#the world is in fact loud enough without you stark

[aunhinged]

Tony walks into the sanctum bleeding.

Tony, clearly not fine: Im fine.

Stephen doesnt blink, just mutters an incantation and the wound seals.

Stephen: you could say thank you

Tony: you could say ‘i was worried, my beloved genius billionaire danger-magnet’

Stephen, turning away: Im not saying that

later, Tony finds a handwritten note on his pillow:

‘don’t do that again. The world is loud enough without you.’

Tony doesnt bring it up, but he tucks the note in the inside pocket of his suit.

[gs29]

Behind the Mask

Squid Game Master list

The world outside seemed distant and cold. For him, the memories of the Squid Game and everything that had come with it felt like a lifetime ago. Behind the mask, he'd been someone different—someone ruthless, calculating. But now, in the quiet of his home, there was only peace. Peace and the warmth of his growing family.

Y/N had been asleep on the couch, her body exhausted from another long night. She had been up with their newborn son, who, even after a few months, still struggled to sleep through the night. But it was the life they’d chosen together, a life far from the world he had once been a part of. And despite the challenges, he wouldn’t change it for anything.

The soft cry of their son pulled him from his thoughts. It wasn’t loud or frantic, but still insistent enough to make his heart tighten. He placed the mug of coffee down on the side table, his gloved hands moving quickly but gently. The salesman, known only for his cold efficiency in the past, was now a man of patience—at least when it came to his family.

He moved toward the nursery, the soft light of the night lamp casting gentle shadows over the crib. His son, only a few months old, was tossing slightly, clearly in need of comfort. Y/N had been so diligent, so loving, but there were moments when the exhaustion from the endless cycle of feedings and sleepless nights weighed heavily on her.

Without a sound, he lifted the baby from the crib, his hands steady despite the fact that this tiny, fragile little one could break his heart with a single cry. He rocked him carefully, humming a quiet lullaby, one he'd never thought he'd know. The baby’s cries softened into little whimpers, then fell into a rhythmic silence, his tiny chest rising and falling in peaceful slumber.

The salesman, or rather, the man behind the mask, couldn’t help but smile. He had never imagined this moment, this quiet serenity. But here it was, in his arms. He held his son for a little longer, savoring the simple joy of it.

“Shh, it’s alright. Daddy’s got you,” he whispered, his voice soft and tender, a stark contrast to the coldness of his old life.

Once his son was asleep again, he carefully placed him back into the crib, ensuring the blanket was tucked around his small form. He lingered for a moment longer, watching the steady rise and fall of the baby’s chest, before heading back into the living room.

Y/N was still asleep, curled up on the couch, her face relaxed in the way it only got when she was at peace. He knelt beside her, brushing a few stray strands of hair from her forehead, his touch gentle. She stirred but didn’t wake, and he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

It was a feeling he hadn’t expected to be capable of—this quiet, unconditional love. The salesman, who had once only known shadows and secrets, now knew what it meant to hold something precious. To protect something with every fiber of his being. And as he gazed at Y/N, his heart swelled with the promise he’d made to her the day they decided to build this life together.

He stood up, looking out the window. The sky was just beginning to lighten with the first hints of dawn. There was still so much uncertainty in the world, so much darkness he couldn’t escape, but with Y/N and their son, he had found something real. Something worth fighting for.

“Everything’s going to be alright,” he whispered to himself, more as a promise than anything else. And with one last glance at his family, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

[riotwritesthings]

An Agony We Deserve (Throwing Off Sparks)

WinterIron - M, 4.8k, WIP - reluctant soulmates, thriller/horror?, Bed sharing, accidental cuddling, guilt, flashbacks

There are legends. Soulmate bonds have started and ended wars, they used to reshape the world without any warning. People would change in an instant, abandon and betray everything, become completely unrecognizable, but those are just legends- It can’t be- But they are.

That's right we made it to chapter 2! can you believe it. anywhere here you go plz enjoy

Chapter 1

~~~

Chapter 2: if I think things through

Stark is pretending to sleep.

It’s been an hour since he’d stood up from the floor, declared himself “Too exhausted and not nearly caffeinated enough for this shit,” then collapsed face-down on the single mattress. He hasn’t moved a muscle since.

But Bucky knows he hasn’t slept.

Just like he knows that Stark is hungry, and that his head is pounding. That he’s uncomfortable in his suit and shoes but too stubborn to take them off. That it’s only intense focus keeping his breathing slow and steady as he fakes sleep.

He has no doubt that Stark knows the same things about him.

And Stark has to know that Bucky has been staring at him on and off for the past hour, but he hasn’t reacted. Bucky isn’t sure if it’s more stubbornness, or if he’s still in denial.

Bucky doesn’t know how the other man can deny it, he’d realized from the first instant-

From the contradiction of Hydra’s ice-cold conditioning and the warmth of Stark’s eyes. The hollow echo of his orders interrupted with the thundering of Stark’s heartbeat ringing in his ears. The usually steady, mechanical beat of his own pulse jumping to meet it while everything else fell away.

Straight away, he’d known.

He’s starting to get twitchy. He’s painfully aware of every second ticking by and the fact that he’s- they’re being hunted.

Its so weird, thinking in terms of they- He’s not alone, but it’s-

Bucky’s breath hitches and he forces it to steady again.

After decades of shit, what’s one more thing he doesn’t have a choice in?

He shoves his fingers through his hair and tells himself he’s not chasing the feeling of Stark’s hands grabbing him, grounding him. He can still feel the warmth of Stark’s skin against his palm.

Tension is building in Bucky’s chest, aching and nearly burning. He’s too aware of the irregular buzz of the bare bulb above his head, but he doesn’t trust himself to get up and turn it off. Not when every other thought he has is about crossing the room and-

At least with Hydra, he knew where his orders were coming from. Now the impulses come from nowhere, from him but not him, and he can’t decide which is worse.

Bucky shifts on the couch again, and the squeak of the springs is once again painfully loud in the small shack.

Stark still doesn’t react, and Bucky can tell that he’s doing it pointedly.

He can’t take it anymore.

Bucky clears his throat, but his voice still comes out hoarse as he says, “Stark-”

“Tony,” the man cuts him off without lifting his face from the bed, the words muffled. “You might as fucking well call me Tony, at this point.”

It catches Bucky off guard, and he forgets what he was going to ask. “Kinda hard to tell if you’re talkin’ to me or th’ mattress, honestly,” he says instead.

Stark rolls onto his back with an angry flail of limbs. He lifts his head enough to glare, and for an instant Bucky is right back in that first moment, everything falling away in the face of even a hint of warmth.

He- Stark- Tony-

Even thinking the name sends a shiver down Bucky’s spine, has his breath catching again, and the man is still glaring at him.

“Why aren’t you sleepin’?” Bucky demands, annoyance in his voice that he doesn’t actually feel.

He wants to be annoyed.

Frustration and annoyance are easy, familiar, and at least Bucky knows they come from him.

All he really feels though is exhausted. His eyes ache and his head is throbbing. It feels like his entire body has been replaced with heavy metals and he can’t even think about moving unless its to-

“Maybe,” Stark says sharply, pulling him from his drifting thoughts, “I can’t seem to fall asleep because someone is staring at me.”

Bucky blinks slowly, still staring at him.

Stark’s warm brown eyes are bloodshot as he squints against the light. His shoulders are slowly falling away from their curled, defense position, like he just can’t hold them up anymore. With a sigh he scrubs one hand over his face and then pushes it up into his hair. Bucky wishes he had the man’s hands in his hair instead, wishes he could run his fingers through-

“No defense?” Stark asks with a weak smirk that just as quickly falls away.

It takes Bucky a little too long to answer. Shaking off the hazy numbness of being activated is always a slow process, and he doesn’t really have a defense.

“Not much else t’ look at,” he finally replies, and doesn’t add that he’s barely been able to tear his eyes away.

“Excellent comeback,” Stark scoffs. He runs his fingers through his hair again and the strands of silver scattered throughout it catch in the light. When he looks up at Bucky again- warm- there’s a determined set to his jaw. “Get over here,” he says shortly.

Bucky blinks slowly again. "What?

“I know you heard me,” Stark snaps, and Bucky tries not to get distracted by the fact that he’s started shrugging off his jacket with clumsy motions. “We are both useless right now,” he says, “we need some fucking sleep, and that’s only going to happen if-”

Stark huffs, throwing his jacket carelessly into a corner. Then he starts working on his tie.

Bucky is hyper aware of the silk falling away, the exposed hollow of Stark’s throat as he undoes the top couple buttons of his fitted shirt. There’s a shine of sweat on his skin that Bucky can practically taste, and if he sunk his teeth into that spot-

His line of thought comes to a screeching halt. He didn’t- Bucky doesn’t even know where that came from- He hasn’t thought about anything like-

It’s been decades since he’s wanted anyone like that, like this, and it throws him off balance almost as badly at that first moment he met Stark.

And he does know where the thought came from. It’s the same reason he’s here, The inexplicable connection that had him fighting beside Stark instead of killing him, following the man away from the rooftop that he’d been ordered to. It’s worming its way deeper into his mind and he barely even recognizes it happening. It’s so different than the cold grip of the conditioning, so much more subtle. He may not even know all the ways it’s affecting him, and how the hell is he supposed to resist that-

Through the ringing in his ears Bucky slowly becomes aware that Stark is still talking, stumbling over his words in what could be nerves or exhaustion. Maybe both.

“We- if we’re really- I just- I don’t think I can sleep unless-”

“What?” Bucky asks again when Stark trails off. His voice comes out rough, and he realizes that he hasn’t been breathing. He’s not sure if it’s actually working to hide his returning panic.

Stark huffs again and there’s a flush rising in his cheeks that could be anger. Bucky doesn’t think it is.

“I’m- I can’t sleep with you sar far away,” Stark bites out, glaring at the wall over Bucky’s shoulder. “So would you just- please get over here and shut up?”

Bucky is on his feet before he even realizes he’s moving. He doesn’t know if he could stop himself if he wanted to, and he doesn’t want to.

The thought that he’s the reason Stark can’t sleep, that he can do something about it-

It’s like a pull in Bucky’s chest that he doesn’t want to fight. He’s crossed the couple steps to stand beside the single mattress before it even occurs to him to try, that the pull isn’t coming from him, and he finally hesitates.

“What, you want me to sit on the floor?” He demands and considers just going back to the couch. The idea makes his chest twist.

Stark is still glaring at the wall. He grinds his teeth for a second before he slowly starts curling his legs in and clearing a little square of space at the foot of the bed.

“Oh good, like a dog,” Bucky says with a snort even as he lowers himself to the corner of the mattress. The end of the bed frame sags a little more under his weight, and as he carefully shifts to lean his back against the wall he asks, “D’you want me to read you a story, too?”

“Dogs don’t read, you’re mixing metaphors,” Stark huffs as he drops his head down onto the flat pillow, eyes falling closed. “And again, shut up.”

Bucky hums noncommittally.

Part of him wants to keep antagonizing the man, and he’s not sure why. Maybe because its easy. He’s not second guessing everything before he says it, wondering what he should say, what he would have said, before.

When it comes to Stark, he doesn’t think through anything. He moves and speaks before he realizes he’s doing it and it’s easy but it’s-

It’s not real.

So Bucky keeps his mouth shut, even when Stark mutters “fucking K9 Poppins over here” under his breath. It looks like the man is already halfway to actually falling asleep and Bucky has to tear his gaze away from the line of his jaw.

There really isn’t anything else to look at in the tiny farmhouse, and Bucky’s eyelids get heavy as he feels all the tension that had been building inside him fading away.

Stark was right, being over here makes a huge difference. They’re still being hunted, Bucky still has no idea what he’s- what they’re going to do next, but suddenly he’s finding it difficult to care.

He can feel the warmth coming off of Stark’s legs where they’re curled up near his hip. The way the bed shifts slightly as Stark takes slow, even breaths. It’s hard to think about anything else.

Bucky’s eyes drift back to the other man, watching the rise and fall of his chest. His shirt has fallen open a little more and Bucky can barely see the curve of his collarbone.

Stark kicks one leg out, knocking his shin against the side of Bucky’s thigh.

“Starin’ again,” he accuses, his voice slurred. He doesn’t pull his leg away.

With a snort Bucky looks away again, tipping his head back against the wall. His fingers itch to curl around Stark’s ankle, feel the warmth of his skin directly, so he crosses his arms instead.

His eyelids are getting heavier and heavier. Maybe he just needs to rest his eyes for a second.

~~~

Bucky wakes up with his face pressed against soft fabric and the feeling of fingers gently running through his hair.

For several long seconds, he doesn’t remember where he is or why.

For a moment all he knows is peace, and comfort. He’s so warm.

Someone is carefully working on a tangle in his hair, and his pillow is moving gently with someone’s even breath.

It all feels so right.

But as he continues to wake up, Bucky slowly remembers why.

Stark-

Tony.

Bucky has hazy memories of dry lectures about soulbonds throughout history and the debates surrounding them. He doesn’t remember if he really believed any of it, at the time, but he definitely never expected to find himself with a soulmate of his own.

Fingers pull a little harder at his hair, like Tony can tell he’s awake, and Bucky reluctantly cracks his eyes open.

The sun is creeping through the countless cracks in the walls, but it’s not as overwhelmingly bright as the light had seemed when they were driving out of Germany. The sound of the wind through the overgrown plants outside isn’t as deafening, and Bucky feels like he can finally think.

Everything feels more- settled. Even if it’s settled into a different place.

It probably has a lot to do with the fact that he toppled over in his sleep. His head is resting on Tony’s stomach, and at some point Tony threw his legs over Bucky’s so he could stretch out on his back. Tony’s fingers are working at the same spot in his hair.

Bucky drags in a deep, shaking breath. He still doesn’t know what they’re supposed to do next.

Tony tugs a little harder at his hair, and his voice is sleep-rough as he asks, “Have you ever heard of the Gordian Knot?”

“Do not go Alexander The Great on my hair,” Bucky grumbles back.

Tony’s stomach jumps beneath his head as the man makes a noise that sounds an awful lot like a repressed laugh. It’s a pretty drastic change from the angry denial and snapping Tony was doing earlier, and Bucky wonders if it’s just because he’s slept.

He knows he’ll have to actually face Tony at some point, so Bucky props himself up just enough that he can turn his head without actually lifting it. It makes something in his chest pull painfully tight to see a pained wince on Tony’s face.

“You need to shave,” Tony says flatly, the muscles of his stomach twitching beneath Bucky’s stubbled chin.

Bucky hums. Then he presses his chin down a little harder, making Tony jerk with a yelp.

"This is an expensive shirt, do not sandpaper it,” Tony protests and yanks at the stands of Bucky’s hair still caught between his fingers.

