stay or go is my call.”

You salute him before you go, pretending your eyes could burn holes through his skull.

The agents turned guards aren’t waiting for you when you leave Kremer’s office so you head back to your room. Your side hurts even worse now. The adrenaline has worn off. Every step you take makes you want to sink to the floor. 

By the time you make it across campus to the barracks you’re sweating a little and breathing hard. You’ll have to tell Helen you broke her rule. 

Natalia is in your room, sitting on the edge of the bed in her mission suit. Her hair is still braided back, little flyaways sticking to the back of her neck. 

“How did you get in here?” You ask.

“You’re all right,” she says in relief. She crosses the room, one hand on the side of your neck, the other on your cheek. 

“Yeah,” you breathe, putting a hand on her arm. “Can I sit? I’m not exactly totally good.” You don’t wait for her to answer before almost collapsing into the chair at the desk in the corner.

“What happened?” You look up at her, thinking about how you saw her in the crowd. How she didn’t come up to you. Didn’t defend you.

“I was shot,” you say. You lift the edge of your shirt up, just enough to reveal the bandage.

She sits on the bed again. “And?” She prompts, head tilted slightly. 

“And I got it patched. But it still hurts,” you say. Because you’re not going to give her what she wants to know yet. She has to play her hand first.

“I heard what happened. On the jet. People were talking.”

“People were talking,” you say, looking away and nodding your head. 

“They were,” she answers. “And I thought maybe you weren’t coming back. You know how people like to talk. Things get embellished. But you’re okay. They let you off. Right?”

“I don’t know,” you say flatly. You look right at her so she can’t hide. “Were they embellishing? You can cut the shit Natalia. I know you were there.”

She is quiet, but she doesn’t look away. “I saw the aftermath. That doesn’t mean I know what happened. Only you can know that.”

“Why don’t you ask your buddy Matt?” You spit his name like it is a curse. “He saw most of it. And I’m sure he wasn’t shy about telling everyone.”

She stands, says your name. She is already close, but takes two steps to completely close the distance anyhow. “I don’t care about what happened. I just care that you’re okay.”

You look up at her. She is frowning down at you like you are some wounded dog. You want to ask her why she did not ask this thing when you were standing alone, a dozen pairs of eyes on you. But you know. Oh you know. She did not want their judgement to pass to her, did not want to be seen with the outsider with blood on their hands.

And maybe, part of her was scared of him too.

So you don’t ask. Instead, you say, “And if I told you they were outside the door waiting to take me away?” You come back to a way she has already disappointed you.

She takes a breath. You search her face. She searches yours. “Then you would need to disappear.” You wait for the second part. About how she would let you go but in a month’s or year’s time it would be her sent to hunt you down. It would be her with the gun to your head. Because she was the only one smart enough to find you, ruthless enough to betray you. She was the only one you would ever lose to.

You lower your head. You need to stop pulling open this wound. Things are hard enough.

But then. She rakes a hand through your hair. “And I would need to disappear too. I’d kill everyone in here for you, you know that. If it came down to it, I would leave with you too.”

This is new. She has not yet chosen you over them. You feel an opening.

Your head snaps back up. “We can go.”

“But they’re not coming. They’re giving you a chance.”

“I don’t want a chance,” you say. 

“Don’t say that,” she shakes her head. “You can’t say that.”

“Why are you so adamant about staying here?” You are getting frustrated. “You left the Red Room because you were a pawn but now you want to serve some other cause. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Because I’m not going to spend my life on the run, in the shadows. Not when I can do something with it.” She sighs, her gaze turning melancholic. “I need. I need to make up for all the pain I’ve caused.”

“There’s nothing to make up for,” you argue. She was already perfect. “The world needs a little pain. Humanity will never go in the right direction without it.”

She shakes her head. “We can’t control everything.” She puts her hand on your cheek. You hate yourself for leaning into it. You hate her because she knows how to make you pliant. 

You think of all the other times she’s touched you like this, the times she’s made you feel chosen only to turn away the next moment with apathy in her eyes. Because she is a mask of indifference, a one-night flirt. But for you she’s made an exception. You’ve seen her come apart, seen her struggle to be human. But still. Some part of you whispers, “trap.” She is just using you to keep herself afloat. After all, she is first and foremost a survivor. If anyone was going to make it out alive it would be her.

“But we could,” you say.

“No,” is her only answer. She says it like she is watching you drift away and she cannot follow. 

Maybe you are. Or maybe she is the one leaving you.

—

You dread having to talk to Willem after the incident. You know what he is going to ask about before he opens his mouth.

“I heard you had an eventful last week.”

“Are you going to lecture me too?”

“Maybe,” he smiles. It’s a cheeky smile without teeth, but the corners of his eyes wrinkle all the same. “I heard you got yourself on some kind of double probation. I didn’t know that was possible.”

“You hear what I did?” You ask. Part of you hopes he hasn’t. You’d never admit it, but you don’t mind him. Whatever this was was weird. But it would be a shame for it to change now.

“No,” he says. “And I don’t care to. I want to know what you think. I’ve known Kremer for a long time. He’s a hard ass.”

“You’re telling me,” you scoff. “He needs to come in here.”

Willem laughs. It’s a nice, hearty sound. But he keeps whatever he had found funny to himself. He steadies himself with a hand on his knee. “You think he’s unfair.”

“I mean, yeah. He doesn’t give me the time of day. It’s like he’s out to get me.”

“Do you think he was wrong to suspend you?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know,” you shrug.

“Oh, come on, you can do better than that.”

You hated Kremer but you also hadn’t lost control like that in a long time. But that wasn’t exactly your fault either. She was dead the moment she pointed a gun at you. What did it matter how you’d done her in? And she’d only shot you because you’d hesitated. That was Kremer’s fault for yelling at you so much about restraint. You pivot instead. “Have you ever killed anybody?”

Willem frowns at that. You think it’s not so much at the content of the question, but at your lack of answer for his. “Yes,” he replies.

You wave your hand in a vague gesture. “Then you know.”

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

“The feeling,” you wave again. “I don’t know. That rush when you, you know.” 

“The bloodlust,” he supplies.

“Sure,” you say. “That seems a little extreme.” 

“That’s the name we had for it in the army. Everyone had a similar story. Some guy in their platoon you wouldn’t have thought would make it a week. He’s too skinny or he wets the bed or he cries at night. Whatever. But by some miracle he survives. And one day he’s toe-to-toe with some enemy combatant. Everyone thinks he’s a goner. But he gets his first kill. And it’s not from some machine gun a few hundred yards away or a mine he rigged up. No. This is personal, it’s bloody. From then on the guy’s an animal. Nobody makes fun of him anymore cause he might claw your eyes out. The bloodlust.”

You shake your head. “Not like that. Just in the moment. When it’s you or them. Everything else fades out. You get this urge. Like something has to break. And it can’t be you.”

“Sure,” he says. “In the moment. But you can’t go on living like that all the time. Or you end up like that batshit private.”

“That’s all it was,” you say. “I don’t get why it’s not acceptable for me to blow off a little steam.”

“Because it’s dangerous. If you can’t control yourself you shouldn’t be out there.”

“So you’re taking Kremer’s side, now?”

“It’s not about sides. But you have a job to do. And there’s standards you have to abide by. You think I could do this if I flew off the handle with every client?”

“You’ve yelled at me,” you point out.

“You’re the exception.”

You roll your eyes.

“Do you feel good about what you do?” He asks.

“I don’t feel bad about it,” you say, although it’s only a half-truth. You used to feel terrible when you had to hurt someone. You didn’t want to do that. But time went by and you got used to it. You had to. There’s only a twinge left now. You call it respect for the dead.

“Let me rephrase. Do you like what you do?”

“Define ‘like.’”

He ponders for a second. “If you were free to do anything you wanted, would you still be here?”

“That’s a stupid hypothetical. No one is free to just do as they please.”

“I think we are. Or at least we should be.”

“So walk up out of here right now,” you say, gesturing at the door. “Try your luck begging for money on the street. See how you like your freedom then.”

“I’ve walked away once before. That’s how I ended up here.” Of course he’s got a story for everything. “My first job after I left the military was private security. Ex-military means a lot more to civilians than it does to anyone who actually served. It was nice. I never once pulled out my gun. I had to babysit these assholes who thought way too much of themselves but it paid. About two-and-a-half times what I’m doing here. And all I needed was my high school degree.

I worked awful hours. Wasn’t at home much. But it didn’t matter because I was supporting them. Giving them the life my father couldn’t give me.

Then I got this gig. Full-time bodyguard for some idiot who was going to pay half a million a year. I took it and realized I wasn’t happy. My family wasn’t happy. So one night I don’t show up. They called and I said I couldn’t make it. My kid had a ball game.”

“You just left?” You ask.

“Yes. I realized life is short, and you only get one. I needed to reprioritize, so I did.” Willem pauses to give you that look he always does. As if you can’t hear him if he doesn’t stare you down “It can be done. So let me ask you again.You’ve been given a second chance. What the hell are you going to do with it?”

“Of course that’s what this is about,” you say, throwing yourself into the chair back. “You just want to make sure I’m on the right side. You and Kremer playing ‘good cop, bad cop.’”

“Cut the crap,” he retorts. “I couldn’t care less about that. You’ve been given a fresh start. You have a world of opportunity ahead of you and you’re throwing it away. Do you know how many people would kill to have a re-do like this?

“I didn’t ask for this,” you say, throwing your hands up.

“Then why are you still here?” He asks, his voice flat. “Someone like you, the prodigy you are doesn’t just get taken in by the enemy without a fight. And he certainly doesn’t stick around for no reason.” 

You are silent. You can’t admit that you came here for Natalia. And you definitely can’t admit you’ve stayed because this place hasn’t been so bad after all.

“Nothing to say?” He taunts. 

You don’t answer.

“Then we’re done here.” He stands and walks to the door.

“What?” You ask, incredulous. Because he can’t just quit. That’s not how this works. You jump up and follow him.

“You think you’re some martyr,” he says, opening the door. “You’re crucifying yourself for things you’ve been given a real chance to overcome. I’m not here to watch you jump into an early grave.”

“Fuck off,” you yell, slamming the door shut. “You want to talk about martyrdom? Why haven’t you made amends with your wife?”

“Because I did a terrible thing,” he says in that annoyingly calm voice of his.

“You fucked up!” You pace a few steps away. “But you don’t want to put in the work to fix yourself. So much for all the love you have for your family.”

“That’s my call to make.”

“That’s right. It’s your fucking call and you’re making the wrong one. Some people they fuck up and they own up to it! What are you doing? Coming in here and hiding behind someone else’s problems so you don’t have to look at what a mess your own life is!” You’re shouting and you can’t keep your hands still. 

He stands across from you, hands in his pockets. He says your name, tells you to look at him. “Why are you here?”

You stop and put your arms down. Because he is calm, and you are not. It’s like nothing you’ve said has stuck. 

“Look at you, tough guy. You’ve got a smart remark for everything but you won’t answer this simple question. Because you can’t face the truth.”

He opens the door again. And this time, you walk through it.

—

You wake tied to a chair. It is because your eyelids are heavy like lead that you jerk and try to escape without reason first. You breathe from your nose because when you tried to take a panicked inhale through your mouth there was something gagging you out. 

Look who’s awake, a deep voice says. Looks like you won the bet.

You settle because the rope wrapping over the entire length of both your forearms and your ankles gives you no other choice. You are stripped down to your underwear but still you sweat. You are in what looks like an office with the furniture removed. There is a man you do not recognize and a woman you do.

Evgenia looks nothing like the woman you have been working on and off with for six years. Nothing like the woman who scolded you but not for the same reason as anyone in the Red Room. She told you you had to stop hiding your injuries because you are a kid and not a dog and showed you the real world was not as intense of a picture as you believed. 

She showed you new foods and taught you the songs her grandma taught her even though she could not sing. And one night after a particularly gruelling mission she told you you had to draw lines between what was okay and what was not. That nobody could tell you what those were except yourself. You have to listen in here, she said, pointing to your heart. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

There is more to life than just the fight. You just need to look up.

Her face was also the one you saw as you felt a prick in your neck and a tiredness began to consume your body.

You look at her now, at her cold gaze and think what a glorious trick she has pulled on you. You challenge her to be the first to look away as you search for an ounce of guilt in her posture and find none. In the end it is you who breaks away first.

The man, who is dressed in a black shirt and black pants approaches you and takes the gag from your mouth. He tells you he has a few questions about Dreykov and the Red Room. He tells you you all are an outdated parasite on modern Russia and need to be excised. Let me demonstrate, he says, picking up a thin knife. He grabs your bicep and you try to jerk away but the rest of your arm is tied down and even though you are awake the world still feels out of focus.

Everything becomes clear real fast when he starts sawing at your arm. You don’t scream, managing to minimize your agony into a series of gasps and grunts. This is a yet undiscovered pain. He comes away with a little piece of your skin. He holds it in front of your face and flaps it like it is some sort of banner. Like this, he says. You know the air is not burning even if your arm is trying to tell you it is.

You look at Evgenia. She is standing back a few paces, arms crossed. 

Where is the Red Room? The man asks.

I’m not telling shit, you say, even though it feels a little like your brain is having trouble connecting to your mouth. You think I’m some traitor? You would all be lost without us. Dreykov is going to–

He slices at you again, this time on your shoulder and you can’t stifle the yell that emerges. You clench your fists and fight to get away but it's no use. 

You can’t help but look at Zhenya like she is a source of comfort. Like she might help you. She says your name. Just tell him and this can end. Please, you don’t have to do this to yourself.

Go to hell, you grit. The man grips you by the hair and takes a large patch of skin from your neck. You scream. You had never thought there could be this much pain without a single drop of blood.

He steps back. Where is the Red Room? You stare at him, breathing hard. The rope digs into your skin. You ache to put your hands around his throat. You are going to regret this, you say. You should know who you’re messing with. 

Oh, he says, cocky. He waves the knife at you. But no one will know it was us, you see. 

Kill me, go ahead.

I’m not going to kill you, no. You’re very valuable property. Very marketable. You are only the second man in history to get Russian version of super serum and not go batshit insane. Did you know this? Yes, there are powerful people who would pay a lot to have you in their arsenal. And they already have. You’ll be someone else’s little hound soon. And guessing at who our buyer is, you won’t even remember this conversation after they do what they do.

He holds the knife to your cheek. Too bad keeping this pretty face intact was not a part of the deal.

Wait, Evgenia speaks up. Let me.

He backs off and shrugs. All right.

She takes the scalpel and kneels before you. Hey, she says. Hey, hey, look at me. You must still be pretty out of it because you thought you were looking at her. Just tell us what we want to know and this can end. Don’t make me do this. 

You are looking into her eyes and you think you see a little bit of the woman you thought she was. I trusted you, you whisper.

I know, she frowns, mocking. I’m sorry. She starts to cut at the skin on your thigh. It feels more painful than any of the other times because she is the one doing it. You watch the strip of skin come loose and then think you must be dreaming because she turns away and rushes at the man. 

She stabs him in the stomach with the scalpel and throws a punch at his head. He is caught off guard and stumbles back. Without hesitation he rips out the blade and swipes at Zhenya. She takes a couple of quick steps back. 

You strain anew at the rope holding you down but it is thick and unforgiving and wrapped around your arms and legs like a python. 

He presses forward with the blade out, forcing her to work around him. She takes a step too close and he slices her across the stomach. Blood begins to bloom and stain her shirt a shade darker. But she is quick, she cuts at his wrist and forces him to drop the knife. Then, without missing a beat, she tackles him to the ground.

But he is bigger than her, stronger. He shoves her into the wall and dives for the scalpel. It lies just outside of his reach. Evgenia seizes the opportunity. She kicks it farther from his grasp and scoops it up. 

She turns around just as he tries to get her from behind. The scalpel cuts deep through his throat. Blood sprays from his neck onto her face as if from a fountain. His hands raise and try to staunch the bleeding but it is already too late. He falls first to his knees and then flat on the floor. He gurgles as he tries to draw his final breaths and then it is quiet. 

Zhenya stumbles backward, holding the wound on her stomach. You are still trying in vain to break free from your bonds. She curses and comes to you with the knife. You flinch a little when she points it at you. She apologizes. I didn’t know what to do, she says. This was the only way. I didn’t want to hurt you.

It’s okay, you tell her as she saws through the coils and coils of rope. You forgive her easily, instantly. You don’t think you could have been mad even if she truly had betrayed you. Because you will always be that twelve year old kid with fists aching from the weight of your anger. And she will always be the one to catch your wrists and demand you let go. 

She gets your clothes for you and you try to ignore how the fabric sets your raw skin aflame. Then, you stare down at the body of the other SVR agent. Zhenya has made herself a traitor because of you. She has ruined her life. You are not worth that sort of action. You shouldn’t have done that, you say. You should’ve let him have me.

No, she says. You are where I draw my line.

Her words make your heart pound and your face heat up. You will not cry because you haven’t for years and it would be ridiculous to now. You have recently turned eighteen after all. You are a proper adult now with proper responsibilities. That’s why they came after you.

You’re going to have to disappear, you say. 

I know.

I can’t know where you go.

I’ll find you, she says. When it’s safe. I promise.

You want to say it will never be safe. But you cannot entertain the notion you will never see her again. When it’s time you walk out first. So when they ask you where she went you can look them in the eye and say you don’t know.

—

Two months later and you have been carving room out for yourself. There is no back so you look forward. You tell yourself you can leave anytime you want. 

The hole in your side has healed, thanks to Doctor Cho. You went and saw her three days later like she’d asked. You checked the medical wing first, asking after her. Most of the staff avoided looking at you, but one nurse told you she didn’t work around here anymore and that you should check the laboratory building.

You thanked her and apologized for the disturbance. Perhaps your reputation was getting a little too out of hand after all.

The scientists in the research building weren’t much better either. They all stared at you when you entered, but that might just have been because they’re not used to talking to a huge circle of people.

“I’m looking for Doctor Helen Cho,” you said.

You were directed down a hall and into a different room. She was there, black hair tied up in a bun, talking to another person in a white coat.

“Doctor Cho,” you said, feeling somewhat off-put in this place. You couldn’t even name half of the equipment in here. 

She turned around, a smile lighting up her face when she saw you. That was nice. It didn’t happen with a lot of other people. She greeted you. “Let me wash my hands,” she said. “We can talk in my office.”

She discarded her gloves and safety glasses and the two of you walked down the hall into a small office.

“How are you feeling?” She asked, sitting on the edge of her desk.

“Okay,” you replied. “All things considered.”

“Can I take a look?” 

You shrugged. “What am I here for?”

She unwrapped the bandage and stared down at your side. You could see the gears turning in her head. “Well this isn’t right,” she said.

You couldn’t help but smile, just the edge of your mouth turning up. “Am I going to die, doc? Don’t tell me it’s too late.”

She shook her head, still unable to look away from the wound. “No,” she replied, so enraptured she’d missed your joking tone. “This is. This is incredible. It looks like a graze wound. Are you sure you got shot?”

“I didn’t let you take a bullet out of me for kicks.”

Now she looked up at you, eyes wide. You were smiling because her awe was infectious. You’d never impressed someone like this before. You were never good enough. They always wanted you to be faster, stronger, more durable. But the way she was looking at you said this was more than enough.

“How?” She breathed.

“I heal fast,” you said. 

She laughed and you found yourself thinking of more ways to draw the sound out of her. “No shit,” she said. “But I mean, this should be impossible. It won’t even scar.”

“You’re the genius scientist,” you said. “I don’t know how it works either, to tell you the truth.”

“I’ve never heard of anybody having genetics like this. But I suppose it’s possible. People have different heights and intellectual traits. Your cells must be able to process energy at triple the rate of anyone else.”

You tilted your head. “Eh, not exactly.” Then you paused because you’ve never talked to anyone about this before. And it was sensitive information. You eyed the woman in front of you. If you told her about the serum they’d stuck in your veins maybe she’d tell someone else, and then you’d be a rat in a cage. You couldn’t. So you smiled and said, “I should get back.”

For a second you thought she might press for more. She looked like she had a million more questions. “Do you think you have time for me to show you the lab?” Was all she said. 