It sends a shiver through Bucky that he doesn’t know how to- doesn’t want to deal with right now. So he props himself up a little more and does his best to ignore the sense of loss that hits him when Tony finally releases his hair.

Tony stares at him for a second, considering, and then says, “Not that I’m not a catch, total s-soulmate lottery here-”

Something about the words strikes Bucky as- off, but before he can figure out why Tony is continuing.

“-But why aren’t you more upset about this?” Tony asks, his eyes searching Bucky’s face. A weak attempt at a smirk pulls at his lips as he adds, “Or were you just waiting until I was finished with the full-scale freakout? Very polite of you.”

“Figured you wouldn’ want to share that either.”

“Quick learner,” Tony says with approval, his smile getting a little more real.

Tony watches him as Bucky considers how to actually answer the question, considers why he hasn’t reached the same levels of panic and denial that Tony did. It’s not a hard question to answer, and he figures there’s not much point in lying.

“Kinda used to not being in control, at this point,” Bucky admits slowly, dropping his gaze. He gets caught up staring at the hollow of Tony’s throat again.

He can see it when Tony swallows hard.

“Fuck,” Tony finally says, his chest hitching. "That’s- you should be more upset. This whole thing is- it’s kind of really fucked up." When Bucky’s eyes flick back up to him, Tony grins a little and adds, “No offense. I’m sure you’re a ‘swell fella’ or whatever, when you’re not in murder mode.”

It startles a rough huff of laughter out of Bucky.

He’s the assassin turned fugitive who can barely be trusted with his own mind. He’s pretty sure the most fucked up part is that Tony got stuck with him of all people as a soulmate.

And Tony has no idea just how fucked up their situation is. He doesn’t know what-

Bucky’s stomach rolls and twists as it comes rushing back to him. The sound of Howard’s choked final breath- the feeling of Maria’s throat under his-

Both of them- He killed them. He remembers the snow falling around him, not feeling the cold of it. The crunch of it beneath his boots-

The tacky feeling of blood-

He doesn’t know what his expression is doing as the waves of memory crash over him, but Tony has been watching all of it with eyes that suddenly seem much more alert.

Tony is opening his mouth, eyebrows pulled together in what might be concern, and all the fake peace that Bucky woke up with is crashing down around him.

His blood is running cold, breath catching in his throat, and he- What if Tony asks-

They’re way too close for Bucky to try and claim nothing is wrong, in every possible way. Tony can feel his breathing picking up. Tony can probably feel the complicated mess of emotions trying to choke him.

The guilt is overwhelming. It’s filling his lungs, crawling up his throat.

“Are you-” Tony starts, slow and careful.

Bucky’s entire body freezes, like he’s finally feeling the cold of that night. He wants to look away from those clever eyes, too warm, but he can’t.

What if Tony already knows-

But what Tony asks is, “Are you taking your turn with the panic attack?”

“No,” Bucky croaks out even though he probably is. Panic is the least of his problems.

What kind of fucked up universal powers would do this? Would forceTony to be here like this, with him?

“No, I- I’m-” he stutters. He has to find some way out of this situation before- before Tony reads the truth all over his face- “I- bathr-room-”

“Sure, I also hyperventilate when I need to pee,” Tony says dryly. But at least he starts pulling his legs up, untangling them from Bucky’s.

Bucky sits up too quickly. The shift of his weight causes the bedframe to creak beneath him, and then two of the feet give out.

The end of the bed hits the ground and Bucky has to quickly adjust his weight to remain upright as he slips to the floor.

Tony isn’t as quick.

He slides down the mattress in a flail of limbs and lands practically in Bucky’s lap. His elbow collides with the side of Bucky’s head, but then his arm wraps around Bucky’s shoulders and they’re-

They’re pressed together from hip to chest and he can feel Tony’s startled huff of breath ruffling his hair. When Bucky can’t help but look up at him, Tony is so close.

His eyes are still so warm.

At least Bucky isn’t hyperventilating anymore. He’s not breathing at all.

Tony’s eyelashes are so long. His calloused fingers catch at the shoulder of Bucky's shirt and then grip tightly.

When Tony takes a shaking inhale his chest presses more firmly against Bucky's, warm skin and metal hidden beneath his shirt.

What else was Bucky doing, before he found his arms around Tony’s waist in an attempt to steady him? What else could possibly be important?

He can’t remember now.

Nothing is more important.

All that matters is the fan of Tony’s breath across his lips, and if he gets just a little closer-

The steady thump of Tony’s heartbeat jumps a little, obvious when they're pressed so close together.

It’s nowhere near the frantic racing of Bucky’s pulse, still struggling against all the guilt pulling his chest tight-

Reality comes crashing down on him again, snapping him out of his daze.

Bucky jerks back, away from Tony and the inexplicable urge to get closer.

He shouldn’t- he should be getting far away from Tony, none of this is real-

After what he did-

The back of Bucky’s head collides with the wall, stopping him in place before he can get very far.

Luckily Tony seems to have woken up from the haze as well, and he lurches away in the opposite direction. Even if it doesn’t feel lucky, even if it feels like the loss of contact is tearing something open in his chest-

No, it’s not real-

Tony slides himself haltingly across the uneven floor, putting a couple of feet between them. He’s still staring at Bucky with wide eyes.

Bucky scrambles to his feet and starts backing towards the door. He needs-

He just needs a second, needs to breathe. He doesn't need to be wondering what Tony's lips would feel like against his, what they would taste like-

Most of all, he needs to figure out how to handle the fact that his soulmate is Tony Stark, after what he did to Tony’s family.

And Tony doesn’t know.

It takes all of Bucky’s effort to tear his gaze away, to force himself to ignore the tearing, burning feeling in his chest as he turns and reaches for the doorknob.

“Be back,” he promises as he pulls the door open with a loud creak.

He’s talking to Tony, but he’s also talking to the yawning pit that’s opening wider in his chest with every step he takes. He will be back, even the thought of leaving- of leaving Tony-

He just needs a second to himself, needs to fight down the guilty panic before it comes spilling out of him.

“Don’t tell me it’s an outhouse situation here,” Tony calls after him. His voice is shaking despite his obvious attempts not to let it. Like he’s also struggling to breathe through the growing distance.

The thud of the door shutting between them makes Bucky waver on his feet.

He only makes it a couple of steps away from the shack before his knees give out. He slumps to the ground as the memories overwhelm him.

Snow. Blood. The smell of gunpowder and burnt rubber.

The unfamiliar sound of his own name, spoken by a man he should have recognized.

Howard and Maria are two names on a long list of lives Bucky has taken, but now he has to look their son in the eye and-

And Tony will find out. Bucky can’t avoid the truth when he can’t avoid Tony, when Tony is already under his skin and they-

They’re soulmates. Whatever that ends up meaning.

Bucky has to- has to tell him. Or he won’t be able to look at Tony without the guilt trying to choke him, and he- he wants to look into those warm eyes.

He has to tell Tony. And then- and then Tony can decide. And fuck, maybe it’ll make Tony hate him enough to overpower this bond that neither of them chose.

Even if the thought of- if Tony leaves, if Bucky doesn’t know where he is, within arm’s reach-

A pained noise tears its way out of Bucky’s chest as he curls in tighter around himself. His face feels wet and every breath wheezes out of his lungs.

He can still smell blood.

Bucky wants to go back inside and wrap himself around Tony again, let the rest of the world fade away, but- that’s not real.

And when he goes back inside, he has to tell Tony. He has to ruin the tiny sliver of peace that he has, and even if it is fake-

He doesn’t want to lose it.

But he might. He has to.

By the time Bucky’s breathing returns to something approaching normal the sun has climbed higher in the sky. He slowly becomes aware of the hard ground beneath his knees, the wind stirring his hair. His hands are shaking where they’re fisted in the dirt.

The warmth of the sun on his back is nothing compared to the warmth of waking up with Tony’s legs thrown over his-

Bucky sucks in a shuddering breath and begins slowly pushing himself to his feet.

Even with the conversation that’s coming, the confession, every step he takes back towards the farmhouse is a relief. He can feel the distance between him and Tony closing in the loosening of the knot in his chest, the irrational steadying of his pulse.

He pauses at the door, wipping at the tears still covering his cheeks. Time to possibly destroy their bond before it can even really take hold.

Why is he disappointed by that thought? Bucky has to remind himself that he should want freedom- He does want it-

As soon as he steps back into the shack Tony’s head jerks up to look at him, a complicated mix of emotions on his face. Bucky can identify relief and what might be concern, but the rest of it is a mystery he wishes he could solve.

Tony quickly drops his gaze again, apparently returning to glaring at the old landline mounted on the wall. The tension strung through his entire body is obvious, his hands shaking until he clenches them together.

They fall into a silence that hangs heavily, filling the air with what Bucky can’t bring himself to say. He needs to, he knows that, but he can’t force the words out. Tony’s next breath shakes slightly on the inhale, like maybe he knows that he’s waiting for something.

Or maybe Bucky is projecting. It’s impossible to know, and he’s pretty sure that would have bothered him more even yesterday.

Bucky opens his mouth, but what comes out is, “Pretty sure th’ phone doesn’ work.”

His voice is raggged, thick with emotion, and Tony’s gaze flicks back up to him again.

“I fixed it,” Tony says dismissively. He slumps back further into the couch, crossing his arms tightly across his chest.

“By glarin’ at it?” Bucky can’t help asking as he shuffles a little further into the room.

Tony huffs and his lips pull up slightly at the corners, like he’s trying not to smile.

“While you were definitely not panicking,” Tony says, finally looking up at him again, “I’ve been thinking about how completely fucked we probably are.”

Right. They’re still being hunted.

All of the different people looking for them had been all he could think about last night. And between waking up to Tony’s warmth and the realization of what he’d taken from Tony, he’d managed to completely forget.

Tony is watching him closely, no doubt taking note of Bucky’s surprise despite his best attempt to hide it. Bucky is sure that he’s going to ask, and he’s trying to prepare himself to just say it-

“So I glared at the phone until it started working again,” Tony says instead, returning to doing just that, “and surprisingly, it even still has service.”

Bucky immediately misses the weight of his warm eyes, no matter how heavy.

“We- I need to figure out what’s happening,” Tony continues, uncrossing his arms and flexing his hands, “who our biggest concern is, what they’re saying- I need to call Rhodey, he’ll know, but-”

When Tony trails off to scrub at his face Bucky can’t help drifting closer, his heart twisting in his chest.

“But?” Bucky prompts. He stops moving when something occurs to him, and he reluctantly asks, “Do- should I go so you can-”

“No!” Tony says quickly, half-rising from the couch with the force of his answer. His eyes go wide and he sits back down, mouth working for a second before he drops his gaze and grumbles, "Don’t- don’t leave the room again. For a bit."

Bucky doesn’t let himself sigh in relief and takes a couple of steps closer. Tony is still grinding his teeth, like he has something else to say, and Bucky waits.

He doesn’t think about the things he needs to say.

"I don’t know what to say," Tony gets out in a rush of air, dropping his head back against the couch and closing his eyes. "I don’t- how the fuck am I going to explain this? How do I- even start to explain what- what it’s like?"

Bucky doesn’t know how to help. He can barely make out all the things the bond is doing, all the ways it’s already affected him, he can’t explain any of it to himself, much less anyone else.

“Blame th’ contagious Hydra brainworms?” He suggests weakly, trying for a grin, and Tony’s weak huff of laughter is gratifying.

“Somehow, I think that might be even worse,” Tony says dryly. He pushes himself to his feet and waves a hand at Bucky, saying, “Go- go sit somewhere and pretend you’re not listening. I’m going to call him and I’ll- I’ll figure out what to say.”

He can tell how nervous Tony is to make the call, but Bucky doesn't actually know him well enough to know exactly why. Tony could be worried about how 'Rhodey' will react, or how bad their situation will turn out to be, or any number of other things.

Bucky wants to though, wants to know everything about Tony, more than anyone else. Even if it's not real, even if he doesn't deserve it-

Tony swerves on his way to the phone, bumping their shoulders together casually before stepping away. He firmly doesn't look at Bucky while he does it, but there's a hint of color in his cheeks.

The brief contact sends a bolt of- of something through Bucky that makes his breath catch, makes his steps falter on his way to the other side of the shack. It’s comfort and familiarity and a hundred other things he doesn’t want to look into right now.

He tries to remind himself that it’s not real, but it’s getting harder to care.

Chapter 3

[stevetonyweekly]

SteveTony Weekly - Christmas Reading List

Happy Christmas Eve, friends! I know it’s a time that can be stressful and I personally love to have a bunch of fic to read when I need an escape. So here’s what’s on my reading list this year. Enjoy!! 

tis the damn season by Areiton 

It’s a hot sweaty summer day, and Tony is naked next to you, when you realize you can never keep this. 

If the Fates Allow by BladeoftheNebula

“I saw him, Rhodey,” Tony blurted out miserably. “I saw him.”

“Oh wow, how was it?”

“Awful,” Tony moaned. “He has a beard now. A lush lumberjack beard, and muscles for days.”

Rhodey made a sympathetic noise. “Yeah man, I saw it last time I was home. It is pretty luscious.”

Tony Stark left Iron Valley, determined never to return - but it seemed fate had other ideas.

When his father passes away and leaves him the family toy factory, Tony must go home and face up to his responsibilities and the man who broke his heart.

take me home for christmas by parkrstark 

"He's gonna have to meet my dad. And--and, I can't be his boyfriend. He has to come as a friend." God forbid Howard knew he was bisexual.

"But he's okay with that. He said that was fine."

Tony scoffed. "Doesn't mean he should be. He's not my dirty secret. I don't want to hide him."

Or, the one where Tony and Steve meet each other's parents for the first time. Sarah and Joseph support them unconditionally, but Howard...he's a different story.

A Doggone Catastrophe by janonny

According to all the stereotypes, feathers and fur will fly when several different shifters have to work and live together. But the truth was that the animal instincts were easy to navigate. For Steve and Tony, dealing with their very human feelings was the hard part.

-

People liked to stereotype dogs and cats as hating each other’s scents, but Steve had never found any truth in that. Cats smelled like cats. Except for Tony. Tony smelled sweet, like the heat of a kitchen that had baking bread, like every delicious spice that warmed the tongue. His scent was best when mixed in with coffee, with oil and metal, when tinged with happiness.

America Isn't Chicken by Dr_Amuly 

After a Civil War, death, rebirth, a takeover by Osborn, brain deletion, and the fall of Asgard, Steve and Tony might just be starting to get back on solid ground with one another. Things aren't perfect, not yet, but they can be in the same room as each other without resorting to violence, and they've even managed to share a smile or two.

Seems like the perfect time, then, for Tony to try and fuck it all up with a stupid game of gay chicken.