You sighed in relief. You decided you liked her. So you let her take you into the lab and explain all the things you’d never understand. She was excited because they were on the edge of a breakthrough, she could feel it. She told you she was working on growing tissue so they wouldn’t have to rely so much on transplants. She hoped their work would save a lot of lives some day. She would be happy if she lived to the day it would save just one.

She was almost winded when she’d finished speaking. “Sorry,” she shook her head bashfully. “I’m not usually so talkative.”

“It’s all right,” you said. And it was. Because you’d had more attention on you in the last week than you thought you could handle. “The world needs more people like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re good. You’re not doing this for yourself. You’re going to help a lot of people.”

She looked down at her shoes. “I hope so.” When she looked back up at you her cheeks were a little red. “We should talk again. Outside of work.”

“That sounds nice,” you agreed.

Now you have come back from a mission gone slightly awry. The intelligence had been perfect, the lab waiting for you like a glowing jewel hidden beneath depths of concrete maze. There was nowhere to run when you broke the doors down and aired the place out.

The lead scientist put his hands up as soon as the bodies of his colleagues hit the floor. You were supposed to bring him in for questioning. You are looking right at the man and his empty hands when there is shouting and a single gunshot.

The target is dead, his head all exploded like rotten fruit. Ward holsters his gun. He says he thought the man had been reaching for a weapon. And that’s what all four of you report when Agent Hill asks you about it later.

It’s a problem because you are supposed to be the most seasoned strike team there is. It’s a problem because that scientist also functioned as an administrator and he could have led you to more cells.

It’s a problem because it’s not the first time something like this has happened.

It’s the third one since you’ve been here. There was the neo-Nazi who claimed he was part of a huge underground organization and the Russian politician who swore he would tell all in exchange for asylum. Both of them had become suddenly violent at the moment you tried to bring them in. Both are now dead.

The first time you had been confused. Then Rumlow looked you dead on and smiled, holding his index finger over his lips. Then you understood why they wanted you on their team.

Because they are imperfect, and so are you.

So you don’t tell your superiors the target had been subdued at the time of death. And they believe you because strikers are always like this, a little jumpy and a little imprecise. Consequences of pulling from ex-military and ex-police force pools.

But now you’re getting back from a long flight and an even longer debrief and Natalia is in your room with her arms crossed and an indecipherable look on her face. You’ve been on good terms. But you haven’t done that thing which is not a thing because it’s nothing where you lay with each other in the dark and communicate without speaking. 

So you find it odd that she’s in your room. 

“Hi,” you say, like a question.

“What are you up to?” She’s not asking what your plans are for the day. It’s dark out, and you’re exhausted.

You shake your head. “What are you talking about?”

“Maria is pissed. About the mission. And so is Fury.”

“So? It’s a shame the mission went bad but the target was hostile. He might’ve shot one of us. We’ll get the next guy.”

“Except this is the third time something like this has happened in as many months,” she says, slowly. “And you don’t make mistakes.”

You aren’t alarmed. She’s smart, smarter than you maybe. So you keep your face and body still like you’ve been taught and say, “I don’t. But they do. You must know I was never the one to pull the trigger.”

She huffs because you’re right. On paper nothing is afoot. But you know she has a feeling. You’re stubborn but so is she. “If something is going on you can tell me.”

“Nothing is going on,” you lie. Something definitely is. But you don’t care.

“I’m trying to help you,” she says. “Those agents you work with, you can’t trust them.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Because Clint,” she pauses to rub at her temple, “he doesn’t like them.”

“And that’s the end of the conversation?” You scoff. “Your new buddy says one bad thing and my team is suddenly suspicious.” 

“It’s not just him. Your ‘team,’ is made up of a bunch of assholes. Everyone knows it.”

“I didn’t know you held such high moral standards. Tell me, what is your squad up to, huh? You go out and you spy on people so you can throw them a big party?” You don’t want to be angry, not with her, but she is different now. She is jumping on you when she always used to give you the benefit of the doubt, when she always used to be on your side.

She has become a stranger and now she thinks she can barge back in and make you behave as she sees fit. Perhaps you never knew her in the first place.

“I never said that,” she says.

“No, but you think you’re better than everyone else. You always have. And now you’re acting all righteous because the director has made you his pet project.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“What does that mean?”

She scoffs. “Really? Dreykov Junior?”

“I’m not his son.”

“No, you just wish you were.”

You turn away and take a deep breath. 

Her voice is closer and softer the next time she speaks. “I didn’t mean for this to get so out of hand.”

You shake your head as if the motion would fling all the anger away like it was some pesky bug. “Me neither.” “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t in trouble. That’s all. I wanted to help you.”

You turn back to face her. “I don’t need help.”

“But you do.” Her face is a stone wall, a chiseled mask of indifference. 

You blink at her. It is dark outside, and you are exhausted. Your quarters which have always felt a little like a jail cell shrink in on you. “What?”

She sighs, like you are a child who doesn’t understand. “They think you’re a spy,” she hisses, like she’s not supposed to be telling you this. “They think you are a spy and that you are trying to find a way to bring them down.”

“I’m not.” They have it all wrong, you want to say. You’ve been exiled, but you can’t tell them that. Because then they’d know you’re cornered, and there’s nothing more vulnerable than being caught with your back to the wall.

“Then why are you here?” She asks. And you feel like she’s pushed you off the top of the building. Because she is truly asking this question. She thinks you are working against them too. Working against her. “You came here to retrieve me, right? And I said I’m not going back to that hellhole. So you have a new mission.”

You must have some sort of surprise on your face because something clicks in her eyes, like she’s solved a mystery. But you can’t tell her that no, no one sent you here after her, because she’d ask you why you had jumped ship like an idiot and you’d have to tell her you were scared. You don’t have the words to describe how panic had seized you by the throat when news of her capture reached you. How even the daydream of her death made you want to die too.

Because you are not a savior. And she is not supposed to be worth saving anyway. Everyone is expendable. No one is special. And she was just a warm body all those years.

And because you cannot say all this, cannot accept that you ruined your life like some emotion-poisoned whore, you say, “You don’t understand.”

She is quicker with her response, because she has the power. She has always had the power between the two of you. “Then help me understand.”

You shake your head more furiously and back away. “Why do you even care, huh?”

“Because I want to understand you! You have to give me something. You have to show them you’re trying.”

“I am trying.” Could she not see that? How you were killing yourself everyday you woke up in the name of S.H.I.E.L.D.? You shake out the wrist you normally wear your watch on.

“But they don’t think so. You can do better.” She approaches you a little too quickly. You can’t tell if her outstretched hands are trying to support you or strangle you.

You seize her by the shoulders before she can touch you. “That’s what this is about? You’re worried I might be a stain on your reputation?” You are loud but you don’t care because you are furious.

“No. No, I never said that. I don’t care about my reputation. I want to help you, but I can’t because I don’t recognize you anymore!”

Her face is flushed red like it’s never been before and it scares you so you let her go. “You think I need help?” You throw your arms up because she is ridiculous and so are you. “You think I can’t handle this?” And she is shaking her head and getting redder and the corners of her mouth are turned down in the shape of a frown. She is saying no but you aren’t hearing her. “My whole life I’ve been handling everything just fine! And guess what. I have never needed you.” You’re pointing at her and every time you shake your fist it feels like pulling the trigger of a gun.

“You think I don’t know what you’ve been through? I was there too. I get it but it is no excuse to keep protecting them!”

“It’s not that simple.” Because you had fought and you had suffered and you had had a role to fill. You still do. No, you weren’t just going to accept that you’d lost and roll over for the enemy. You can’t.

“It is!” She says. “S.H.I.E.L.D. is not perfect, but it is a fucking haven compared to back there. Why can’t you see that?”

“Because I’m not willing to turn my back on things so easily. I can’t just run from one thing to the next, changing who I am to fit in. I’m not like you.”

“Well then you are an idiot and a coward. And I see right through you.” You believe her. You feel so exposed under her gaze. “I’m not pretending to be someone else to fit in. I’m trying to be more than them, to be better. Fuck you.”

“Yeah? At least I’m not a spineless traitor. How could you leave? What has S.H.I.E.L.D. ever done for you?”

“Are you being serious right now?”

“Yes! The Red Room gave us everything.”

“The Red Room didn’t give us anything. It took our choices and our lives and it’s taking still. Look at yourself!” She thrusts her arms out at you and you flinch. Just a little, but you know she sees. Because you thought she didn’t care about all the ways in which you are ruined.

“I am better for all they put me through. It wasn’t easy, sure, but I’m not crying about it. They saved me!” You eye her, up and down, pretending you hate her. “And where would you be without them? Starving and pregnant by some guy you married who spends all his money on booze?”

“You’re fucking unbelieveable. I am not who I am because of them. I made myself.” She glares at you. You can’t look away. You hate this intimacy. She speaks slowly, making sure you hear every letter. “But they broke you.”

“I’m not broken,” you say, low, like the warning of thunder. You’ve been made in their image.

“You are! It’s not normal to beat children because they do not act like soldiers. It’s not normal to think of sex as a means to an end at twelve years old. But you still think it is! You think it’s all okay when it’s not! You are stuck with what they have told us and you’re too scared to break out.”

“I’m the scared one? You’re the one who ran away because she couldn’t handle it!”

“Maybe you’re not scared. But you should be. You should be terrified of the person you’ve become. Because the boy I knew, the boy who would take a slap over having to slap someone else wouldn’t be okay with this. But they told you you were the chosen one and suddenly it’s okay to let others suffer because you’re on top, right? You’ve forgotten what it was like to be treated like a slave.

Things changed for you. You got your uniform and they told you your name meant something. But things didn’t change for me, or for any of the other widows. They are still trapped like the dirt under someone’s shoe. Their names don’t matter because they are called ‘whore’ and ‘weapon.’ Just like mine didn’t. Until I forced people to see me.”

Her words scare you because there is a truth in them you’ve pretended like you could manage. It’s why Svetlana always dreamed of running off. Why Ekaterina tried to kill you after you’d accidently walked in on her and Anastasia. 

But you can’t let go. There is fear and pain when you submit. But there is so much more if you dare to go against them.

You scowl. “Well who had a hand in making me ashamed of that kid? I changed because I was chasing after you.” You point at her. “Perfect little Natasha.”

“You think I wasn’t scared too?” She retorts.

“Fine,” you say. “I’m evil then, is that what you want to hear? If I’m so bad, why don’t you just kill me for it?” Your heart is racing like you’ve been in a fist fight and your muscles keep flexing like you’re about to hit something.

“I don’t want you dead. I don’t. You придурок, I never said that.” Her eyes are shiny like she might cry and it spooks you because you can count on one hand how many times she’s looked like that. “I want to help you. But I can’t when you don’t talk to me.”

“And I don’t need help. I’m not some victim! You want some explanation for why I’m not good like you? You want to hear how they used to take me downstairs and whip me until I passed out and that’s why I’m so messed up? How I got into an argument with Dreykov once and he broke my jaw? You don’t want to know that shit!”

She is shaking her head and speaking calmer now, but you don’t hear her. You are somewhere else, lost in the storm of all those nights you can’t quite remember right. You are drowning in anger. Yours and Dreykov’s and the Widows’ and the Madames’ and the guards’. Building and building in your chest because you cannot let it go, it is not in your nature to not feel, to not care. 

She is coming at you again and she looks a little like Marina did that one night you slept together only because you had never been taught to say no.

“Get off!” You yell. She is blocking the door so you make a fist and pound it into the drywall next to her head.

She grabs your wrists and tells you to calm down. She says your name. “Look at me. Look at me.”

“I am looking at you!”

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know. But this is what I’m talking about. These are the things you have to say. The things I don’t know about you.”

You sneer back at her because she is strong and you are not and it’s the only way to protect yourself. “Don’t act like you don’t have your secrets too. But you wouldn’t tell me because you have to be so perfect all the time.”

 “I couldn’t, you’re right. But I will now. I will. Trust me.”

“But you’re a widow,” you say, cold and sober. “How could I ever trust you?”

“You don’t mean that,” she says. Because what she hears you say is that she is not human. That all she’s ever been and ever could be is a weapon. “Look me in the eye and say you don’t trust me.”

So you do. You look her square in the eye and say, “I don’t trust you.” 

Then there is fire in her eyes as she stands there and stares. “I hope you’re proud of yourself. You really are just like him.”

You almost slap her. She is standing tall with her chin up like she is waiting for it and you think you should knock her down a peg. 

But you don’t. You just walk around her and leave. Because she isn’t worth it.

Continue

[littleplantfreak]

TL;DR

Umemiya Hajime x Reader

wc: <900

Sfw

In more words than I can make a title out of, you read to your boyfriend Umemiya after he breaks his glasses.

“…Plants form flower buds only when they contain reserve food. This is true of plants grown for flowers or fruits. Rapidly growing plants, such, for example as Dahlias that have been too heavily fertilized and grown on rich soil, will produce prolific plants, stems and foliage, but few flowers…Hajime? Are you snoring?” you ask, though by now in your relationship, you can tell the slow heavy breaths that come with your boyfriend mean he's dozing as he holds you, rather than listening to you reading it.

“…mmh, sounds good Pumpkin,” he mumbles, half asleep as you look up at him with a sigh.

“Did you hear anything I just read?” you ask, not mad, but certainly exhausted from the monotony of the book. Audels Gardeners and Growers guide volume 4 was not for the casual gardener, nor was it something you yourself were interested in.

Two days ago during a maybe too enthusiastic make out session in his room, Umemiya managed to fully crush his glasses, frames and all with his elbow, though neither of you noticed until you got up the next morning with one of the lenses having pasted itself to your thigh as you slept before uncerimoniously falling on the floor with a small tink as you got out of bed.

It wasn’t too big a deal; he barely used them unless he was reading...except for the fact that he reads. A lot. Much more than you’d think a retired gang leader would at least, and although it was cute for the first few minutes, him holding his book out as he tried to squint-read the words had become a problem. The squinting was giving him migraine that even he couldn't brush off as nothing.

“I’ll just read it to you until you get your glasses back from the eye doctor's. It's partially my fault they're broken anyways.”

“Really?! You're gonna read to me?” he’d asked, and you're sure if it were possible, he'd have stars in his eyes. That was when he drug out blankets from the closet and made mugs of tea for you both before settling you to sit between his legs in the recliner, having you lean back against his broad chest. The blankets over you were icing on the cake, leaving you both more than comfortable for this.

Cracking open the book, you began where he'd left off on the page, but the more you read, the less sounds and comments he'd make, until finally, painfully, you read to where you're at now, stuck on this chapter about plant fertilization.

"Hajime, your tomatoes are escaping," you say, testing just how far gone he is.

“Huh? Catch them,” he breathes, and you know for sure that he’s listening but definitely not listening.

He only really starts to wake up when you shake him awake with your laughter, his continued nonsensical answers cracking you up. You lost it when you told him he had to bounce on it.

"Bounce on it?

"Crazy style," you nod solemnly, doing your best Nosferatu impression before you bark with laughter. Your laugh dies down as his arm tightens around you, the haze of sleep finally clearing.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh, just that I both managed to convince you that your tomatoes were taking a vacation to Costa Rica, and that my middle name is William. You said it was beautiful," you snicker, feeling him chuckle as he leans forward to blow a raspberry right on your cheek.

"Wha- A sneak attack?"

"That's what you get for bullying me in my sleep." You can recall a few times he's bullied you in your sleep and it wasn't anything as innocent as this.

"That's what you get for falling asleep while I was reading to you."

"It's not my fault your voice is soothing. I don't think I've ever slept better. Maybe you're a siren? Hypnotizing and tempting me into sleep infested waters," he teases, closing his eyes and pressing his lips to the crown of your head. He definitely been reading too many bedtime stories to his siblings again.

“You’re lucky you’re cute, because you are also insanely cheesy,” you laugh, dog-earring the page in the book. While this wasn't productive for reading, you can't say it wasn't at least relaxing to a point.

“I’m lucky you’re mine,” he smiles, leaning back in the recliner further to curl you up closer in his arms. “Will you read to me again sometime? I can’t promise I won’t fall asleep, but I really do love hearing your voice.”

It’s a bit embarrassing to hear, because you know it’s true. He’ll call you any time you’re free, saying that he just really missed hearing you. Looking on his phone, he’s saved every voice message you’ve ever sent. He’s absolutely shameless about you and you can’t bring yourself to be anything but shameless about him too.

“Mm…I guess this siren can spare a little of my voice for you.”

[mandiemegatron]

ᴸᵃʷ ᶜᵃⁿ'ᵗ ᶠⁱⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵒʳᵈˢ, ᵇᵘᵗ ˡᵘᶜᵏⁱˡʸ, ˢᵒᵐᵉʰᵒʷ, ʸᵒᵘ ᵉⁿᵈ ᵘᵖ ᶠⁱⁿᵈⁱⁿᵍ ᵗʰᵉᵐ. ᴿᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ ᵘˢᵉˢ ˢʰᵉ/ʰᵉʳ ᵖʳᵒⁿᵒᵘⁿˢ.

ᴿᵃᵗᵉᵈ ; ᴳ.

ᴹᴰᴺᴵ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵃⁿʸᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ ˡᵃᵇᵉˡᵉᵈ ¹⁸+, ʸᵒᵘ ʷⁱˡˡ ᵇᵉ ᵇˡᵒᶜᵏᵉᵈ ᵒⁿ ˢⁱᵍʰᵗ.

ʲᵘˢᵗ ˢᵃʸ ʸᵒᵘ ʷⁱˡˡ ˡᵒᵛᵉ ᵐᵉ ᵒⁿᵉ ᵈᵃʸ, ᵃⁿᵈ ᴵ ʷⁱˡˡ ʷᵃⁱᵗ, ᴵ ʷⁱˡˡ ʷᵃⁱᵗ, ᵗᵒ ᵍᵉᵗ ʸᵒᵘʳ ˡᵒᵛⁱⁿᵍ ᵒⁿᵉ ᵈᵃʸ...

It was always at night, Law noticed, when you'd find solace in the silence of the Tang as she swam through the darkened depths.

With the majority of the crew either sleeping or busy with keeping the Tang a well-oiled machine, you'd be here, and unbeknownst to you, so would he.

The sound was soft, like a gentle whisper on the breeze, that barely echoed in the small kitchen area as you tidied up and finished off the dinner dishes. Your voice chimed along with your baby den den radio, the same sang playing over and over though Law found himself captivated how you'd change harmonies every time it played.

He lost track of time of how long he'd stood off to the side, simply watching you in silence with his arms crossed comfortably over his chest as he leaned on the wall. His heart lurched and clenched as you hit a particularly high note, the sound crawling over his skin like a tingly and warm blanket. He'd never understand why you wouldn't sing in front of the crew, knowing they would lose their minds over having a crewmate that could actually carry a note.

"... some say you will love me one day, and I will wait, I will wait to get your loving one day..." The words tumbled from your lips almost absent-mindedly as you finished washing the dishes and moved onto drying and putting them away.

"Just say you will love me one day, and I will wait, I will wait to get your loving one day... and I will wait, I will wait..."

A small smile ticks up at the corner of Law's lips as he finally pulls himself away from watching your form sway slightly with the music, burning this image of you into his mind before taking that final step and quietly walking out from the kitchen area. The sound of his footsteps retreating pulls you from your mind, and you turn to see Law take the corner, hands in his pockets as he softly begins to whistle the same tune that played next to you.

Your cheeks burned bright red as you realize he must have been standing there, waiting to speak with you, only for you to be locked in your head. You shook your head with an embarrassed huff before going back to the dishes, turning the music up just enough to overtake the sound of your heart pounding in your ears.

As Law comes up to his office, he bumps into a yawning Shachi, who gives his best friend and Captain a pointed look as he quietly asks, "Did you talk to her?"

Law presses his lips into a fine line, almost frowning as he shakes his head. Shachi claps a heavy hand on Law's shoulder and grins before the orca hatted man adds, "There's always tomorrow."

The sound of your voice is barely a whisper by his office but Law turns either way, an almost lost look on his face as he gives a sigh. "... perhaps."

Shachi gives Law's shoulder a gentle squeeze before he makes off for his shared room with Penguin. Law barely registers his friend and crewman walking away, too absorbed by his thoughts until the sound of Shachi's door closing pulls him out of it.

Pulling himself into his office, he keeps the door cracked just enough that he can hear the murmur of your voice dancing off the metal walls.