Meanwhile, as if he didn't have enough to worry about, Tony realizes some kind of supervillainous trouble is brewing when increasingly advanced armors start popping up all over Manhattan, looking strangely reminiscent of his tech. On the other side of the world, Steve gets news that Zola is on the move in Russia, with some sort of nefarious plan at work.

Which will ruin them first? Will it be this unknown armored villain who is after Tony's tech? Or will it be Zola unleashing his mysterious plan on the world? Or will Steve and Tony prove to be their own worst enemies, destroying the tentative truce they managed to forge with their own stubbornness?

santa, won't you bring me the one i really need by quiddd 

Although Tony typically makes it a point to avoid anything that could be reasonably classified as Pepper-approved self-betterment, he will be making an exception this year in the form of a list of New Year’s Resolutions. —Well, not so much a list, exactly, it’s more like one very loud, very obvious, very critical proposition. He’s gonna write it down, put it on his calendar, say it to Jesus, and do whatever the fuck normal people do to make these things happen. In fact, even though they’re only halfway through December, it’s already emblazoned in his mind in big, flashing neon letters: STOP SLEEPING WITH EX-HUSBAND.

This is possibly an inappropriate thought to have while said ex-husband is pushing him up against his apartment door and trying to get his hand down Tony’s pants, but Tony has admittedly never excelled at being appropriate.

Frosty the Snowman by Captain_Panda

What's the meaning of Christmas? What is it, really?

Could it be the toys on Christmas day?

Or the friends we made along the way?

Are its joys discovered in a pile of snow?

Or those things that cannot be tied with a bow?

If it's not at the bottom of a glass of eggnog:

Then the meaning of Christmas must reside in a dog.

(AKA: The Christmas story where Steve Rogers adopts a dog, makes some new friends, and discovers that being a Scrooge is impossible with Tony Stark around.)

Ship to Shore by msermesth 

The Avengers beat Thanos. Everyone is safe.

(If you don’t count those five days they thought Natasha was dead.)

All that’s left is to return the stones, a feat that Tony is sure will end his new friends-with-benefits relationship with Steve.

someday by Areiton

Someday.

When Howard is gone.

When Steve doesn’t have the future of baseball hanging like a specter over him.

When the future they’ve dreamt of is the life they’re living.

“What if someday never comes? What if you don’t want it, then?”

Steve’s thumb traces over his lower lip, and presses his mouth shut. Silences his questions so gently it makes tears sting in his eyes.

[ariadnebyanyothername]

Not to toot her own horn, but Ariadne had always had a good memory. Borderline eidetic, she might even say, if it wasn't for how often she misplaced her keys. Memorising lines came easy to her, a birthday never passed her by without note. She remembered allergies and partner's names and pointless facts, and could recite entire passages of The Secret History off of the top of her head - a party trick that Colin had called both 'pointless' and 'pretentious'. Safe to say, Ariadne's memory never failed her. But today, it was a cursed rather than a blessing. Because August 6th was a day she'd rather selfishly like to forget.

It had struck her early in the morning, rolling over in bed to silence her alarm. The date had stood out in stark white letters against her screen, and it had hit her with a heavy heart. Today was the day Julian had died.

It never seemed enough, each year and on his birthday, to fire off a consoling text to her closest friend. But she knew Billy had his own rituals, the things that got him through one of the darkest days of the year. She didn't know exactly what he and Peter did every single year, but she knew it brought him solace, and that when he picked up the phone at the end of the day he sounded a little bit brighter. Not better, but more content. Poets and playwrights had written endlessly about grief, waxed lyrical, in fact, and whilst Ariadne was no great scholar, she'd never found the cure to ail grief in their beautiful words.

Ariadne mourned Julian in her own way. She took her tea the way he took his, she cracked open old books she knew he'd loved and found him in their pages, and she thought of him and Billy. Endlessly she thought of him and Billy.

Ariadne sat with her feet tucked up against her chest, balancing a cup of sweetened tea atop her knee, listening to the rumble of the train tracks outside her apartment window. Maybe it was that invisible string Jane Eyre had spoken of, her heart tethered to Billy's own, that had her reaching for her phone, scrolling through her contacts until she reached R, and pressing the call button. She wouldn't dream of calling Billy, not on today of all days, but Rhodes felt safe.

The phone rang for a beat, two, before the other man picked up.

"Hello?" he whispered, the soft, slurry sound of his heavy Brooklyn accent flooding the speakers. Ariadne felt compelled to hold the phone away from her ear an inch or two, so overwhelming was the background noise.

"Peter." she greeted, voice impossibly fond. She could practically hear the other man rolling his eyes. Nobody called him Peter. Unless his husband happened to be very, very cross. "How are you? I was just calling to check in. How's Billy?"

The plinky plonky sound of piano keys dithered somewhere in the background, as Ariadne in the quiet of her apartment played with the gold chain around her neck. Peter's niece was an incredibly talented pianist, fasitiduous in her craft. A small smile crossed Ariadne's face at the idea she was with them today.

"Where are you? Is Autumn with you guys?"

"Ari, he didn't tell ya?" Rhodes said, voice loud over the crowd. "Autumn's got piano stuff. He didn't want Grey 'n I to miss it."

The blonde's lips turned downward in a frown. No, that couldn't be right. Billy would've reached out... he wouldn't have let himself be alone. Not today of all days.

Except, well, that was exactly the kind of thing Billy would do.

Sighing softly into the phone, Ariadne stood, clumsily splashing lukewarm tea over her wrist before abandoning the mug on the counter.

"Alright. Well, wish Autumn good luck. Give Greyson a kiss from me."

The two parted with quick, hushed goodbyes as she rushed towards her wardrobe, tugging on a pair of jeans and a creased silk blouse. It wasn't often Ariadne left the cosy confines of her apartment without coating her lashes with mascara, signature curls tumbling down against her shoulders, but the world would have to make do with a messy braid and her freckles on display.

Ariadne chewed the inside of her cheek as clambered from an uber not even thirty minutes later, knowing that without Peter Rhodes in tow, there was only one place Billy would be. It seemed wrong for the sun to be shining on a day like today, casting a warm glint on the headstones of loved ones. In a morbid, Mary Shelley-worshipping way, Ariadne loved graveyards. There was something so dramatically beautiful about laying someone to rest under the earth. But as Ariadne's heels sunk into the dew-damp grass, she couldn't bring herself to find anything about this place Romantic or beautiful, this was just the place her dead friend was buried and where his husband came to grieve.

She knew the way without having to second-guess herself, and moments later, she saw the silhouette of her friend, backlit from the sun. She could hear the faint murmur of his voice, and she blushed hot with shame, wondering suddenly if she was encroaching, when Billy turned, a meagre smile on his face.

Pressing her lips into a thin smile, Ariadne said, "Because I know you, silly."

Without a thought for her attire, Ariadne kneeled in the grass beside her friend, her heels digging up clumps of earth as she did so. Her heart tugged painfully as she leaned forward, letting her polished, pink tails touch the face of Julian's headstone.

"Hello, Jules." she breathed, voice soft. Ariadne didn't much believe Julian was here, tethered to some arbitrary place his friends and family had thought nice, under the shade of a lovely looking tree, but it brought Billy comfort, and Ariadne was certain her words would reach him regardless.

Leaning into Billy's side, she looped her arm through his, the fabric of his coat brushing her cheek as she let out a slow sigh.

"What're you doing here by yourself, darling?"

August 6th, a Tuesday afternoon just like any other. Only, for Billy it wasn’t. For Billy it was a reminder of the worst day of his life, the day he lost the only man he ever thought he’d love. 

The anniversary of Julian’s death seemed to come around at a violent speed for Billy, always catching him off guard as the banality of life took hold, distracting him from the impending weight that was about to come crashing down against his chest. In the early days, he hadn’t been able to think of anything else. He’d count each passing day that had passed. Julian’s birthday, February 20th, exactly 198 days after his passing. Their anniversary, November 9th: 461 days. He’d counted each week, each month, each year. Down to the final detail, each day, slowly inching towards the day that they'd reunite. Then, suddenly, he lost count. He hadn’t realised he’d stopped counting – not at first, it had taken him weeks, possibly even months, to realise. Yet, Simon’s presence in his life had been a brand new distraction, a weight lifted from his chest and replaced with something gentler, something far more forgiving than the grief that had burrowed so deep inside of him that it had carved out a new home for itself. 

Then, of course, the counting of days was soon replaced by guilt. The guilt that Billy could have somehow forgotten, lost sight of the love he’d shared with Jules, all in the name of a warm smile and a tender touch. 

“I think I fell apart the moment you left me, baby,” Billy sighed, his voice low as he stared at the smooth granite across from him. 

He was propped on the grass, not a care in the world for the creamy-white of chinos – an image that Ariadne would no doubt be appalled by if she could see him – with his hand pressed to the grass below, legs curled beneath him as stared at what remained of his fiancé. Nothing but a headstone with a few clinical lines etched into the stone, acres of grass and dirt and almost-identical headstones stretching across the land surrounding it. It seemed like such a redundant thing to some, visiting a grave that laid home to nothing but a now-empty coffin, when Billy had far more memories to remember Jules by, but it was a tradition he’d never break. This was the last place Julian would have ever been seen as he was laid to rest, the one place anchoring him to this world, to Billy. 

“It’s weird... I felt happy this morning, before it hit me. I woke up to a text from Simon – I've told you about Si, about how much you’d like him – and for those few moments, for the most startling few minutes, I felt at peace, Jules.” 

There was a lump in his throat as he spoke, his voice hushed as he tried not to disturb the peace around him. The cemetery was fairly quiet, only a few lone visitors passing by, the occasional family. Honestly, most years Billy didn’t even do the trip alone. He usually woke up on this exact day to Rhodes at his door, the other man immediately wrapping him up in a cuddle as he smothered Billy’s cheeks in kisses. The two of them would sit around Billy’s dining room table as they ate breakfast, swapping stories until they cried, or laughed, or sometimes both. Then, they’d make their way hear; Rhodes would drive, Billy would play Jules’ favourite music, and they’d spend a couple of hours chatting; Sometimes to each other, sometimes to Jules. They always left a pause for him, as though one day he might chime in. It just felt right. He’d promised to do the same this year, the same as he always did, but Billy had asked him not to. Autumn had a huge piano recital today, a real big deal, and Billy had to practically beg and plead with his best friend not to miss it on his behalf. 

So he sat there, alone, squinting up at the August sun as he sighed to himself, wondering what life would have been like if he’d never lost Julian. It was a thought he’d plagued himself with for years, conjuring up a parallel universe where he was still a teacher, married, a house full of their own children running around, chasing Scoob as they try to catch him for bathtime. Those fantasies used to come naturally to Billy, monopolising his days as he wasted hours away dreaming of something that could never be. Now, he found himself intruding on his own daydreams, rapid images coming to a halt as he asked himself another question: What would his life be like if he hadn’t met Simon? 

Lost in thought, Billy had barely heard the crunch of footsteps on grass, his gaze lifting only when he’d felt a shadow wash over him, blocking out the sun above in the form of Ariadne. He looked up at her, the faintest of a smile on his lips as he asked, “How’d you know where to find me?” 

[kenny-the-ken]

Alone at Last Pt 2

ALL AGED UP CHARACTERS!! You can find the first chapter here!! WARNINGS!!: guns, gore, violence, angst, character death, drugs, gangs, strong language, MINORS DO NOT READ!!!!

It had been four months from you and Kenny had ran off together, ditching South Park and forging a new life with each other.

You were now in California, the weather a stark difference to that of Colorado, especially in the mountains. The weather was hot, the people were hot, and everyone had one shared love.

Drugs. And by god was Kenny in business. He knew a few people feom California that used to ship his supplies to South Park, but now he was on their home soil, he became a personal dealer for their gang. And boy was he slinging drugs.

He had sold that much that you were both able to rent a luxury apartment, feed yourselves and Kenny still had enough money left at the end of the month to hand you his bank card, telling you to treat yourself.

Kenny loved having money, he wasn't used to it, and he spoiled you endlessly, all the things he'd have loved to have done when you both lived in South Park. He'd bring you bouquets, just because, order you food when he was out working, just in case you were hungry, random packages would be delivered, all addressed to you, and Kenny would've ordered you clothes you'd shown him, shoes, luxury handbags and expensive jewellery, he had you spoilt rotten.

There were a few problems though, drug money isn't safe money, in fact it's entirely illegal. And people who are higher up the food chain of a gang than you are can offer you bigger, better jobs, better reward, higher jail time.

Kenny and you ended up on the road quite a lot as the months went on, constantly travelling the world, seeing all these amazing place, and occasionally smuggling some illegal substances in the process, and had thankfully never been caught.

It was only when a major gang war had erupted did shit get real, and it got real fast. Molotov cocktails becoming an average thing to hear about in the news, people being shot, police officers being targeted by multiple gangs, the streets became a scarier place, and you were becoming more and more worried for Kenny's safety, not that he cared.

"Babe, I die all the time! You know this! You've seen me die before! If someone kills me, I don't think I'm gonna even worry about it at this point." Kenny rambled, a blunt hanging from his lips, taking a few long drags before passing it to you, exhaling the smoke out the window of his car. You accepted, taking a long drag yourself, and exhaling with a long sigh. You were on a road trip together, a chance to get away from everything for a while. You were going to a nice place in California, where rich people normally stayed, it would be nice to pretend, if even for a little while.

"Ken, I mean it. This feud is getting out of control! Someone got shot through the head last week!" You exclaimed, taking another drag of the blunt before passing it back to your boyfriend who ashes it out the window before placing it back between his lips.

"Pussies. I've been shot in the head more times than I can count." Kenny snickered, and you pushed his arm, a stern look on your face.

"Well what else am I supposed to do, baby? Slinging drugs doesn't take skill, you've just gotta make sure you don't get caught, it's quick, easy money, babe." Kenny spoke, and you let out a defeated sigh, both of you knew you'd be fucked without Kenny dealing, the only good thing was that if he was killed, at least he'd come back.

And that was when it happened, pulling up at the set of traffic lights, a car pulling up beside you, the window rolling down, and before either of you could react, shots were being fired at both of you, one hitting Kenny right on the temple, and back out the other side.

Your screams could curdle blood, loud shrieks escaping your mouth, staring at your partner, now lifeless, head drooping and eyes dull.

You were covered in what you could only assume was Kenny's brains, your once beautiful clothes covered in blood and pieces of flesh, and you took of your seatbelt, moving to your partner, tears streaming down your cheeks as you cupped his face in your hands.

"K-Ken, Kenny, please god no, Ken?" You spoke, but of course he didn't reply. Even though you knew he would be back, seeing your boyfriend getting his brains blown out was not something you had ever wanted to see, and you were certain you'd be scarred for the rest of your life.