"... There's... always tomorrow..." He repeats to himself as he sits at his desk, sighing heavily as he stares down at his unfinished paperwork.

"... just say you will love me one day, and I will wait..."

Another near nonexistent smile tugs at his lips and he picks up his pen with a soft chuckle, shaking his head slightly again as he finally settles in.

Just wait for me... he thinks to himself, sparing a glance at his office door. Just a little longer...

[burrythebusy]

I love going back to reread hrkg because I just learn something new every time even without the influence of the recent chapter. I particularly love analyzing Kagiura’s character. His view on love and romance and family and marriage was just so interesting before. It was so innocent, meaning he didn't think of it any more or any less than just "I get to stay with him, only me". Like that's not the average thought for a crush. And Niibashi tells him that, he's like do you even view him romantically, or do you simply just wanna keep him close? It could be interpreted as so many things. Like aroace spec hrkg is such a real interpretation.

And it gets me even more when I view it in reference to his past relationship. Like his most Romantic™ action ("What lovers do") is a lap pillow. Because she was his girlfriend and that was the reason given for it. We're dating so this is something that people thay are dating do. So his middle school self is like oh okay. And it happens and he's stiff. And he doesn't think it feels right. And that follows him to high school bc if we're dating and this is something people that are dating do, why doesn't it feel right? But yes. That's literally it. That's as romantic as it goes for him until Niibashi mentions kissing. Which he didn't even think about. He claims it's an influence of never really seeing his parents kiss. His view on love IS his parents. It's influenced by those around him (ooh). But it's also because marriage is supposed to mean you're in love. And his parents are in love and act like best friends and rarely kiss so that's what the young Kagiura thinks of love to be like.

Now I don't know what influenced him to get with his girlfriend per se. Because (!!light novel stuff!!) I think it's implied that his view of love and marriage comes after his girlfriend, not before, which would make sense considering his relationship didn't work out. It also makes sense if it came before. Because why did it start? I genuinely think that he might have liked, and i think that's what was said. But i think he liked her as a friend, and he's expected to get with girls, and if his view on marriage was getting started at any point then. That's literally a prerequisite. A relationship like best friends. So he dates her and it just doesn't feel right. And it could've been because he treated the whole relationship like a friendship with a different label which wasnt what his girlfriend wanted. And then the one "traditionally romantic" thing that comes along, close physical contact, still doesn't feel right.

Going off of context clues here. It's safe to say they never kiss or even hold hands really. It's probably the only thing they ever did, the lap pillow. It's what Kagiura thinks about when he thinks of romance and what lovers do because it's the one thing he failed to FEEL right about. And if he liked her. Why didn't he?

Obviously everything isn't surface level either, on one surface. Because Kagiura’s personality comes into play too. There's probably more to be said about his politeness, how we don't see him really challenge anybody on what they say (except Hirano for obvious reasons). If his girlfriend said dating -> lap pillow then he's gonna say okay. Sure. Even if he's unsure about it. But we don't get much of his personality from then. We only know this snippet, and the fact that it bothers him.

But we also know WHY it bothers him after ch. 6 and 7, and in 16a. Kagiura doesn't think about kissing Hirano because his view on love and romance is limited to how his parents show it, and how his ex girlfriend showed it. He hasn't developed it on his own yet, at least not consciously. He likely never kissed his girlfriend (and if he did it doesn't stick with him at all since the first thing he thinks about is literally the lap pillow) and he doesn't see his parents kiss so Niibashi asks him about kissing hirano and he's like "idk lol". Hence why, does he even like Hirano romantically? (And though you can be in a romantic relationship without kissing, the question still remains as to how he sees his feelings for Hirano, considering how juvenile they seem*)

But the difference here is that, without thinking about it, Hirano and Kagiura were becoming best friends. Kagiura didn't go into friendship with Hirano thinking he's a love interest the same way he might have with his girlfriend. Hirano treated him really well and they developed this natural thing and Kagiura started to develop a natural Kagiura version of a crush. But still, every action after that wasn't with the deliberate intention of his outlook on love. It remained natural. So that "prerequisite" was already fulfilled (and honestly, it could easily be viewed separate of how he sees romance from his parents. Again, it all happens so naturally and easily for him).

So in chapter 6, he thinks about what Niibashi said more and then the urge comes. To kiss Hirano. The first time he's probably thought about kissing anyone. So it's already an outlier to how he views romance anyway because kissing never had to be a part of it but now it is. BUT WAIT THERES MORE!

Because next he decides to indulge in something he can easily call back to. His girlfriend and their experience. People that date do lap pillows. How would that feel with someone I'm in love with, someone I now know I want to kiss? And I truly don't think he expected much from it because of his experience of not really liking it. Of it being "off". But Hirano lies in his lap and his mind blanks. And then he lies in Hirano's lap and he can't do it. Not because it feels off or wrong. But because he felt too much. A LOT in that moment. Cue his sexual and sexuality awakening/crisis. It literally scares him out of being NEAR Hirano for extended periods of time. Out of touching him. Because this new attraction is foreign to him. He now actively wants to touch him, actively wants to kiss him and at this point he already knew hirano doesn't see him that way so what do you do?

Then 16a comes. They're starting to touch for ten seconds a day because Hirano said he would try, and Kagiura’s largest guilty pleasure is literally just physical contact. Particularly with Hirano. Which he used to do so casually but can't bring himself to. So he asks hirano when it's okay and they agree to ten seconds.

To me, this is when he comes to terms with the fact that he never romantically liked his girlfriend in the first place. Because he knows hirano isn't in love with him at this point despite Hirano agreeing to try. He knows what they feel is different. Which is exactly what happened with his girlfriend. That's why he's afraid he was making Hirano feel how he felt with his girlfriend back then. Uncomfortable. "Off". And when I view it in context I always come to the conclusion that he didn't like her (let alone love her). This may not be his first relationship but it is his first love.

All this to say... literally nothing. I just love digging into Kagiura’s character, how his past does end up influencing the present in really subtle ways. I mean think about it, he feels so guilty for wanting to touch Hirano that he limits himself to the ten seconds. Like every time before chapter 14 that they touched just because (locking arms, holding his shirt or his wrist just to grab onto him, that natural gravitation) is just gone. Because now he loves someone who doesn't love him so how could he possibly put the pressure on him to touch him in the same way? He gave away his right to do that. But it hurts him. (And it hurts Hirano too). Another problem. But that guilt doesn't come from nowhere. He doesn't want Hirano to feel how he felt with his girlfriend. He doesn't want to make him uncomfortable or push his physical boundaries and make himself a sad memory in Hirano's high school years.

Kagiura is experiencing this extent of love and a crush for the first time. He lied in his girlfriends lap hesitantly but did it because they were dating and didn't like it. And I feel like a great fear of his is making Hirano feel that way too. So he wants Hirano to feel the same way desperately without pushing the physical boundary that has once made him feel unsure and weird. He loves Hirano so much that he'll limit himself as much as he can bear in this process. (Which, isn't the greatest thing. It's almost contradictory). But that's his experience. That's how he's letting it influence him. And it's so interesting to me.

Erm this is long anyway I love doing Kagiura character study. Obviously this is my interpretation and how I view his character to be. And we are all influenced by our environment in the end, especially those that have an important place in our lives (hint hint wink wink iykyk) but some people still build their own wants and desires with that as a foundation. Kagiura took his parents as the blueprint itself. THE guide, THE directions. So now I think he's on a journey of defining love for himself too.

[churrobird]

short mini-fic inspired by this post by @magnecalliope and tags by @femboyclownpierce

pangi enjoyers i dont know what inspired me to write this from pangi's POV because i dont really watch him outside of ros.... if i got his mannerisms wrong, im sorry

The tiled floor and wooden cabinets of the castle's kitchen were cold against Pangi's scales. The cold was really the only thing keeping him present, and a deep part of him despised it.

He dragged his eyes up from where he had been staring at a red stain (it wasn't blood, blood dried brown, but his heart thudded in his chest all the same) to look at Ros, desperately trying to ignore the red figure right behind her.

Pangi had found Ros in the kitchen, having tracked her down after noticing the absence of purple. She was leaning heavily against the counter, not quite falling over, with an open bottle of fruity wine in her hand. She wasn't absolutely wasted, not yet, but she was certainly on her way there.

She had looked at Pangi, her eyes wet, and asked him if she could complain to him.

Pangi was... trying, at this whole "being genuine friends with Ros" thing. It was hard, after Pili had burnt him so deeply; he didn't really remember how to be a friend.

But what he was good at was listening in on gossip, and if his love of messy chisme helped Ros get out all her woes, then no one could fault him for it.

And, Void, he knew Ros had issues, with all her violent and sacrificial tendencies and what he had heard Pili yell at her about her self-worth issues, but...

She went on, and on, and on. How she tried to make everyone happy, and how it never seemed to make her happy. Everything with Owen, which he had to shove down his old feelings of triumph about, which now felt sickening. Being Queen while Foolish was dead, and how Red and Green had hunted her every day, and how she didn't fault Pangi for it anymore, but it still scared her, even now.

It was when she finally started talking about Pili and everything he did, did Pangi ask for the half-empty bottle, and joined her in her drowning.

Halfway through whatever this was, with Pangi sobbing over his dead best friend who came back but didn't truly, and Ros sobbing over her twice-over murderer who made her angry and scared and confused, did Clown walk in.

It was an interesting experience, for Pangi's heart and soul, to be near-yelling about how Pili had died, and then for Pili's murderer to walk in the room.

All at once, he was slammed with this nauseous feeling of rage-terror-grief, spurred on by dulled memories of past lives and the haze of alcohol. For a moment, his mind screamed to just attack Clown right then and there, but the last remaining vestiges of his preservation instinct held him back.

That and... it would probably upset Ros. It was strange, how something like that mattered to him now.

Clown had just stared back at Pangi and, to his surprise, silently walked over to where Ros sat on the floor, and dropped down behind her, leaning against her back.

That's where they were now. With Ros still on a mad rant about Pili, and Pangi was trying to pay attention, trying to be a good friend, but it was getting harder and harder with a certain jester in the room.

Clown was entirely still. This alone set off every alarm bell in his head. A still, dead-silent Clown was a Clown that was planning to strike when you least expected it, and it nearly made Pangi ready his end crystals in his hotbar.

But the longer he sat here, the more he realized that wasn't all. Clown was still and silent, but he was relaxed. His posture loose, all of his weight supported against Ros. The archmage had an arm wrapped around the architect, something that normally would send the shocking fear of being grappled into anyone, but Ros had simply gotten hold of Clown's other arm, the grip being reciprocated.

For that matter, Ros was confusing too. Her hold on Clown tightened as she got more and more emotional in her ranting, until her knuckles turned white and her nails dug into the dark fabric of Clown's sleeve, like Lifesteal's deadliest player was just her emotional support stressball.

He would've expected Clown to protest in any way, but the only acknowledgment the jester gave was a soft, mumbled hum and his head lolling against Ros' shoulder, and that's the moment Pangi finally realizes,

Wait, is he also wasted?

He really didn't expect Clown to lower his guard at an event like this enough to get drunk, even if it was hosted by Ros. He also didn't expect Clown to be okay with showing off this much softness in the presence of someone like Pangi. He knew Ros and Clown were friends, by Ros' own admission, but he didn't know...

(It reminds him of Pili, and his gut churns. Days and nights spent deep underground, laying against each other and the potion machine. The sound of turtle eggs hatching and the feeling of Pili's soft fur against his scales. Sometimes, only when he's just moments from sleep, he would feel a soft, wispy caress on his head, and he felt safe.) (He felt safe with his best friend by his side, and a dark specter keeping watch over them.) (He wonders how Ros feels about getting both in just one person.)

He reaches for the bottle between him and Ros again. There's smudged purple lipstick on the rim. He doesn't care, hasn't cared about anything since Pili died, and takes another swig.

[miguel-owhora]

In the early days of their uneasy truce, it wasn't uncommon to see Dutch and Owen pulling away from their small gaggle of growing gangs. Somewhere private and secluded, or at the very least, somewhere so the younger members wouldn't be scarred for life.

Such narcissism and arrogance, the inherited need to be in control, would result in a series of rough make out sessions and deliberate dry humping, where both men would switch between complying and stubbornly fighting back. It would end in one day, really: with one man on top, to gloat back to their partner in crime.

In such circumstances, one man would have the other pinned onto a surface, whether if it was the bark of a tree or the grassy floor, or even against a wall or a bed. In this instance, Dutch would have the upper hand, fingers groping the fat of Owen's belly and over the fuzziness, like a cat's belly, or a bear. His hands would pull down his pants, ignoring the murmurs of Owen's request to "not ruin my pants! They are expensive!"

Trimmed, dark in color, Dutch would drink in the aroma of Owen's musky pussy. Fat in lips and mound, Dutch would trace a finger around his cunt, telling him to relax as he pinned his legs down. Owen would sigh and roll his eyes, red dancing across his pudgy cheeks, always so bitchy, even when he was rolled over onto his back like a bitch in heat, but relax all the same. Dutch would clamber down and bend down, fingers spreading his lips open.

He'd watch Owen's face as his tongue poked out and teasingly licked his clit. A sharp inhale and a small jolt would be Owen's reaction, as he watched Dutch over the curve of his fat belly, swallowing and trying to maintain his usual demeanor, and pretend he wasn't affected over such a small miniscule of an action.

Of course, Dutch isn't fooled. He drops his gaze and focuses on his cunt, sticking out his tongue and flattening it as he—this time, more firmly and deliberately—licked his clit. Inhaling his musk and something so tempting, his tongue dragged from the sensitive bud at the top and down his slit, to his folds to his leaking hole. Dutch would snort and mutter something about him being so sensitive if he's already leaking, already so wet, and ignore Owen's reminder that he's probably the same.

Because he's right—Dutch's cunt is wet in his briefs—as he licks his clit again, he dares to stick a finger into Owen's hole. Fingers, actually, as his pointer and middle finger make themselves at home into Owen's wet and warm cavern of a hole, walls clenching around the sudden intrusion, and even Owen isn't fast enough to try and cover his surprise, letting out a quiet sound between a moan and a gasp.

And, of course, Dutch would be smug, his eyes dark and smoldered in both cruel amusement and lust as his lips wrap around Owen's clit. Sucking on it, holding him down as he gives a sudden jerk to the sensitivity on his clit, and begins to fingerfuck him.

[lazy-creates]

Sweet dreams

Before you read the fic, I just wanted to say a few things. First, this is my first proper fanfic ever, so don't burn me at the stake if you don't like it. Second, I haven't beta read it. I will probably do it tomorrow, but I still wanted to post it in case I forgot. Third, English isn't my first language, so please let me know if you see any mistakes.

Also, this was inspired by last night's events. By the time the assholes who woke me up decided it was bedtime, I was fully awake and couldn't fall back to sleep. So, I wrote this fic in an hour and a half before crashing at 5 a.m. I'm exhausted and need to go to work soon, so I will stop yapping now.

Update: It's tomorrow, and I beta read the fic. Fixed everything I found. A kind soul offered to beta read it, too. ♡(੭´͈ ᐜ `͈)੭

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You were exhausted, overworked and in pain. As the music outside kept blaring, your only wish for the people keeping you awake was a slow and painful death. You weren't a violent person by nature, but exhaustion tended to bring the worst out of you. 

'And the day had started so well.' 

You were so proud of yourself for finally getting the hang of what you were supposed to do at your new job. It was your first real job after all. And even if it wasn't what you wanted to do for the rest of your life, at least you would get some experience for your resume (and getting paid by someone other than your parents and not feeling like a burden was a plus). 

Then your colleague asked for your professional help with a personal project. 

"If you do well, I will add you to the team. You will be compensated for your work. I never ask people to work for free."

And weren't those magic words. So you did your best to do what you were asked. You were mostly done when you ran into your colleague and showed them the results. The impressed look on their face feeding your ego.

When you arrived home in the evening, you thought it would be a good night. And it was, until the yelling started. You could hear the music as you woke up. At first, you thought your radio was going crazy. You like to sleep with your favourite channel on low volume. It helps with your racing thoughts. However, you soon realised that was not the case. 

'There is a cafe close by, maybe they have a party or something.'

So you lay patiently. Surely, they were going to close soon. That was 2 hours ago. It was half past 2 in the morning now, and you were really thinking about going out, finding the perpetrators and giving them a piece of your mind. The only thing stopping you was your mother's worried look. The look AND the scolding, you knew you were going to endure. 

"What should I do?" 

You whined, preparing yourself for a sleepless night. Just as you were about to accept defeat, you remembered that maybe the police could help. So you made the call. A couple of minutes later you heard a patrol car stop nearby and a policeman yelling at the assholes keeping the whole neighbourhood awake.

'Everything is well that ends well.'

Satisfied, you made yourself comfortable and just as you were dozing off, you heard it. 

Music

'No'

Yelling 

'NO'

Laughter 

'NO NO NO NO NO'

They were supposed to LEAVE. 

That's it. Your patience was no more. You quickly stood up, swaying. Hissing and cursing yourself for turning on the main light in the room instead of your lamp, you stumbled towards your work desk. After a few minutes, you let out a triumphant cry, waving a small piece of paper. Grabbing your phone, you dialled the number written on the paper and waited with bated breath. 

You were either going to have your problem solved, or you were going to be skinned and turned into shoes. As the phone rang, you were praying for the former.

'Maybe he is sleeping.'

Disappointed, you were about to hang up when

"Well, isn't this unexpected~"

A very dangerous, very attractive voice sing-songed. 

'Concentrate'

You reprimanded yourself in your head. Now is not a good time to be simping for a psycho. You had brats to teach a lesson, after all.

"I apologise for calling so late. I..."

But before you could finish what you had meticulously planned to say, you were interrupted. 

"Oh, doll. Do tell Daddy what he can do for you. After all, you didn't just call to chat, no?"

God, you wanted to strangle him. Who does he think he is. Just because you have it bad for him doesn't mean you're going to let him boss you around. Also, why, just WHY did he refer to himself as daddy all of the damn time. You wanted to scream in frustration. 

"I need you to fix something for me!"

You said quickly, not letting him interrupt you again. Your eyes hurt. You were shaking. You were so, so tired.

"My, my. Why didn't you say so~"

He was pleased, too pleased for your liking. 

"Before I tell you what my problem is, I just want to make a few things clear. NO killing. No one gets hurt. And for Christ's sake, NO telling uncle Sherlock about this."

The last part sounded more like a plea than a command, but you didn't care. Sherlock and John weren't in London. They were chasing a killer somewhere. Sherlock was having a blast while giving John even more grey hairs than the last time you saw the duo. Uncle Mycroft was busy with who knows what. That only left the psycho on the other end of the phone. 

"You are no fun"

You could hear a pout in his voice. Better get to the point while he was still in a good mood.

"I had a VERY long day. I need to wake up early and these assholes are blasting their sorry excuse of a music, singing like there's no tomorrow. The police didn't do shit, so here we are."

There, you said it. Hopefully, he won't hang up now.

"And how do you want me to solve this measly problem of yours~"

Fucking asshole was testing you in 3 in the fucking morning. 

"Can't you just send someone to scare them. You know, tell them to get lost. Maybe shoot a blank or two at the ground or something."

You shrugged. You weren't sure how you wanted to solve this problem - you just wanted silence.

"What a naughty little girl you are, what would Sherly and the Ice man say if they knew~"

"If you even think about telling them, you will be sorry"

You hissed dangerously, exhaustion making you braver... or stupider. You weren't sure which one. His laughter told you you weren't dying today, at least.

"Well, as entertaining as this is, Daddy has somewhere to be. I sent Seb to deal with your little problem~"

You sighed in relief, but before you could end the call, he said

"You owe me now~"

'Snake'

"What do you want?"

"How about a date~"

You choked on your spit. What. Did. He. Just.

"You can't be serious"

Your heart was going to leap out of your chest. Did he really... His laughter stopped your racing thoughts — another trick. 

'I'm so stupid. How could I fall for that'

"Thank you for your help and goodnight!" 

You huffed and ended the call. You could still hear his laughter in your head. 

'I'm an idiot'

As you turned off the light and lay in bed, you noticed something. 

Silence

You smiled. Finally. You couldn't keep your eyes open anymore. 