Police were everywhere, taking Kenny's limp, blood stained body from the car, placing him on a stretcher and pulling a clean, white sheet over his body and face, putting him into the ambulance.

You were in a complete trance, as an medic pulled a few shards of broken glass out of your skin, you didn't even realise that you'd been hurt, so focused on what had just unfolded mere minutes ago.

The police brought you home once you'd been patched up, and you entered your empty apartment, the vibe of the place completely shifted. A place that was warm and homey was now cold and dull, you could see Kenny everywhere, his half smoked joint sat in the ashtray, the bowl he'd used for his breakfast still sitting in the sink, his shoes still laying messily beside the front door, and as you entered your bedroom, you barely blinked. The bed lay still unmade, and you stripped from your blood splattered clothes, dumping them outside the bathroom door, and getting into the en-suite shower in your room.

Even the bathroom reminded you of Kenny, his shampoo and conditioner, his body wash, shaving foam and razor, even his toothbrush brought tears to your eyes, as you turned on the scalding water, leaning your head back and sobbing as the water soaked you, a steady stream of red water trickling down the drain.

And you stood there for what felt like forever, until the water ran clear, getting out and wrapping a towel around your body and hair, and once your skin and hair were dry, you opened the wardrobe, pulling out one of Kenny's orange hoodies, and you quickly put it on, breathing in the scent of your dead boyfriend, tears still welling in your bloodshot eyes.

Your head pounded, body ached and wounds stinging as you crawled into bed, wrapping the duvet tightly around you, putting the hood of Kenny's hoodie up over your long h/c hair, and slowly sobbing yourself to sleep, your whole body shaking.

You awoke to the sound of your bedroom door closing, making you sit up in your bed, rubbing your eyes that were nearly glued shut, the tears having dried into your face as you slept.

"Hello? Is someone there?" You spoke, before hearing the soft plop of clothes hitting the carpeted floor. You brought your knees to your chest, too scared to make another sound, until you moved to turn on your bedside lamp, your body jolting quickly from the bed, lunging yourself at the figure you were scared of a few minutes ago.

"Kenny! Oh my god, Kenny. You have no idea how glad I am to see you!" You exclaimed, your arms wrapping tightly around his neck, pressing kisses all over his face, and he returned your hug, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer to his bare chest, standing in nothing but his boxers, his clothes laying in a pile.

"I missed you, baby. Are you okay? Are you hurt?" You shook your head no, and Kenny quirked his brow.

"Not even a few cuts and bruises?" He pressed further and you finally spoke, tears running down your already tear stained cheeks.

"A few pieces of glass got stuck in my arm but... I- I was more concerned with your blood and flesh that was all over me, and the fact you were dead." You whispered against his chest, and Kenny ran his fingers through your hair, shushing you as you cried.

"Don't cry baby. I'm here, you're safe baby. We need to get out of California for a while, I don't want anyone trying to target you, I'd never be able to live with myself." Kenny spoke, his voice breaking as the tears began to fall from his own eyes, and you both stayed still, in each others warm embrace for a few moments, before Kenny picked you up, wrapping your legs around his waist, as he placed you on your side of the bed, climbing in himself.

Kenny pulled you down to cuddle close to his chest, pressing gentle kisses along your face, a small smile on his face.

"Let's get some rest, baby. And then tomorrow we're getting a flight to New York, the gangs moving me, I'm their best asset at the moment, and the fact I'm immortal certainly helped. There's no feuds happening there, so we'll be safe baby. I promise." Kenny spoke and you nodded, leaning up to press a deep kiss on your lovers lips.

"I love you, Kenny. I'm so glad you're back." You whispered, and Kenny smiled, turning the bed side lamp off before he broke the silence.

"I love you too baby, I'm not going away again, I promise."

[lvmimis]

WSB (and WSHB) - Chapter I

cw: pregnancy mention, abortion mention.

Masterlist

It’s the middle of the night and as Bakugou turns over in his bed to glance at the digital clock at his end table, he groans, realizing whatever the fuck has his phone vibrating at this time of night will keep him up for at least half of the four hours he has left before his shift.

He slips out from underneath the sheets as quietly as possible, making sure not to disturb his sleeping fiance besides him who has managed not to be roused from all the commotion. Resisting the urge to plant a kiss on her forehead in fear that it might wake her, he leaves the room.

Izuku, as expected from the frantic series of texts, is at his front door, and from what Katsuki can tell from his quick peek into the keyhole before he opens it, his friend’s scarred hands are shaking. The dark hoodie that obscures his features makes it hard for Katsuki to discern exactly what he’s feeling, but the fact that Izuku trembles like a leaf is enough for him to realize that whatever is going on is quite bad. It better be bad if he’s being woken up for this.

As soon as the door swings open, Izuku says without hesitation,

“Kacchan, I fucked up. I fucked up so bad.”

Katsuki wrinkles his nose, but he listens.

…

“She’s what?”

The difference between the two pro Heroes is usually obvious - Deku often smiling and bright, the type of man who kisses babies and helps old ladies across the street, while Katsuki has the scowling energy of an anti-hero, the bad boy with a heart of gold and diamond that headlines the wet dreams of many a civilian. However, today, it cannot possibly be more stark.

Katsuki’s eyes are wide with shock and his eyebrows are knit together at his forehead; his arms cross close to his bare chest, and he’s nearly naked as he stands perfectly still in nothing but a pair of boxers, while Izuku looks for all the world like a man who is close to toppling over any second, covered in stress and far too many layers between a hat, sweatshirt and baggy pants. You would think he was worried about being recognized, although both he and Katsuki live in the same part of the city where most Heroes reside, known for a nearly impenetrable privacy.

Izuku opens his mouth in defense but the words barely come out. Katsuki grits his teeth.

“You fucking idiot!”

He lets out a loud sigh after the exclamation, then leans his back against the front door. It occurs to him that maybe he should let his friend in but he knows he risks the chance of waking his partner up if they talk inside the house and once she’s involved… well, things might just go even further off the rails.

“I know… I know,” Izuku repeats. “I… I don’t even know why I came here, I just… I couldn’t sleep and I can’t tell her the truth-”

“What do you mean you can’t tell the truth?” Katsuki hisses. “You think you can hide the fact that you and Uraraka are having an entire child?”

Izuku seems to pale even further, and Katsuki wonders if this is the first time he’s hearing the reality in black and white, in all of its messy glory.

“Did she tell you today?” He presses, disregarding Izuku’s shock.

“Yes.”

“How long ago?”

“Around 8pm she showed up and told me.” Izuku finally lowers his hoodie to run his hand through his hair and Katsuki can now clearly see the frazzled and matted locks that stick to his forehead. He looks an absolute mess, more of a mess than Katsuki has ever seen him before, and part of this annoys Katsuki because he warned him that things could turn out this way.

Well, not exactly this way… but Katsuki had clearly told Izuku he was playing with fire the moment he had picked up on Ochaco coming around just a little more often just mere weeks after his breakup.

He couldn’t figure out what Izuku’s endgame was. His friend was always kind and almost nauseatingly considerate, and he’d always had the impression that Izuku actually loved his ex just a little bit more than she loved him (although she’d emphatically disagree), so when he’d appeared to be moving on just a little too quickly with his blushy old flame, Katsuki had found it suspicious. A rebound maybe? Maybe a way to lie to himself and prove that he wasn’t lost without her?

But a baby?

“Your dumb ass never heard of condoms?” Katsuki snaps, and Izuku swallows hard then mutters something mostly unintelligible about a pill and pulling out and he rolls his eyes. Then he considers that maybe that was a bit harsh and rubs his chin.

A heavy wind picks up in between them as though adding gravity to the situation. Gravity. Uravity. The free word association is starting to get on Katsuki’s nerves.

“How far along?”

���9 weeks, maybe 10.” Izuku’s hands won’t stop fidgeting.

Bakugou winces. He probably shouldn’t have asked.

“What’s your plan? Aside from showing up at my doorstep with your problems?” He finally asks.

“I- I don’t have one,” Izuku says, and the realization hits both of them at the same time. He usually has a plan, no matter how stupid or idealistic it can sound. Katsuki prides himself on thinking that his plans are better , but even he is at a loss right now.

When you find out, it will break you, even if you’re pretending you’ve left Hero society behind in the conversations he overhears between you and his fiancé. Even if you are avoiding any situation that will involve you and Izuku being in the same room.

It’s been close to five months since the two of you have broken up and everyone knows that you’re still in love with each other, even if the tabloids continue to push Deku and Uravity as the it couple of the year.

But a baby can’t be ignored.

“Start by telling her, not me,” Bakugou says, and Izuku immediately resists.

“I can’t.”

Katsuki blows air from his nose in a derisive snort but Izuku looks directly at him now, as opposed to lowered in distress, eyes red-rimmed from tears but still somehow ferocious.

“Do not tell her.” Izuku says.

It’s as much as a plea as it is a threat by the way his fingers clench so tightly into fists, irregular knuckles jutting against pale, roughened skin. Katsuki considers the benefit of pointing out that if he really wanted to keep this secret a secret, he probably should not have barged in at 3 am and told him everything but decides he’s not in the mood for a fight for once.

“Fine.”

It’s a promise he’ll regret later in the morning.

Bakugou scratches his chin, then rolls his neck that’s somehow stiffened in the process of active listening. He goes to shove his hands in his pockets, then remembers he doesn’t have any pockets. Izuku wrings his hands, then rubs up and down his face. He looks like he’ll pull out his hair any second, then lets out a sigh.

“I don’t know why I came here, Kacchan.”

However, the two of them do know, and they remain silent in the acceptance of their ability to confide in each other.

“I don’t either,” Bakugou replies. The two pause and look at each other. Bakugou folds, unsure how to offer support but twists his mouth to the side.

“I won’t talk but you have to talk. Let me know how it goes.”

Katsuki means to turn abruptly and return back to his sleeping partner in desperate hopes of salvaging what’s left of his sleep. Izuku whispers a word of thanks, and Bakugou stops as he opens the door, and glances back at him.

He thinks for a moment what it would be like, if it were him, standing outside Izuku’s home at 4 in the morning, knowing that he fucked it up irrevocably with the love of his life. His stomach twists.

“Yeah, no problem.”

---

Izuku is not sure when or how he fell asleep.

What he is sure of however, is that today is the first free Sunday he’s spent in an empty bed since the week you broke up. No you and no Uraraka laying beside him either (although in his heart of hearts he knows he would have always much rather it be you); just him and a swamp of damp, rustled bedsheets.

He has no nightmares because he is living one. One where he can clearly remember your smile and how he managed to dim its light time and time again, and wondering if this is what will dull even the shine in your teeth.

Perhaps he’s being dramatic, he wonders, as he sits up slowly, the soles of his feet pressed against each other. His throat is dry and his head pounds as though he were hungover and he considers how tired his friend might be, having dealt with his caprices in the middle of the night.

A child isn’t an awful thing on its own. He’s good with children. He’s not too young to be a father and he knows a little about responsibility. He can provide for a child.

His mother will be confused, but delighted. A child is a good thing.

Your child would be the best thing, what he’s always wanted, however good cannot always be the enemy of the perfect.

The word ‘fuck’ comes out of his lips effortlessly as he rises to start the day with some stretches.

According to his phone, it’s a little past noon, far too late for a man who rarely sleeps in. Ochaco has sent him a couple messages, as has Bakugou, and there are a few calendar reminders for things that are thankfully scheduled later in the week.

Bakugou’s text is brief and disturbingly considerate.

You okay?

No, Izuku thinks, but he’s already bothered him enough. He texts back a brief ‘yea’ which Bakugou will see through instantly, then his heart races as he opens Ochaco’s messages.

I’m sorry I showed up so abruptly, but I couldn’t think of a better time.

I’ll come by later tonight, if that’s okay?

Izuku swallows hard.

Of course it’s okay. What other choice does he have?

[raspberryfingers]

A Lion in the Garden -Tywin Lannister x Reader- (Part 7)

WARNINGS: Mentions of rape and gore

Word Count: 7k

—————

My grandmother was set upon hearing it from a firsthand witness. ‘It’ being whether or not King Joffrey truly was a beast, or whether he was over exaggerated. I had a feeling deep inside of me that he was the first, but my grandmother desired to speak with Sansa Stark either way, for who else but she would know?

That was how I found myself sitting with my grandmother and Margaery in the gardens, patiently waiting for Loras to retrieve the girl from her chambers. I resigned to the covered balcony in the meantime, for it was much quieter and I could watch the sea. 

“Is it too much?”

I turned to look at Margaery as she approached me, and gave her a slight nod. She was of course referring to the various members of our family who had decided to join us in King’s Landing, as they constantly populated the gardens and were currently quite loud with their chatter.

“I would complain about how many men and women came with us from Highgarden, but I know it helps you and grandmother feel more familiar in this horrid place, and that’s enough for me,” I told her, leaning over to kiss her hair as she came to my side and linked our arms. There was so much in life that burdened me, but to be her older sister was never one of them. I supposed I’d been enamored with my siblings from the moment they came into the world, and I’d taken it upon myself to protect and care for them in any way that I could.

“I don’t know how you manage it,” Margaery said, sighing and leaning her head on my shoulder. I returned the gesture, laying my head on top of hers. 

“Manage what?”

“Being here without any… any friends.”

I smiled softly and looked down.

“I have you, grandmother, and Loras. That’s quite enough for me. Most of my friends at home are soldiers anyway, and I get quite enough of them here. Plus, Ser Elias arrived in the capital a few days ago and it has certainly made me much happier,” I assured her, hand coming up to gently rub her back. His wife had finally given birth; it was a healthy young boy.

“Well, at least there’s that. On the subject of soldiers, though, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. I overheard Father talking with Loras yesterday. Some of our men had quite the brawl with the Lannister soldiers, it seems,” Margaery confessed, giving me quite the shock in doing so. Our men had never been indecent, it was something I demanded of them. You can only keep and command such a large army with rules of behavior and decorum in place, and I’d certainly done so in my father’s stead. That’s why I was rather shocked, because what on earth would have caused such a thing to happen? 

“What? What happened, and how is it that Father knows before I do? Yes, they’re technically his armies, but he appointed me head of it years ago for a reason. Usually I’m the first to know when these things happen,” I wondered aloud, also somewhat frustrated by the fact that my father had not even had the sense to tell me such a thing. Nor had anyone else, for that matter, which was especially odd. I usually got quick reports when brawls happened, even if they were rare.

“Well, from what I heard… it was about you,” Margaery noted, and I could hear the hesitation in her voice. I got the sense that she knew more than she was letting on and did not entirely want to tell me.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, apparently two Lannister soldiers were making harsh insults and rather…tasteless comments about you. That was what made our men lunge,” she explained, making me exhale through my nose. I wasn’t surprised in the least.

I’d dealt with men from other armies and groups for quite some time, and just like any woman, I’d been subjected to plenty of insults and lewd comments for nearly my entire life as well. At the very least, it felt good to know my soldiers had my back and would not allow my name to be tarnished in such a way.

“Is Father afraid I’ll be upset?”

“I’m not certain. He told Loras he was meeting with Lord Tywin so they could discuss the conflict. They were supposed to meet yesterday, I believe. I meant to tell you beforehand, but I didn’t see you,” she informed me, making my dread even worse. Dear gods, why had my father thought that going to Tywin Lannister without even mentioning it to me was the best option?

“Don’t worry yourself with it, Margaery. I’m just- I’m quite frustrated that Father did such a thing. He undermined my authority and made me look weak in doing so, even if he didn’t realize it. I’ll speak to Lord Tywin today and clear things up. After this whole interrogation is done, anyway,” I remarked, shaking my head with sheer anger. Of all the things for him to do.

“(Y/N)! Come here, you’ve received a letter.”

I turned around at the sound of my grandmother’s voice, finding Ser Elias standing beside her. I raised a quizzical eyebrow at Margaery, but she shrugged and followed behind me as we approached the two of them.

“A letter?”

“A Lannister soldier brought it,” Ser Elias explained, scratching his short, dark beard. I took it from his free hand and inspected it carefully; the seal was the Lannister sigil, not that of the Hand. Confused and somewhat curious, I opened it and quickly discovered—by the noticeable handwriting of course—that it was in fact from Lord Tywin. I quickly began to read.

Lady (Y/N),

The smith that I requested from Essos arrived in King’s Landing yesterday. I’m asking you to accompany me today, as I’m unfortunately busy the rest of the week, and presume that you would like the sword finished sooner rather than later. Bring your blade and meet me in the stables.

-Tywin Lannister

I smiled as I folded it back up, slipping it into the pockets of my dress. I would finally make this weapon mine, and that thought was thrilling. 

“Would you accompany me to my chambers and then to the stables, Ser Elias? There is something I need to get,” I asked rather vaguely. He nodded, but my grandmother raised an eyebrow. 

“So, you get some letter and suddenly you’re exempt from this? Shame on you, dear. You ought to care more about your sister's future husband,” she lectured, to which I merely laughed, nodding at her with sarcastic agreement. She was only playing, of course.

“It is from the Lord Hand, grandmother, it would be rude to leave him waiting,” I said, voice full of insincerity. Both my grandmother and Margaery laughed, giving each other a knowing look. 

“Oh yes! The Lord Hand, gods forbid he do anything that isn’t on his own time or in his own interest. Go on then, attend to whatever damned thing he’s mentioned. All I ask is that you try not to end an alliance while doing it,” my grandmother scoffed, waving me off. 

I merely smiled and gave her an ambiguous shrug, walking away with Ser Elias at my side. As I left, I heard Margaery whisper something which I couldn’t make out. Well, it wasn’t of any importance to me, but the laughs the two of them let out while gazing in my direction were certainly curious. 

“So, may I ask what the letter said?” Ser Elias inquired after a moment, turning his head toward me and raising an eyebrow at the sheer excitement on my face. He, more than most, was quite aware of my hatred for Lord Tywin, and so naturally I was sure he thought I’d gone insane.

“A smith has arrived from Essos, one that knows how to work Valyrian steel. Lord Tywin summoned him for me, for nothing moves men like gold does. Either way, I want to get my sword reworked. You’ve seen how big it is right now, I could probably get at least two daggers off the thing,” I explained, feeling myself absolutely beam at the thought. Ser Elias had already seen the sword—in fact, it had been one of the first things I’d shown him when he’d arrived in King’s Landing. Still, the blade had been big for him, and he was around 6’6”. I suspected the man who’d split my side with the thing was at least 7 feet tall. 

“It was rather kind of Lord Tywin to do that. We’ll have quite a lot of fun practicing once you’re able to wield the blade. Though, I’m afraid I’m not very well suited for going against you if you’re using two daggers,” he noted, making me smile to myself.

“I know you’re sick of hearing me complain, so I won’t comment upon your first sentiment, but yes, I agree, practice will be fun. As for daggers, the man I was practicing with before you got here seemed to be rather good with that kind of combat. Perhaps I could ask him to join us at some point,” I suggested, walking through the keep and up various flights of stairs without anything more than the gentlest pain. My wound practically was fully healed now, even if there was still the slightest hint of pain. As far as the maesters were concerned though, I could do whatever I wanted to without worrying about it. It had been 10 years since hearing something had made me so happy. 

“By all means, ask him. Gods know that you’re far too advanced for me now,” Ser Elias replied, chuckling to himself as we approached my room. We’d gotten here rather quickly, much to my surprise. 

“Well, I’d like to remind you that you’re the only reason I am so advanced. You were my first teacher, Elias, and I’ll always be grateful for it,” I said, making sure he wouldn’t forget that fact. He was the one who’d made me passionate about fighting, and who knows if another teacher would’ve done the same?

He only smiled as he pulled the door open for me, and I quickly went to grab the sword. I was impossibly giddy, like a child again. It was already beautiful, I could hardly comprehend how breathtaking it would be once it had a handle to match my armor.

“Can you sheathe it while we walk to the stables? I fear a woman walking around with a sword as big as that might raise lots of eyebrows and questions,” I asked Ser Elias, stepping into the hallway and closing the door behind me. He instantly nodded, putting it in his belt and walking a step or two behind me on our way to the stables, for it wouldn’t have seemed proper to any nobles that we passed by if he was next to me.

It thankfully didn’t take very long to get there either, and when we arrived I found Lord Tywin waiting for me. Both of our horses were prepared, and though I didn’t notice it, so were the ones of two Lannister guards.

“Lord Tywin,” I nodded at him, and he did the same in turn, also replying with a brief ‘Lady (Y/N)’. He looked Ser Elias over then, presumably because he was quite tall, and was especially so while standing next to me. I turned back to look at him, and he handed me the sword. Lord Tywin only stood and watched. 

“Thank you, Ser. No need to accompany us, Lord Tywin and I should be fine,” I reasoned, to which he simply bowed his head and left. I did not want Ser Elias to be there if my bickering with the Lord Hand got particularly bad. Plus, the two of us had done fine on our own the last time we’d rode through King’s Landing, and we were only going to the street of steel anyway.

“Quite the man, isn’t he?” Lord Tywin said suddenly, pulling his eyes away from the door and looking at me now. I shrugged, handing him the sword so that he could sheathe it for the same reason that I’d had Ser Elias do so.

“Ser Elias has been my guard and closest friend since I was a girl. I suppose I’m used to his height. He’s really not that intimidating at all,” I replied, mounting my horse and looking over as Lord Tywin did the same. He said nothing back, but there was a vague annoyance on his face that I couldn’t figure out. He grumbled something, though I didn’t hear it. I considered asking, but I knew it was not addressed towards me or it would’ve been audible. Lord Tywin was not the kind of man to speak softly.

We spurred the horses, riding casually down the main road of the Red Keep. As we did, I realized two Lannister guards were riding behind us. So much for going on our own, then.

“You know, Lord Tywin, if you were going to have your men accompany us, I could’ve had Ser Elias come instead,” I told him, wondering why he hadn’t protested. Ser Elias and I combined would’ve been ten times more effective than the two fools with us.

“I’m aware,” the Old Lion replied curtly, not even bothering to look at me as he said it. I sighed, knowing that just like always I was going to have to put up with his foul moods before he warmed up.

“There’s no need to be rude, Lord Tywin. I don’t know what has you in such a bad mood, but you did invite me here today, so there’s no point in being bitter. Unless you’re merely afraid of looking happy in front of your men,” I told him, grinning as a sudden urge developed in my head. Before he could say anything, I turned to look back at the guards. I couldn’t see their eyes, but I could feel their discomfort at my observation of them.

“What do you think, gentlemen? Wouldn’t you like to see Lord Tywin smile for once?” I asked, raising my eyebrows at them to suggest I wanted a reply. The two looked between each other and gave me a silent nod, for my word was less incriminating than their lord hearing them say yes. Satisfied, I turned back to Lord Tywin and laughed quietly.

“The vote is unanimous, my lord, you’re allowed to cheer up,” I announced, grinning. He only stayed quiet, and my smile faltered. Even as we left the Red Keep, he still remained silent, and I was beginning to grow irritated. Usually he would at least show frustration and entertain me; right now he was only being boring.

“I regret not bringing Ser Elias, he might’ve made this outing more enjoyable, as clearly you don’t intend to talk to me,” I said rather passive aggressively, looking around the streets as we rode. We were in the nicer part of King's Landing and I still felt miserable. I might as well have been questioning Sansa Stark about Joffrey right now.

“How old is Ser Elias?” Lord Tywin asked suddenly, still sounding rather irritated. I hissed with feigned pain, grabbing at my ears to suggest that he hadn’t spoken in so long that the sound of his voice was too loud for me. When he glared, I rolled my eyes and relented. So he wasn’t a statue after all.

“He’s 13 years older than I am, so I suppose about 38 now,” I guessed, doing the math in my head and shrugging. I couldn’t even recall the last time I’d thought about it.

“Is he married?”

“Yes, his first son was just born this month, that’s why he’s only now arrived from Highgarden. Why?” I adjusted my grip on the reins, glancing back and forth between the street and the man beside me as I waited for an answer. Lord Tywin again, said nothing, and I sighed. Why did he care so damn much about Ser Elias? That was when it clicked.

Did he believe Ser Elias had romantic feelings for me? 

I began to laugh, and I gaped at Lord Tywin, who had raised a quizzical eyebrow in response to my rather loud giggling. He did not look amused, but still felt obligated to question me anyway.

“What?”

“Did you think that Ser Elias was in love with me? Is that why you were asking questions about him?” I asked, still laughing and finding myself unable to stop. That was the most impossible scenario on earth, though I supposed that anybody who hadn’t really seen the two of us interact wouldn’t be aware.

“If you’ve known him for that long and are so close to him, it was only a natural assumption. If he doesn’t have affection for you now, he has at some point, I promise,” Lord Tywin said, a slight hint of anger in his voice. I had positively no clue why he was angry about such a random subject, but I supposed he was always angry in general.

“And how would you presume to know anything about Ser Elias? It’s a very bold assumption to make,” I told him, thinking it absolutely ridiculous. I could still recall listening to him go on about how beautiful and perfect his wife was, even long before they’d gotten married. Plus, he’d always referred to me as a daughter of sorts. If anything, that should’ve made Lord Tywin vehemently against the idea, for he was quite good at denying the existence of incestious relationships.

“He’s a man and he’s got a pair of working eyes. Not to mention, he has at least half a brain,” he said, looking over at me with both eyebrows raised. I scoffed at him, shaking my head and almost finding his sentiment amusing.

“By those requirements, Lord Tywin, you ought to be madly in love with me. You disprove your own point. Ah, well, I suppose you did say at least half a brain. You may fail to reach that standard,” I reasoned, watching his face go tense for a moment. I grinned, enjoying that at least the insult had gotten to him, for I’d never seen him make that expression before.

“Let’s dismount here, the street gets too narrow up that way, and it’s a short walk,” he said suddenly, changing the subject. I huffed out, but did as he suggested anyway. The two guards behind us did the same, and Lord Tywin handed his reins to one of them.

“Go tie them up, and take Lady Tyrell’s horse too,” he ordered, only looking at the men briefly. The other one came up to me, taking my own horse and moving off to the side. 

Lord Tywin looked at me after a moment, motioning that we walk. I moved over to be beside him, and from there we began our stroll toward the smith. I was only grateful that the weather was nice today.

“Lord Tywin, now that the guards aren’t with us, may I ask you something?” I questioned after a moment, noticing that we’d left them a bit behind. He merely raised an eyebrow at me, which I knew was a signal for me to do so. I swallowed, trying to figure out how to begin.

“I- well, I’ve heard that my father met with you over a conflict between our bannermen. May I ask why I was not included in that discussion? I am the head of the Tyrell army, and I know the conflict began because of comments made about me, but I would have liked to be consulted in the matter regardless,” I said, folding my hands behind my back to not appear so anxious.

“And I had told your father as much, but he was adamant that it was unnecessary to involve you. I would guess that he simply did not wish to upset you, though he should’ve known you’d find out anyway. I did not fight him on it, I’ve got far too little time for such things. Either way, it’s all been dealt with, and rest assured we kept your best interests in mind,” Lord Tywin informed, keeping his gaze ahead of us at all times just as mine was. Even if not in Flea Bottom, it was important to be alert at all times in King’s Landing. 

“What happened? In terms of consequences, I mean,” I asked him, desiring to know what the outcome of their meeting had been. I was going to be rather upset if my men had been subjected to some harsh punishment at Lord Tywin’s command, though he had sounded genuine enough. Then again, what did he and my father know about ‘my best interests’?

“For your men, nothing. I assured your father that they were in the right to defend you, especially because they were being provoked. However, the two Lannister soldiers that were making rude and distasteful comments have lost their tongues.”

I stopped walking, my mouth falling open for a moment. I was shocked, but Lord Tywin did not seem phased at all. He only stared at me blankly as I attempted to process what I had just heard him say.

“You cut out their tongues for making a couple of lewd comments about me?” I clarified, wondering if that was not the only reason. At least, I hoped it wasn’t, because if it was, it naturally meant that the two men had said something quite serious.

“Yes, I did. Lannisters, even soldiers, have a reputation to uphold. I will not have my men making unbecoming comments about noble women, and especially not about you. As the head of the Tyrell army, of course,” he said, pausing after the ‘especially not about you’ bit. I swallowed, finding it in myself to begin walking again. Lord Tywin did the same once I was at his side.

“What could have possibly been so horrible it warranted that? What in the seven hells did they say? And don’t bother making it more ‘proper’, I deserve to know,” I told him, not able to imagine what would’ve been so bad that he’d felt the need to take such an action. Lord Tywin was quiet for a moment, as if contemplating whether or not he ought to tell me. When he opened his mouth, he could not meet my eyes.

“From what the two men told me personally, they were taunting your soldiers and saying they would… ‘rape you’ and ‘enjoy making the tears stream down your face’ as they…” Lord Tywin trailed off, and when I looked over at him there was a deep conflict in his eyes—a sort of solemn anger. My stomach had already dropped; I figured I might as well hear all of it. 

“Please tell me, Lord Tywin,” I whispered, giving him a pleading look. He swallowed and licked his lips nervously. I’d never seen him act so anxious before, and it was extremely unsettling. 