As you fell asleep, a faint ping was heard — an unread message from an unknown number. 

Sweet dreams. Tea at 5, your place

~JM xoxo 

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Hope you liked it ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

[dissidiacloudstrife]

i talked about this idea with a friend, and while i dont really enjoy bittersweet endings, i wanted this idea Out.

It was time again, as he was so graciously told by Cloud. Or not told rather. At this point in their relationship, he could tell just from the head nod as he passed him what it meant.

Genesis just hoped he could handle it this time.

Their clothes fluttered harshly on Fenrir, Cloud rushing as he throttled the bike as fast as he could to the most deserted part of the Wastes he could. It was like a pulse, Genesis realized, his hands holding onto Cloud's chest. His heart was beating so much. The red head wondered if it was because this was their first time together meeting him. Or just the rush of having to fight Sephiroth again.

The tug of a smile on his face, at the idea that Cloud may have, at one point loved sparring. Then his body throbbed in pain, and he exhaled hard through his noise. The blonde shifted his head slightly, and Genesis shook his head.

Their ride was quiet until the pulse singing in Cloud's blood was too loud to ignore. The bike only slide to a stop momentarily, ride to the "edge" of the battlefield they had apparently chosen. The entire area was empty regardless. Genesis knew Cloud was trying to keep one of the few things he cared about out of the way.

Genesis looked up at the clear, blue sky. It was funny, as if the world couldn't care less that Calamity's son was appearing. He knew better as he looked over, Cloud's swords in their holsters and him doubling over. The red head frowned, walking over, and taking his hand, his other hand on the blond's holster, and walking him away from his bike.

Since there were no more Jenova cells except from within their bodies, and what few SOLDIER's live, of course Sephiroth rips whatever pain he can from Cloud himself.

The sky above them bloomed into pastel colors, surrounded by white and purple. It looked like a bruise of the planet.

Genesis huffed, releasing his partner, and unholstering Rapier, fire materia activating in preparation.

He was impressed with himself when he only had to move one leg back to keep himself where he was as the world suddenly rushed by him. Sephiroth had already charged with lighting speed to Cloud's blocking blades.

Really, as much as Sephiroth changed, the more they seemed to have stayed the same.

Genesis thinks he must have heard his thoughts because his eyes moved over to him, facial expression moving from glee to rage.

The movement was out of his abilities, and the only reason Genesis wasn't dead with Sephiroth's second move, was because of Cloud.

"You felt the need to bring in a third for our time together, Cloud?" The smirk was already back on his face. "Losing your touch?"

"You wish." The blond huffed, moving his sword out of the way. "He wanted to see you himself."

That made the facade fall, for all of the microsecond the corners of his mouth dropped. But Genesis knew. He always knew.

"You can't fool me, love." Genesis wasn't going to waste this. He was going to strike where it hurt. "I know about you."

"What could you possible be getting at-"

"I loved you. I loved you, and I threw you away. You tried to help me. Remember? You tried to save my stupid ass, and if I had just not listened to Hollander, or my own selfish instincts-"

"Genesis-" He said his name, he was frowning now, but Genesis pressed on.

"You loved me. You loved me, Sephiroth. You had so much love to give, you not only gave to to me, you gave it to Angeal. You would have given it to Zack.

You would have given it to anyone, and you did."

Another quick movement, side stepping Cloud all together, but at least Genesis could see this coming, Rapier coming up to meet Masamune.

"Don't you miss him? You can hate me, but you can't hate him."

The rage hit him before the impact of being shoved back by a force that made him skid along the earth on his back.

"He was a traitor, just as you were, as you all were."

Genesis, despite being older, and in more pain than he's ever been in since Deepground, stood up.

"He was following me! I tempted him! Manipulated him!" Genesis cried out, fire crackling in his hand now as Sephiroth stalked towards him. He saw Cloud behind him start to move, and furrowed his brows down at him, making him stop.

"I did everything I could to hurt him and you as well. ON PURPOSE." The fire spread in a wall on the ground in front of him, as he twisted his body, shoving it forward at the silver haired man. It barley stopped him as he slashed his sword to make an opening.

"I don't ask for forgiveness, love. I never had." He saw the sudden change this time, Rapier up, and actually holding Sephiroth back. His arm ached. They stayed like that for a few seconds, unblinking eyes looking into his dulled ones.

"Aren't you tired, love?" There was silence.

"Why would I ever be tired? There's-"

"Because I fucking feel it, Sephiroth." Genesis growled out. "I feel it, I know it's there."

"You never had my-"

"Listen to me! For once, can you please just listen to me, love." He begged at him. "I'm tired, I'm so tired. I can feel he's tired too. I know you're tired. Your humanity was as ever there as you were alien. You cannot remove the two." There was a questioned push down on Rapier, he pushed back as his blood sang pain.

"I know you. Sephiroth. The love of my life who I banished to the worst parts of myself."

He knew, that in the end, this was how he wanted it to end. Even as Genesis saw the blade as it moved up, and then back. It was almost in slow motion to him, as it gleaned in the hot sun, as it was thrust forward.

Genesis didn't stop it as it bloomed a horrible pain throughout his middle.

"Are you not tired? Gift of the Goddess? I am." His body shook betraying himself. "I know I am." He heard Cloud scream for him, and he could only look with his half lidded over to him, smiling at apologetically as he could.

"Your hair..." There was a choke back, "You grew your hair longer."

The almost fanatical laughter that came between blood on his lips, "It was time to grow it out." There was words between them there.

Sephiroth grabbed at Genesis as he started to fall. Masamune didn't leave his body, he didn't mind.

"Are you ready to go home?" Genesis smiled at him, Cloud close enough to hear him, stopping at what he was watching.

Sephiroth didn't say anything, didn't blink, and only stared down at him, searching. Always searching. His eyebrows down, unable to understand.

He was never good at human emotions.

Genesis' hand reached up to gently rub his thumb over his silver lover's cheek.

"Come with me, I don't want to be alone, Sephiroth." His voice was soft, a whisper of what it once was. "I don't want to be alone..." He felt the cough, blood splattering between them.

"Cloud. I'm sorry. The fates are cruel." Genesis' eyes rolled over to see him standing, up behind Sephiroth's back. "Can you send us both back?"

He felt Sephiroth tense, and saw Cloud do it at the same time. He tried to chuckle, but more blood got in the way.

"I won't last too much longer, love."

Both of them looked at him incredulously.

"You can't, you can't ask me that, Genesis." Oh, Cloud's voice broke.

"Consider it the final wish of a forgotten old man." His vision was fading now. He could see white feathers beyond.

Sephiroth moved again, taking Rapier from his hand easily, and plunged it into his own chest. Genesis couldn't speak, or laugh like he wanted too now.

"Do it." Sephiroth said, the tail end of Rapier poking out from his back being the only thing Cloud could see.

Genesis heard a cry, and the sickening sound of sword meeting flesh, his own flesh. The Fusion Sword right beside Masamune, spearing both men.

Poetry if Genesis ever knew.

"Don't leave me too." It felt so small, he reached his hand out to the small blond locks that he could touch.

"Did-" He gasped, "Didn't, you say, he always came back?" The smirk was somehow still in his voice.

There was silence between all of them. Green started floating off of him, and Genesis felt a hand on his shoulder.

It felt so warm. He knew those leather gloves.

Cloud was left sobbing on the ground surrounded by green lifestream and red blood.

[wonking-my-cheese]

A Bittersweet Reunion.

A short snippet I wrote for Urami and Theresa, there will be a POV change from third person to second person.

Word Count: 2k+

Character: Theresa Fowler, Urami Kuga (OC), brief appearance of Debbie Kang

Content: A small glimpse on both of their past interactions, and how they grew distant. They meet up once more after several years.

"Excuse me. By any chance, are you Theresa Fowler?"

A taller junior approaches the majorette, who is conversing with Debbie Kang. The Editor-Reporter feels herself backing away a few steps with a slightly frightened expression.

"Oh, yes! How may I...."

Theresa gives a questioning look towards her biffer, before turning around to face the person who called her name. Only to look up and see a familiar face — have they met before?

"Theresa...! That's the guy that beat up Bash Johnson last term. Be careful!"

Debbie pulls down her friend for a bit to whisper, being defensive towards the older guy. The pink mullet student rolls his eyes and puts a hand on his hip, unamused.

"I can hear you, you know? Besides, it was self defense on my part. I'd never start a fight."

His eyes gaze upon Debbie, who is behind Theresa. The shorter girl squints at him as Urami gives her a deadpan expression. The baton twirler only laughs nervously.

"So, uhm. What do you need from me?"

"Do you still go for piano lessons?"

...huh?

"How... do you know that?"

That was...a long time ago. She still has her piano keyboard from when she used to play. The taller boy notices her puzzled expression, before clarifying.

"Ah, I'm sorry. The name's Urami Kuga. I believe we met when we both attended Intermediate Music Class," Theresa feels a little bit of chill down her spine, Urami continues. "We used to play together back then when we were younger.  I moved to Flackville while you stayed here."

"You.."

Gears turning in Theresa's head, as Urami proceeds to continue.

"You were probably wondering why I stopped sending replies to you. I wanted to apologize for it. I didn't mean to disappear without informing you."

It is him. Her first boy crush in the flesh. He's still alive.

Theresa feels a bit shaken, but also pleasantly surprised with a mix of irrational dread as it aves through her. Debbie could only stay silent and witness the interaction between them, slightly worried about Theresa.

"A-ami?! I thought...you were gone! I saw the news, they..."

"...Surprise, I guess? Besides, we weren't there at the time."

"I see.."

So all that worrying and feeling of loss was all for nothing...? Theresa's sour expression of bitter realisation didn't go unnoticed by Debbie, who's only growing concerned towards her friend. Theresa then raises her voice a bit and gestures to Urami, eyes furrow a bit.

"So wait...You were in Norrisville the whole time!? How come I never saw you during middle school?"

Only for the guy to wave his hand in a brushing motion and dismiss the accusation — face expressionless.

"Ah no, I transferred here last grade."

Theresa falters, posture slightly cowering as she didn't mean to burst out like that. In a moment to attempt to deflect whatever just happened, she rushes through her thinking and tries to come up with something to say.

"I-I see...How's everyone else?"