“As they made you… ‘gag on their cocks’, and took turns- took turns… ‘filling your cunt’,” Lord Tywin said quietly, clearly struggling to get through it. His eyebrows contorted in all different manners, and his eyes narrowed as he spoke. I could hear the disgust—along with the upset—in his voice, and he only looked down at me once quite a bit of silence had followed his statement.

I was quiet, trying to process what I’d just heard. I was no longer even thinking about the fact that they’d had their tongues removed, only about what they’d said. There was a cold anxiety rushing over me, because even if I knew that they couldn’t actually do such a thing to me, the picture of it was still in my mind. 

I felt my lower lip begin to tremble involuntarily, and I could not make it stop. I was afraid, even despite the bravery that I was so accustomed to flaunting during tourneys and battles. I had already been assaulted before, and that had impacted me in a quite significant way. I could not even comprehend how I would manage to move on if men like those two, or even the Baratheon soldier, ever got the chance to act on their words. 

“I shouldn’t feel grateful for what you ordered, but I am,” I said quietly, finally looking up at Lord Tywin with glossy eyes. His own eyes softened when he saw the look on my face, and he nodded gently.

“After the Battle of Blackwater, Lady (Y/N), you chided me that the man who gives the order ought to do it himself. You will be pleased to know that I took your statement to heart,” he told me, somehow filling me with even more shock. 

“You- You cut their tongues off yourself?” I asked, clearing my throat from the block that had seemed to form as a response. I was looking over at him with wide eyes, and when he met my gaze, he was perfectly composed.  

I saw it in his eyes: him ordering his guards to grab the two men after they’d been interrogated. The two faceless men would have panicked as they watched Lord Tywin pull out his blade, informing them that he intended to remove their tongues. I could picture them squirming and struggling to break free, but they would not. The only thing they would do was scream as the guards held their mouths open and the Lord of Casterly Rock himself gripped and cut. In my sick fantasy, I could see their blood splattering onto his hands, and I could see just how unphased Lord Tywin looked while doing it. 

When I came back to the present, Lord Tywin stopped walking and turned to face me. I similarly froze, waiting for whatever he was going to reply with. His breathing had become more intense.

“Yes, I did, and I’ll do it again if any man dares to say such things about you, gods forbid actually act upon it. You may criticize my brutality, Lady (Y/N), but know that if a man ever does such a thing, he will face more wrath than you can possibly imagine. I promised to keep you safe from such assault, and I will do so,” he assured me, voice more than just serious as he did so. My lips parted as I gazed up at him, looking back and forth between his eyes. 

The Great Lion of the Rock, that was what they called him. My heart—despite how much I claimed to hate this man—swelled at his sentiments. I ought to have been angry, or to have lectured Lord Tywin about his cruelty, but I could not. Somewhere inside this cruel, cold man, there was genuine care, and it made me feel more safe than anything ever had. 

I said nothing, but I nodded at the Lord Hand, and he knew that I was too overwhelmed to speak. We began to walk once more, and I felt myself drifting closer to him. I did not look at him as I did it, but I reached for Lord Tywin’s arm and clung to it with both of my hands. When he adjusted himself so that I could hold on more comfortably, I leaned my head against his shoulder. 

Today had changed something for me, even despite the fact that I’d tried very hard to uphold my hatred for Tywin Lannister. It was not the gifts that had done it, nor had it been saving my life, but it had been this gesture. To know that he genuinely sought to protect me, to make certain that I was safe. That was what had broken my firm hatred for this man.

“Are you alright, Lady (Y/N)?” Lord Tywin asked softly after a moment, looking down at me. I nodded against his arm, not particularly knowing what to say. There really wasn’t anything for me to say. He cleared his throat after a moment, looking ahead again as we turned onto another street. “I’m well aware of the fact that you detest me, but please know that-”

“I don’t,” I said quickly, cutting him off. With his usual stern look, he raised an eyebrow at me. I swallowed, stuttering quite a bit as I tried to get my point across. “I- I apologize for interrupting you, Lord Tywin, but I merely wanted to clarify that, well, I don’t hate you. Sure, you’re still an insufferable cu- you’re still insufferable a lot of the time, but I don’t hate you, per say.”

“And what of your infamous vow to loathe me until the day you die?” he questioned, surprising me with his knowledge of its existence. I supposed it made sense that he’d found out, it wasn’t as if I’d exactly kept my vow a secret. 

“Well, perhaps my heart stopped beating for a few moments during the Battle of Blackwater. At least, I hope it did. It would be a far less degrading explanation,” I replied, lifting my head and giving him a somewhat cheeky smile. He huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head at how ridiculous I was. He had laughed though, and that was quite enough for me, even if it was rather strange to grapple with the fact that I didn’t entirely detest him.

After a few more minutes of walking we finally arrived at the smith, and when we stepped inside I could smell the fresh forged steel, not to mention the sweat of hard working men. The man in charge—or so it seemed—noticed us rather swiftly and came over to greet us. I was quick to let go of Lord Tywin’s arm. 

“How may I help you today, Lord Hand?” he asked, wiping his hands with a cloth. It seemed Lord Tywin must’ve been here at least once or twice before. Either way, he merely reached into his pocket and handed the smith a small, sealed parchment. When the man finished reading it, he motioned for us to follow. 

We were led through a small door, and from there down a large set of stairs. Our destination was an expansive basement, and I could instantly feel the heat coming from a gigantic fireplace in the middle of the room. There, we found two men working on a rather detailed helmet. When they heard us enter, they turned around and bowed their heads out of respect. 

“My lord, good morning. Thank you for calling upon me. You wished for me to rework a sword, correct?” the bald one confirmed, coming up to us and adjusting the apron around his neck. 

I could hear the distinct accent in his voice, and I wondered which part of Essos he was from. I assumed that he was the smith Lord Tywin had sent for, and that the young man with him was either a son or an apprentice—or perhaps both.

“Yes, that’s correct. However, it is the lady’s sword, not mine. You ought to speak to her about it,” Lord Tywin said, motioning to me and removing my blade from his belt. He handed it to the smith, who took it and examined it quite carefully. The man looked at me and nodded, motioning to follow.

“I did not realize the blade would be quite this large. Would you like me to forge it into two, my lady?” He asked, placing it sideways upon a narrow stone block. The apprentice came over and held it properly while the smith reached for a hammer.

“I was hoping for a sword and two daggers. If it leaves the sword still a bit relatively large, that’s fine. I could use the advantage,” I told him, watching as he slammed down on the current handle and slid it off once it came loose. I suddenly recalled doing the same thing to a man’s sword during the Greyjoy Rebellion, though he had been far less excited about it.

“A sword and two daggers? Are these…” the man trailed off, moving away from my blade and looking around. He picked up three handles—one big and two small—and held them up for me to see. “Are these for you then? One of the men upstairs gave them to me and said they were for a distinguished customer.” 

“Yes, those would be for her. The same man made her armor, they’re meant to match,” Lord Tywin answered, coming up beside me with his hands clasped behind his back. I hadn’t even realized he’d proactively had the handles made, I’d only briefly mentioned wanting to make daggers out of it that once. 

Though, I was grateful for it, as they were just as absolutely breathtaking as my armor. All three of them were ornamented with golden vines, full of thorns, roses, and nightshade. And of course, they were not missing the gorgeous jewels that had been added to my helm. 

“Of course. Very well, a sword and two daggers,” the smith nodded in confirmation, motioning for the boy he was working with to bring the blade over. Lord Tywin and I watched attentively as the two of them placed it down onto a unique table, fire soon enveloping the stone and beginning to melt the steel.

I found myself possessed as I began drifting closer toward it, utterly mesmerized by the sight, but the Hand of the King gripped my wrist. When I turned to look at him, he gave me a knowing look. I only took a step back, sighing out as I observed the steel becoming a sort of molton looking thing. 

“Stay put for a moment, hm? I want to go look at some of the other weapons they have displayed. The king will be in need of a wedding present,” Lord Tywin muttered, to which I only rolled my eyes and nodded. Of course, the second that he went over to the wall to admire the smith’s other work, I moved closer to the table and began asking questions.

“Can you add details to the metal?” I questioned, folding my hands together and looking at the man with eager curiosity. It was Valyrian steel, so I was not sure what could and could not be done to it, but I figured I ought to ask anyway. The worst reply would only be no.

“Yes, but it would have to be small. Did you have something in mind, my lady?” he answered, snapping at the other boy to go and check on Lord Tywin. I smiled, nodding and looking down at the fully melted blade.

“There is a design on my handle, a small berry with star shaped leaves. Could you add that at the base of the blade?” I requested, to which he instantly said ‘of course’. I turned my head at the sound of Lord Tywin’s voice, though I relaxed when I realized he was only speaking to the apprentice. A sudden idea came to mind.

“How fine can you make the details?” 

“As fine as you would like them. What do you desire?”

“It is an odd request, and I know that you’re accustomed to weaponry, but do you think you could take some of the steel and turn it into a ring?” 

“I certainly could.”

“Then please do. I would like to make the ring for the Lord Hand. Do you think you could put the head of a lion at the front, and then a pattern of small roses around the entire thing, just through the middle?” I whispered, hoping it wasn’t too specific a request and simultaneously hoping that Lord Tywin was busy contemplating Joffrey’s wedding present. The smith smiled and nodded.

“Of course, my lady. I will keep some of the metal and forge it later so he does not notice it.”

“Thank you so much. I will pay you extra for it.”

Realizing that Lord Tywin was coming back over, I only smiled and stepped away, though not without meeting his scrutinizing gaze. I wasn’t entirely sure why he’d expected me to stay put in the first place; I was not fond of listening to people, and especially not him.

“You’re quite the burden, Lady (Y/N),” he chided me after a moment, watching the two men now pour the metal into a separate jar and take it to another table. They had already set out the molds for my sword and daggers.

“Oh, and you’re not?” I remarked, raising an eyebrow at him. He did not look at me, but there was a slight amusement on his face. I only shook my head, deciding to focus on the molten metal as they poured it into the molds. 

It was practically flaming, with red and orange embers sizzling off due to the sheer temperature. I’d never seen a more beautiful sight, and my mouth fell open involuntarily. That steel was to be mine; I could hardly comprehend it.

Once it began to harden, I saw the smith forming the design I’d requested at the base of it, much to my satisfaction. Lord Tywin placed a hand on my upper back, and when I turned my head to look up at him, he gave a subtle smile.

“Are you going to name the daggers too?” he questioned after a moment, watching as they subjected the metal to a rather interesting cooling process. Gods, Valyrian steel was gorgeous. 

“I ought to,” I agreed, trying to think of what I could possibly call them. The names should fit together, for they would be matching daggers besides the slight variation in jewels. That was how I could tell them apart, though. “Perhaps- Perhaps I’ll call them Thorn and Claw. Even if it is rather unoriginal, at least my brother will feel his suggestion has been honored.”

“After you spent so much time criticizing the name Ice.” Lord Tywin shook his head at me, and I smacked his arm with the back of my hand, laughing at his lecturing. What did he expect? Flowers only have so many sharp components, after all. I supposed it did make me a bit hypocritical, but I could live with that.

“If you’re going to be mean about it, I’m more than happy to change Claw to something else,” I shot back, having chosen the name as a small reference to him, or House Lannister at any rate. Plus, it did sound rather intimidating. 

“I’m not being mean, Lady (Y/N).”

“Ahuh.”

I’d been so busy bickering with Lord Tywin, that by the time we’d ended our small discussion the smith and his apprentice were approaching us with the freshly forged blades, already attached to their handles. When they handed the sword to me, my mouth fell open once again.

It was breathtaking, and I was instantly approaching the fire so that I might see it better. The thing practically had my name written all over it, and I was utterly ecstatic. Side Splitter was the best thing I’d ever had the privilege of owning, and I was quite certain that among all the ancestral Valyrian steel in Westeros, this was the most beautiful of them all. 

When Lord Tywin came up to me and presented the daggers, I felt even happier. I took one in my hand and found that the weight of it was utterly perfect, just as my sword was. Tears had begun to fill my eyes, and I was smiling when they rolled onto my cheeks. The Lord Hand wiped them away.

“Are you satisfied with them?” he questioned softly, also admiring the blade in my hands. I instantly nodded, sniffling and sighing out with content.

“More than. They’re beautiful, Tywin. Utterly beautiful,” I whispered, so preoccupied with them that I hadn’t even noticed myself using his first name alone. He shifted beside me, but did not remark about it. 

“I’m glad that you’re happy with them.” He turned around then, approaching the smith again and reaching into his pocket. When he removed his hand, I saw a decent sized pouch of gold and realized that he intended to pay for it himself.

“Lord Tywin- my lord, that’s quite alright, I can cover the cost,” I attempted to interrupt, placing my sword down on another table and then rushing over to them. The Great Lion only shook his head.

“I will cover it. I have the gold on hand,” he noted, then thanking the smith and receiving a small bag and wrap to safely keep the daggers in. I sighed, shaking my head and going back to get the sword. Lord Tywin followed knowingly and sheathed it when I handed it to him.

“We will discuss this outside, Lord Tywin,” I muttered, to which he only grumbled in response. We both gave the smith and his apprentice another genuine ‘thank you’ before leaving, and I subtly confirmed that I would pay them more for the ring later on. From there, we went back upstairs and then out of the establishment. 

“I’ll pay you back whatever sum you gave the man, and you’re not going to argue with me about it,” I said once we were on the street. Lord Tywin did not even bother to meet my eyes.

“There is no need.”

“It is my sword, I ought to repay the debt-”

“It’s not a debt, Lady (Y/N), it is a gift.”

That was all he said before offering me his arm. My previously annoyed glance dissipated, and my face softened as I took it. The small fluttering in my stomach was a strange sensation, and I found myself wondering if perhaps I had not eaten enough at breakfast. It was of no importance, I was certain that grandmother would have lemon cakes and cheese ready in the gardens. 

What was of importance, however, was the fact that I had just cemented this sword as part of my legacy. It would be passed on through the generations, but it would never lose the distinct design of nightshade. It would never lose me. Because family lines die out, and ink fades away, but Valyrian steel never rusts. 

—————

“Let her in!”

I was standing outside the Hand’s chambers, and after being announced, that was the prompt response I’d heard through the thick double doors. The Lannister guards reached to open it, and I stepped inside the office with a small box behind my back. Lord Tywin only looked up at me from his desk once the door was closed. 

“Close your eyes, Lord Tywin,” I said, making my way into the room and closer to him. He gave me a rather annoyed look, for I was sure he did not appreciate being interrupted in the middle of his work. I couldn’t have cared less.

“Why?”

“Just trust me,” I told him, smiling as he sighed and leaned back in his chair, eyes now shut. I made my way past the rather long table and over to his actual office space, observing the room as I did, for I hadn’t really spent any time in the Tower of the Hand before. 

I couldn’t help but let out a soft giggle as I placed the small box on his desk, and I watched his eyebrow raise at the sound of it even though his eyelids were shut. It was very amusing to see him like this.

“May I open them now?” he asked after a moment, to which I nodded. Of course, I then remembered he couldn’t see me and gave the verbal ‘go ahead’. 

Slowly, he opened his eyes, blinking a few times and then realizing there was now a box on his desk. He reached for it carefully, as if asking for permission, and I motioned for him to open it. 

Gently, Lord Tywin took it in his hands and pulled the lid off. Inside, he found the Valyrian steel ring—just as I had instructed it be made—surrounded by cotton to keep it safe. Not that Valyrian steel needed to be kept safe, but still, it prevented it from rolling around. 

I watched his mouth fall open, a true and genuine shock overcoming him. It surprised me, for Tywin Lannister did not gape. It filled me with quite a lot of joy to know I had made him do so.

“(Y/N)…” 

That was the only thing he could mutter, and it made my cheeks heat. Lord Tywin had never only used my first name. I wished more than anything to know what thoughts were running through his head.

“Try it on. It should fit, but just to make sure,” I prompted, smiling as he lifted it from the box and slid it onto his fourth finger. He had placed it onto his left hand, for his right already had a poison ring on his middle finger, and I assumed he did not want the weight to be uncomfortable. But most importantly, the Valyrian steel ring fit perfectly on his hand, and he couldn’t stop staring at it.

For a moment I wondered if I’d sent Lord Tywin into shock, because he hadn’t said anything other than my name, but he suddenly inhaled and stood from his chair. He took my hands in his, his eyes desperately searching mine.

“You stupid, stupid girl. Why would you bother making me a ring out of Valyrian steel?” He asked, raising one hand to my cheek. My lips parted, and I found myself stuttering as I spoke. There was that odd fluttering again.

“I- I wanted you to have it, Lord Tywin. I had excess steel, and it’ll serve as a good reminder of our… our alliance. Our friendship,” I replied, swallowing. His eyes stared deep into mine, and I saw something change on his face. His hand dropped from my face, and he nodded as he once again admired the ring.

“Thank you, Lady (Y/N). Thank you very much.”

At that moment, I had no clue that whenever he was stressed, upset, or angry, Lord Tywin would end up rubbing his thumb on that ring to soothe himself. I had no idea he would end up grazing the lion's head against his lips when contemplating. But, most importantly, I had no clue that when he was lying awake tonight, the ring I’d given him would make him settle on a rather harsh decision. One that would make both of us realize something that we had initially believed to be utterly unthinkable. 

TAGLIST:

@cheyxfu @lemonscoffee @groovy-lady 

@ladysindar @vesta-ro @exo-nova @paola-carter

@prettykinkysoul 

@fullmoonshadowwrites @kishie8 

@the-desilittle-bird @dianilaws @girlonfireice 

@muscari-fae @lostgirllulu 

@abigfanofgameofthrones @smalltownbigheart 

@frombloodandflesh @supernaturalismyreligion666

@thanyatargaryen @rey26 @hexandale @pkawaiidesu5394 @aimsro @gbatesx @lockleysgrl

[farfromstrange]

Foreigner's God: Chapter 1

Main Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x OFC

Chapter Summary: Thanks to Matt Murdock, Eliza Bennett isn’t going to jail – but who exactly is daredevil and why did this infuriating person in a kid's costume have to get involved in her business in the first place? To her, learning that daredevil is truly a pain in the ass isn't all that surprising, yet the self-acclaimed vigilante always knows how to add one on top and she's really not having it. Teaming up with an Avenger, why would he ever do such a thing?

Warnings: ANGST, mentions of mental illness, therapy, canon typical violence, Tony Stark being an asshole

Word Count: 20k

Read Chapter 1: I Did Something Bad here on AO3.

We make our decisions based on personal judgment. Sometimes we hit the nail right on the end, sometimes we involuntarily drive off the road and make the worst decisions there could be. The whole process of making bad decisions is what makes us human. We wouldn’t be functioning members of society if our judgment wasn’t off every once in a while. No human is ever without flaws. 

The whole point of life is to learn from your mistakes and never make the same ones again. 

Though there are times you come face to face with yourself, perhaps in the slightly runny reflection of the one-way mirror in a police station, and find yourself asking ‘Where the fuck did I go wrong?’ 

Eliza Bennett was many things. She was smart, sophisticated, and at times incredibly reckless, but she drew the line at admitting mistakes where she saw none. She believed she did the right thing and if someone had asked her if she regretted what she’d done to lead her into this compromising position, she would’ve said no; she knew, for a fact, that she would’ve made the same decision all over again. 

“I’ve been struggling with questions of identity as of late.”

Her voice sounded like a needle on the ground of an empty and silent room with high walls and linoleum floors. Drop, ping, echo. Her leg bounced in the same rhythm, chasing at least some form of control over the way the world spun around her. Nails dug into the fabric of her jeans, pulling at the scratches and the holes. Her fingers found anything and everything she could touch or hold onto, keep her mind occupied beyond compare. With enough to do, there was hardly any time to think about anything else. 

“I used to like who I was,” Eliza said. “It’s not every day you’re given a second chance. You gotta honor it, right?” 

The echo grew so loud, that she felt it vibrating in the darkest depths of her chest. It ran a marathon against the beating of her heart, a steady thudding against the bones of her ribs.

The world was so loud. It screamed at her for no apparent reason. Her own body conspired against her. Cold sweat down her spine, itching in her bones, her skin on fire although she was seemingly freezing – it was the middle of summer. Not only did the world collapse but so did her sanity, slowly but steadily, and she sensed a pattern that kept her on edge. 

“I thought I had it all figured. I lost myself, but I put myself together again. I had the choice to make my life the way I wanted it to be, and I thought I made the right choice in getting where I am now. I thought…”

She thought - that was the problem. 

It was always just a thought. Her mind could carry loads of information at once, like a supercomputer at high speed, but she never truly knew anything. Strains of words in her mind built into made-up stories to make her keep going. She wasn’t sure if the world lied to her or if she was constantly lying to the world to hide the truth from herself. The lines blurred into the void of missing knowledge. 

“There’s this emptiness inside me, Mrs. Darcy,” her breath circled and retreated into her lungs. “It’s like there’s a hole in my soul and no matter how hard I try, I can’t fill it,” she said. “Whatever connection to reality I had is just… it’s gone. You know, I like knowledge. I like knowing a lot of things, it keeps me on top of my game, but this- I know nothing about myself and it’s scaring me shitless.”

The woman before her tapped her pen steadily against the notebook. Tap, tap, tap. It was almost as loud as the sound of her voice. Her head tilted a curious way. 

Most people listen without listening. It’s a natural phenomenon. They hear the words thrown at them and they pretend to understand, but they don’t. They only listen to make themselves feel less bad. Oh, this person has it worse than me, maybe I’m not such a failure after all. It's the mentality most people go through life with and it’s harmful, but like bad decision-making, it’s just human nature. 

Mrs. Darcy shifted in the armchair. “If I may say something,” she said. “I can’t tell you who you are or who you’re supposed to be. I can only show you who you are to everyone else. Your name is Eliza Bennett. You’re the girl who has devoted her life to saving and protecting people to seek penance for what she’s done in the past.”

 “What, so that makes me the hero?” She scoffed pathetically, thumbnail between her front teeth. She detested the taste of the wasted bone, but once again the sensation offered a welcomed distraction. 

Eliza sat with her legs crossed on the leather sofa. Her heart kept beating. Thud, thud, thud, and the sound kept getting louder, thud, thud, thud. Infuriating. Enough to throw an already agitated person into the pit of insanity. 

“You are who you want to be,” Mrs. Darcy corrected her. “But there’s a lot more to you than you let yourself believe. I think you have to differentiate between the facts that you’re missing and the real person you are inside. It’s important to know what you’re truly looking for. Facts can be found if you give it some more time and thought,” she said. “You, however, that is something you can’t find solely with knowledge. You don’t need the facts at all. The person you’re looking for is merely words on paper. I know it matters to you, but that’s not what’s going to fill the hole inside of you. Not at all.”

She hated to admit it, but the woman had a point. She had been in the business of receiving therapy for quite some time now; Eliza never once considered it a pleasure to talk to Mrs. Darcy about her deepest darkest secrets, though the woman was always onto something. After all this time, she knew what words she could trust.

“You have to find your inner self by working with yourself. Do you understand what I mean?”

”I-“ she huffed. Her chest closed around the oxygen, holding it hostage. Even her throat swelled up, dry and burning like wildfire. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe, but I don’t know.” 

She knew. Somehow, she always knew. The realization was the hardest part. Applying the words to reality – that’s where things got tricky. So perhaps, Eliza didn’t understand the weight of her words after all. 

She picked at her chapped nails. Eye contact is hard, especially when your throat feels like it’s blocked by tons of cement and you can see your emotion reflect in the other person’s eyes. 

If only she could manipulate her state of mind, the whirlwind of feelings inside, the ones that made breathing so much harder than it should be, she was sure she would’ve been somewhere in the Bahamas by then, sipping juice straight from the coconut while the world around her laid in shambles, but she wouldn’t care because she’d know everything. She’d be aware of herself and learn not to care so much. For once in her miserable life, she wanted to deserve happiness. She wanted to go to the Bahamas and drink coconut water even though she hated coconuts. She wanted to be one of those happy people in the commercials. Just for once, she wanted to win. 

“It feels like there’s this little girl inside of me and that girl – she’s never heard of Eliza Bennett,” she said then, head in the clouds, voice so far away. “Total stranger. That little girl looks so much like me; I even dream about her sometimes.”

All the time.

”It’s humiliating, haunting even. She’s like those children in the horror movies Thor always wanted to watch. I feel unsettled. My inner child is terrifying as shit. Is that- do you think that’s normal?"

“I see,” - Mrs. Darcy adjusted her glasses - “Since your friends left, the hole where the girl lives has had the chance to grow. She’s had enough people to nurture and care for her,” of course, she gave the scientific answer. “They protected her, protected you. The girl didn’t have to grow up or understand much because you weren’t alone,” she said. “Now everyone’s gone and the girl is faced with what it means to lead an independent life. It scares her. Why wouldn’t it? She’s never had the chance to grow up - she doesn’t know who she is. In your case, it’s even more severe because you’ve been ripped out of the life you knew, tossed into a new one and now you’ve also been evicted from that life. The girl inside of you is a stranger to consistency.”

”Well, the last part’s true,” Eliza murmured under her very relieved breath when her lungs opened up again, finally.

“The girl inside of you feels lonely, that’s why you can’t stop thinking about her. She wants to find something that makes her life worthy again. She seeks a purpose. It’s what’s been bothering you.”

She pressed her palms into her red, swollen eye sockets. “There’s so much I don’t know,” she almost cried. Only almost. “I’ve tried to ignore that something is missing, but I can’t do that anymore. I don’t know who this little girl is and part of me doesn’t even want to explore the options, but I know I’m more than the name I was given at SHIELD. I have to be more than that, you know? Because… if I’m not more than the person I’ve grown to be up to this point, I don’t know what to do. If I’m not more then chances are that I am nothing at all.”

And if she was nothing, she had to be something in between, dark grey matter floating around the universe. 

The only way to prevent losing herself completely was to figure out who she was. She had to be someone. She had to be a person. 

Who was Eliza Bennett, really?

✧

“Question of the day!” 

She turned with a frown on her face, “What?”

“Crossword puzzle.” Happy Hogan lifted the newspaper in his hands. “You alright?” he asked, more serious this time. “What’d you think I was gonna ask?” 

“Oh, nothing. It’s nothing. I’m fine,” she said. Lies, blatant lies. She sat on top of a tower of lies. Only a question of time until everyone would come crashing down and take her with them.

“Hit me with it.” She tried her best to smile. 

Happy eyed her suspiciously, but he chose to believe it. Crisis averted.

“What is an eight-letter word meaning ‘one who works with or controls some machine or scientific apparatus’?” he asked. 

Eliza answered without missing a beat, “Tony Stark.”

He counted in his head. “That’s nine letters.”

She kept cutting the fruit in front of her. “Iron Man.”

“Seriously, you forget how to count?”

”I was never good at math.”

“Well, you write systems.”

”That statement is wrong on so many levels,” she said. “It’s called programming. I write code. Not like Tony, I admit, but I write code and that code isn’t all too bad. Sure, it’s math but c’mon! You think I stand here and count letters while my fruit is melting?” 

He exhaled loudly. “You’re right,” he hummed. “It’s just eight letters. I’ll get it.”

Eliza smiled. She dropped the last pieces into the blender. “That’s my man!”

“But just to clarify, you don’t have any constructive suggestions to spare, or-“

A grin crept to her lips. He opened his mouth to speak, but the loud whirring of the blender cut him off. 

Eliza poured the smoothie into two separate glasses, whistling to the tune of a song stuck in her head. Happy’s head hung low like that of a kicked puppy. 

She chose to have mercy on him. “Operator,” she stated. 

“What?” he asked.

“Eight letter word. Operator.”

Happy counted the boxes in the newspaper. He bumped his fist. “Yes!”

“You’re welcome.” She slid one of the glasses over at him. 

“Thanks.”

“Operator,” she repeated with a smoothie in hand. “Operator. How did you not know Operator?”

“Sometimes the easiest answers are the hardest to find.”

She snorted at his desperate attempt to redeem himself. “Yeah, right.”

The compound was lifeless. She wasn’t used to the silence, the emptiness of the huge space. The rooms were all unoccupied - no more pictures in the living room or labeled groceries in the fridge. It all landed in the trash, shipped away to be composted because no one was going to eat it. Life as she knew it had passed away, a boat on a stormy sea; life was never going to be the same as it was.

After work, Eliza walked home. She insisted on transporting herself from one end of the city to the other. She took whatever subway halted closest to her apartment in Hell’s Kitchen - she insisted on moving to the less privileged part of the city, even though Tony wasn’t happy about it - and the rest she simply traveled by foot. She cherished the small moments of silence, the wind in her hair, a reminder that she was still alive and breathing the fresh (polluted) air. 

No souls on the streets that night. Something was lurking in the atmosphere. She smelled the danger from miles away. She was about to round a particularly dark corner of town when she caught some voices in the dark.

“Are you sure she’s the right person?” the man spoke clear Russian. 

“Boss wants her father,” the other said. He knows we have her, he’s gonna come around.”

“What’s with that guy anyway?”

“I don’t know, I don’t care. As long as I’m getting paid. That guy wants something, he gets it. He gets what he wants, I get paid. Simple. No questions asked.”