Nailed it.

"Mom and dad are still working, I live with my aunt here since it's near Norrisville High."

Meanwhile Debbie is a bit bewildered by the interaction. Her mind is like a rollercoaster for she has so many questions. From 'Why is that guy suddenly approaching?' to 'Who was this guy?' to 'What the hell happened back then?!'

Theresa finds herself speaking before thinking twice.

"O-oh I see! How about Kagami?"

"She's gone."

Ohhhhhhh she wonked it up. She totally wonked it up. Man she feels like a shoob. Awkward silence. It is stagnant. Even Debbie just kind of scooted away from...whatever the juice this is. After a beat, they both kind of garble words in order to alleviate the situation.

"I'm so sorry to hear that I didn't—" "Sorry about that I was too blunt—"

They blink and look at each other, before attempting to continue.

"No-no-no it's okay I didn't mean to be insensitive-" "Oh- uh, it's no big problem really things just happens-"

Man.

"Uh.." "...."

They just looked away from each other, feeling uncomfortable. Debbie coughs from the sidelines,  almost comically.

"Anyway.."

Theresa scratches her head a bit while Urami fiddles around with the hem of his sleeves. This is not where he thought this conversation was going. Theresa tries to continue their 'conversation'.

"I'm..I'm glad to see that you're well."

She tries to look at him in the eyes, only to be met with the sight of him looking away from her.

"..the feeling's mutual."

This is agonizing.

Urami sighs before standing straight to face her and stepping back a bit.

"I'm truly sorry that I didn't reply to you all those years," he bows down with his arms to the side — almost halfway "I should have at least informed you."

As people pass by, people are starting to look and stare while Urami bows to apologize. Theresa flails around panicking as she starts to ramble a bit.

"Oh no no! Please get up! It's okay! It's all good! It's fine..! It's...fine."

Her tone gives a hint of despair at the end. Theresa doesn't know how to process all of this. She doesn't know what to feel from this.

The taller boy raises himself,  pulling out his phone before facing her again.

"Well, I better get going,” He puts his phone back into his pocket and turns around — walking away as he passes a glance in her direction.

“Have a nice day, Fowler."

"You... too.."

They part ways, each heading to their respective classes. Theresa didn't realize she was tense and has been holding her breath. She tiredly exhales as her shoulders sag down. Then she gets turned around swiftly before getting tugged down.

"WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT?!"

Oh right, Debbie is here.

It's an awkward start. This isn't exactly how he hoped it would go, but oh well.

Urami finds himself skipping class to hang out on the rooftop. He found a way to climb up there back in 10th Grade. Detention wasn't a problem for him, honestly. The time spent there is where he gets to sleep it off, design, compose or do his homework. Most times he just kinda zones out. He knows that most of the time — the second he comes home — he'll either rest a bit and continue his projects or just straight up sleep when he has no other things that evening.

Plus, they kinda let him go since he gets quite good grades. And has a medical condition. And has some history. And does show up to group projects or practical learning. And helps out in certain activities sometimes. And not-so-secret mends clothing for Home Economics. And—

Anyway, he tends to bribe insider information about Flackville High to Principal Slimovitz so he doesn't really get a bad record. As long as he is doing well academically and does the bare minimum for his curriculum, they wouldn't have to call his guardians as much as before.

How tiring.

Better to take a nap.

"Urami!"

The girl runs basically sprints down the corridor, approaching the junior. The guy's head just peeks out from his locker to face the girl who is currently catching her breath. 

"Hey, Fowler. What's the rush?"

He raises an eyebrow as she wipes a bit of sweat from her face with her sleeve. She raises her head towards Urami and breathlessly speaks.

"Do you.. have time.. to spare?"

He blinks a bit, then takes some time to grab a few things into his bag. He clutches his backpack on one shoulder before closing his locker shut. A click sound is heard.

"Sure, what do you need?"

Here goes nothing.

"I was wondering if you and I could hang out, like old times?"

Theresa sheepishly requests as she tilts her head. All while gesturing by pressing both of her hands together in front of her. Urami hums a bit before promptly replying.

"I don't see why not. Though, are you sure?"

Perplexed, her face twists into a look of confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"People stay away from me for a reason, you know? What if they say stuff about you as well?"

"But that doesn't really matter, you know? I just want to reconnect, I want to see how you're doing and catch up on what has happened."

For a moment, Theresa can see his eyes reflected light for a bit. He lets out an amused huff as he closes his eyes, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Alright then."

Then, he pulls out a pen and sticky note out of his pocket —  writing down something. He folded it neatly before passing it to her.

"Bell's about to ring. Text me so we could plan it out. Don't give this number to anyone else."

He turns away from her, walking away after uttering the following words.

"See you around, Fowler."

"..Right, you too, Urami."

The grief that comes from knowing someone so well only to lose them is miserable. But when they reappear to be fine but acting like a completely different person — is harrowing.

You think you already moved on, only for those feelings to resurface. And it's quite a whirlwind because you don't want to experience the pain of losing someone you loved ever again.

However, that person isn't truly gone. They're still alive — they're still here. But everything's changed and it's messing with how you feel and think. The way that they no longer smile as much as they used to, the way they're so distant and blank faced. The way their voice no longer has the lilt or the cadence you used to remember.

Though, you can see how some things stay the way it was. Like how they have the same mannerisms, the food they always bring or comfortably eat, the way they used to hum melodies absentmindedly, the way they silently observe what you or others do and make sure they act accordingly. The way they sometimes look out for you without saying much but through actions and giving.

But you can't help but see how much they've changed. Those soft smiling eyes turned dark and brooding. Tired and looked like they've seen it all. Sometimes you see them flipping pages of their textbooks and rewriting the same thing in their notes over and over. Or rereading a certain part of a book a few or more times. 

Sometimes you would see them jolt or clutch their head out of nowhere, sometimes chanting something under their breath as they shut their eyes. After that, they would often brush it off as nothing.

Where was the joy they used to radiate? Where were the soft touches they used to exchange? Where was the feeling that always appeared whenever they played and sang together? Where was the person you used to know? The one that you had such feelings before?

Reality is, some things would stay the same, while some things would change. It's inevitable that something has happened throughout all this time. They wouldn't stay gentle and adorable for long.

Still, it hurts to bear such change.

Yearning or longing is a curse and a blessing at the same time. You want to feel those feelings again, because they're so lovely and warm. They bring you enrichment to your soul, your body, your mind. To be loved. To be cared for.

But you're not sure if you should feel them again when it could potentially hurt the other person — or worse. The only thing you could do now is bring joy into their life as they find someone else happily, as you watch from the sides. Alas, you can't help but want that love and attention from the other, that you just feel selfish for that desire. At the same time you feel like you're not worthy of anything, despite wanting to have fun. 

You don't feel like you belong as a person. And you didn't want to bring the person you loved into your mess, because that's your problem to deal with. Yet you want to help through their and others grievances because that way — nobody would have to know that you're battling the 'horrifying' nature inside of you.

Every journey to healing or self reflection seems so meaningless, yet so changing. It's best if you repress it, feel numb and or depressed about it rather than exploding it onto someone again.

You're capable of destruction, and fear that one day those you loved would see yourself as the monster you deem yourself to be.

You can't run away or avoid your problems forever, and you know you have to face it head on. You know it requires support from those you hold dear. 

Yet you don't want them to get hurt, or see you at your worst. You're too scared to see that possibility. But one day it's inevitable. You'd think you'd be ready as you learn more ways to cope and to keep it at bay. But eventually everything comes apart and it's all bad.

So you reinvent a different version of you — a different persona — that doesn't fully despise who you really are. Someone that you want to be. Someone that could show what you are capable of from the inside.

A bud waiting to bloom — waiting to be something beautiful.

Me when making my very cutesy OC x Canon lore only to get hit by the 'Doomed By The Narrative' beam that I inflicted upon them myself.

[superbellsubways]

not allowed to touch grass sorry

[oifaaa]

I'm just wondering why they called you a LOW LEVEL beta.

Maybe it's the Tim vibes.

The low level thing is what's really getting me bc I don't really understand what it means? Like I've never read a abo fic were they had rankings

[asexualbookbird]

it's happened a bunch of times now where I'll complain about goodreads or libby (or even storygraph lol) and someone will say "oh just use storygraph" so I guess people don't know that I do in fact use storygraph? but i do very much use storygraph. About the same amount I use goodreads. It does some things better, and some things worse, and I certainly don't use it to its full potential, but I DO use it

[devotioncrater]

early morning static rated: E (smut in chapter 2) Words: 1,307 Chapters: 1/2 Summary:

And Ted tastes like an early dawn. Or maybe that’s just the first imagery to spring up in Trent’s sleep-addled mind, because his bedroom window faces the East and the clouds begin to color into a hazy shade of purple. Beautiful in a temporary way. Slow in a temporary way. There’s a promise of light to shine out, out, out and stun him blind with its beauty. Slowly, Ted begins to trail his fingers up and down Trent’s palm, forearm, elbow. A touch that wants to believe in the real, tangible proof of Trent's existence. That Trent won't disappear or fade away like some yearned-for dream had in a bed all the way in Middle America. "I'm here," Trent whispers by Ted's ear, gentle. "You're here. We're here together." “That’s all I want,” Ted responds, vulnerable, and kisses him again.

[kafus]

alright read my new fic boy. 3.7k word oneshot about liko being afraid of a thunderstorm and dot and her trying to communicate despite early gay crush awkwardness at like 2 in the morning

[groovyace]

"Take that fellow over in the corner; Aziraphale could only wonder at what dark deeds he'd committed. He was leaning back at a table in the corner, hat drawn over his face to conceal himself. There was something familiar about the dark clothes he was dressed in, and as the stranger tilted his hat back just a bit, Aziraphale caught sight of a pair of dark glasses—

Oh, good Lord.

Crowey seemed to notice his presence from across the room, and broke into a grin."

My illustration for the first chapter of Hand for Hand , the Good Omens cowboy fic I just know we've all been waiting for.

This fic has truly been a labor of love. Everybody better go show @twoheadedoddity some love for their incredible writing.

[purrincess-chat]

I don't want to brag, but I did finish chapter 2 of Adrien’s Playlist today. Cat writing? In this economy? It's more likely than you think.