Eliza dared to peek around the corner. Two men parked in front of an abandoned store. 

“Don’t do it,” she told herself. “Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t do it.”

The door to the store opened. The men carried a large wooden crate. One of them opened the back of the white van. Small whimpers sounded from the vehicle, no longer muffled by the doors. 

She clenched her teeth. “I’m gonna do it.”

Eliza saw every person enclosed in different colors. She called it the emotional color wheel, although the colors mixed most of the time and it barely made sense to describe them. Colors only provided symbols - what mattered was the way it felt.  Reality existed of mixed shades toppling over each other in a fiery battle to dominate – shades of whatever emotional category a human being fell in on the wheel; it was excruciating, let alone painful to the eyes. Whenever she closed her eyes, she stood in the same red wasteland with sand at her feet, hot and merciless burning the way in the right direction. With enough concentration, she could track the hues like she tracked emotions. Every person felt different. Their realities looked different. She didn’t want to look into the realities of other people, the truth behind the color wheel, and she tried to swallow it most of the time, but her powers were always there, itching in her fingers. 

The van dragged green wind through the desert. Eliza had to follow the string to the point where it stopped moving. Her heart rutted against her ribcage with uneasiness. The fear lingering in the air caused sweat to run from her forehead in cold drizzles. The woman was burning green, so green, and with the red from her anger she appeared almost yellow.

A Series of pictures danced in the scarlet smoke like snow in a snow globe. The van on its way through Hell’s Kitchen determined to head in one direction and one direction only. She saw it clearly before her eyes. Her body followed where her mind led her to. 

Somewhere in Hell’s Kitchen, the van slowed down. The smoke evaporated as Eliza watched it pull up in the back alley of an old butcher shop. She knelt at the ledge, just watching, assessing the situation. Subconsciously, she reached for her ear. Her attempt to activate the earpiece failed miserably since she wasn’t wearing one. There was no one there but herself. She didn’t have a team to back her up. She had to do this alone. 

“Get her inside,” one of the men ordered. "If anyone shows up, kill without hesitation.”

The woman was sobbing by the time they retrieved her from the confinement, out into the cold night air only to pull her back inside the building.

Eliza inhaled the polluted summer air breeze. She closed her eyes, easing herself into the weight of the situation. She tried to see clearly, and focus on what was important instead of what wasn’t. Her lids blew open way too soon, pupils wide, almost swallowing the entirety of her iris in its blackness. The hairs on the back of her neck flew up to full attention. A shiver went down her spine.

She slipped the knife from her mom-jeans. Before she could turn though, an experienced arm went around her shoulders, the other quickly under her armpit, and he twisted her arm to the side. She was trapped. 

“Don’t move,” the low voice said into her ear. “Put the knife down.”

Something told her he expected her to be scared of him. A strange man in the dark of the night, seizing her like an evil spawn. 

Eliza relaxed. Her fingers eased around the handle. 

He breathed hotly against her cold skin. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Eliza relaxed her muscles as if giving in. His gloved hands on her body slacked, sure she wouldn't make another attempt. Her breath was dangerously calm. He fell right into the trap.

She brought her head back with full force. Something plastic dug into the back of her skull. She was smaller than him, yet her head carried more force than a normal human was capable of possessing, and after feeling the sting of the plastic, she was sure she broke whatever he was wearing on his head. 

The man took a moment to stabilize. Eliza turned around, another knife in hand, but he had it slip out of her fingers before she could act on her silent threat to impale him. She threw a balled fist at him, though he managed to dodge the attempt once again.

With a dissatisfied grunt, she searched for the third knife in her boot. When he tried to knock it off her hands, she flipped it up into the air. One hand extended to grab her, but he wasn’t prepared for the next move. She caught the knife with the other hand and launched it at him. 

The blade slid dangerously close to his stubbled throat. She only missed by millimeters, at best. The cold metal grazed his skin, not enough to draw blood but enough for him to feel it. 

Her wrists burned before she felt the impact. Hard, red metal hit the bone of the wrist that was holding the knife. She cried out. Her hand contracted and she had to drop the knife to shake it off. 

If she’d worn a mask, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. The metal rod hit her across the cheek. She slowed down, lucky to have ditched most of the impact - it wouldn’t have left a black eye, although the skin almost tore. 

“Motherf-” she kicked him in the chest.

He hit the wall behind them. 

Eliza pressed her elbow to his throat. She almost managed to look him up and down if he hadn't figured out how to use their height difference. With one easy move, he had her arm twisted around and pushed her into the hard brick wall instead. 

“Listen to me!” he said. She fought hard against his grip. “Listen!" he shook her. "I’m not trying to hurt you, but if you keep throwing knives at me so help me God! I'm gonna make you regret ever crawling out of bed this morning. Understood?"

She huffed. 

“Are we clear?”

Eliza shot her leg up, “Fuck you!” She kicked him so hard, that she finally drew a pained sound from him. 

“What is wrong with you?” he tried desperately. “Whoever you think I am, you’re wrong. I’m not one of them! Those guys kidnapped an innocent woman. They’re most likely going to kill her. I’m not with them.”  

“Go to hell!” she kicked him further into the moonlight. 

“Stop!” his voice roared. 

Eliza balled her fists. The moonlight fell on his face. It reflected off the pair of red eyes, the plastic of the mask that covered only half his face. Two horns – they looked like ears – stood at full attention. The rest of his body was tightly wrapped in a leather suit. 

“We’re on the same side. C’mon.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”  

He was still crouched from the hard blow she’d given him. Upon her pulling back, he rose back into an upright position. His lip twitched in a hiss of pain. “Thank you,” he said. 

Eliza stood across from the vigilante in her mom jeans, Dr. Martens, and a hoodie, looking all like she didn’t have any business being there. Judging by looks, she did not fit the picture.

“Daredevil,” she stated. “Huge fan.”

He scoffed, hand pressed to his bruised ribs. “Yeah, you definitely showed your gratitude.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for being a little wary of strange men attacking me in the middle of the night.”

“Alright.” He straightened up. “It's not my fault you decided to come here the same time I did. I don't care. I have better things to do than pick fights with curious girls on rooftops."

“So it’s my fault? At least I don’t look like I raided the Halloween section at Walmart.”

“What?”

“What?”

Daredevil sighed. “If you’re done,” he said, “there’s a woman in danger down there. She needs help. I’m not gonna let some kid stop me from doing what I came here to do.”

“Kid?” Eliza screeched. “That’s the most offensive thing I’ve ever heard. Honestly, you’re an asshole!”

“You act pretty immature.”

“Fuck you!”

“Case in point.”

Her hand tensed around the knife hidden in the back of her pants, knuckles white. 

Daredevil sighed wearily. “Don’t,” he said. 

“What?” she challenged. 

“Drop the knife before I tie your hands together. And believe me, I will. I’m not letting you kill that woman.”

“I’m not the one trying to kill her!”

“By wasting my time you might as well be. Look, this is dangerous. You could get yourself hurt or worse, you could get killed. Go home.”

She pulled the knife anyway. Her face reflected off the clean metal, sharp and glistening in the moonlight. “No,” she answered plainly. 

“Put the knife down,” he said. 

“No. Like you, I’ve got a job to do. Except I actually know what I’m doing. I don’t give some stupid hero speech, I usually just do it. You’re not special, Daredevil. You’re an amateur. You make mistakes.”

He laughed. It was dark, not genuine. Burning red. “You don’t take this seriously, do you? Wannabe hero, looking for a story, huh? Is that it?” The sour tone in his voice poisoned her eardrums. “Telling me to fuck myself while you’ve done nothing but try to kill me in the five minutes we’ve been up here. That’s not what heroes do. You’re too young to understand any of this. You shouldn’t be here, I’m not going to argue with you on this.”

“I’m old enough to cut out your heart and serve it on a silver platter,” she said. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he cooed, his words dripped with sweet, bittersweet venom. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Don’t tempt me.” Eliza pointed the knife at him. 

“Do you ever just shut up?”

“I do when the other person deserves my attention.”

“It’s dangerous out here. You should be at home, lock your doors and make sure you’re not getting yourself in danger. If it hadn’t been me up here in the middle of the night, some other man might’ve been and he wouldn’t have been so kind. There’s a lot of bad guys out there who would lick their fingers if they ever saw a girl like you walking the streets alone at night.”

Eliza snorted. “You act like you have some kind of control over me,” she said. 

“I just want to protect you, that’s all. Although you seem to have enough knives up your sleeve to protect yourself, I doubt that would prevent a rapist from getting what he wants.”

“I know about the monsters lurking in the dark. I’ve seen them, I’ve fought them. I’ve seen the worst of the worst and I am still standing here. So no, I’m not going home. I’m not scared of you, Daredevil. To get rid of me, you’d have to throw me off this roof until my fucking neck snaps.”

Unlike the criminals he beat up in the darkest corners of the Kitchen, his fists had nothing on her. She wasn’t scared of the red eyes staring at her through the mask. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was just an ordinary man in a mask. He wore the name and the horns of the devil; he embodied the fallen angel from the bible. He strove to serve the justice the police failed to enforce. Daredevil thirsted for blood. 

“Don’t tempt me,” - he shifted his stance so his shoulders seemed broader in the soft moonlight shining down on him, looming above her as if it changed anything - “Wouldn’t be the first time I put a man in a coma.”

“Fortunately, I’m not a man,” she said matter-of-factly. “I don’t break as easily as the supposed superior sex.”

He lowered his head, chuckling. “You think you’re that good, huh?” he said. 

“You wouldn’t treat me like that if I were a man,” Eliza stated plainly, voice flat. “It might come as a surprise to you but not everyone in Hell’s Kitchen is afraid of you.”

Daredevil was only human. Blood ran through his veins. Even as the moonlight reflected off his dead, red eyes, the pink flush of his squished cheeks gave him away. Colors danced around him like wildfire. His soul was caged. Perhaps this was the reason why all she could see was black, and upon further inspection, she felt nothing but angry emptiness tearing apart his chest. 

“The devil is a strange symbol for the service of justice.” 

He tilted his head. 

“Lucifer, the fallen angel banished by god because of his pride. He wanted the world, instead, he drove to hell in a Cadillac,” she said. 

He scoffed eventually, the heat of his breath condensing the cold air. “Didn’t your parents teach you not to pick fights with strangers?” he asked. 

Eliza stared blankly. “My parents are dead.”

The words died on his tongue. 

“Now, are you gonna continue to stand in my way? Because I’ve got a job to do.”

“It’s not your job,” he found his voice again. “It’s mine.”

“I found her first,” she retorted. 

“This isn’t a competition! I don’t want to hurt you, but if throwing you off this roof will solve my problem, I’ll do it.”

“I’m not a child who needs condescending. I’m a grown woman with a purpose and you’re screwing it up!  You don’t know shit about me, okay? You’re just another guy in spandex wanting to save the world. You go home, we already have Spider-Man.”

She figured he raised his eyebrows. “Where is he then?” Daredevil asked. “Where is Spider-Man?”

Eliza didn’t expect him to ask. “He’s out saving Brooklyn or whatever. It’s- it's complicated. Doesn’t matter. My point is,” she said, “we don’t need hundreds of vigilantes running around claiming parts of New York City only to lash out because someone can’t control his anger issues.”

“Are you even listening to yourself?”

“Oh, I am. I’m pretty fond of the sound of my voice, actually.”

“God,” his voice roared, drenched in the pure essence of frustration. “I’m the only one who cares about what’s happening in this city! People are getting hurt every night and no one cares. No one, not even the police. The people who’ve sworn to protect us fail the people of Hell’s Kitchen every damn night and no one seems to care about it. No one cares that people die, people disappear and children get taken away. No one cares but me! I’m the only one in this god-forsaken city who doesn’t sit back and lets rich people and criminals ruin everything and everyone in their wake. I took an oath,” he said. “I took an oath to do whatever it takes to keep this city safe. And I will stand by it, no matter what happens.”

She scoffed. “Touching. You rehearse that speech, or does it just come naturally?” 

It wasn’t the fact that he was a vigilante dressed in spandex that angered her, not even the fact that he was trying to ruin her plan, but rather that he was right. The reasoning didn’t make sense, not even to her, why she seemed so agitated and rude at something she genuinely believed in too, but there was just something about him that rubbed her the wrong way. 

His heart was set right. He was genuine and he threw fists with a purpose. Some time ago, she had joked with Natasha about the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. She had taken him for a man seeking attention, waiting for the public to build a statue for him. She had found him ridiculous. The truth behind Daredevil suddenly appeared so much bigger than the jokes Eliza had built her opinion around.

You shouldn’t judge people on a whim. If you don’t know them, don’t blame them. Being an Avenger had given her some sort of god complex - anyone else trying to be a hero had instantly gone to her naughty list when in fact, she was the one who should’ve been put on there. Who was she to judge if someone was a hero or not? She failed, as did everyone else in her close vicinity. At least vigilantes got the job done without killing hundreds of people in the process. 

Her shoulders slacked. She shouldn’t have yelled at him. She really shouldn’t have been rude. He was just a person. An annoying person, that she stood by, but a person nonetheless, and he was trying to do the right thing. 

Though looking at him again reignited the fire inside her chest and whatever she had just made her mind up about landed back in the trash. 

“Screw him,” she thought. “Screw Daredevil.”

She would rather scratch her eyes out than work with him. 

“Has anyone ever told you that your anger is disproportional to your size?” he asked. 

Eliza licked her lips. Dangerous territory. “No one’s been stupid enough to say it to my face,” she said. “Until now.”

What had she said about him being genuine? The anger suffocated every last bit of gratitude underneath a pile of rocks. 

“Of course. Look, it’s my job to protect this city. I’m not leaving. If you know what’s good for you, you stop pushing your luck.”

The lower part of his face was infuriating. He smirked like the cocky bastard he was; she wanted to scratch the skin off his face and feed it to the dogs.

“You think so highly of yourself, it’s ridiculous.” It was her turn to smirk and she did it broad enough for him to see. She hoped it burned into his brain like hot iron. “I’m not letting you ruin this for me.“

“What?”

Eliza raised her hands. The smoke came back to dance choreography around her fingers. 

“I’m sorry,” - she let the smoke rise - “but this one’s mine!”

The sensation was different than a punch. Energy surged through him, pushing him back in one fast wave, almost like he was floating. The ball hit him in the chest, hard, and it carried him into the door set in the middle of the rooftop, leading into a stairway down the building. Heavy as he was, his figure disappeared down the stairs. Thuds followed until he was too far down to care.

Eliza stretched her fingers. The red in her eyes persisted. 

“Nothing personal.”

She jumped over the ledge of the rooftop to the neighboring building. The door to the butcher shop was locked with a deadbolt - without thinking twice about it, she kicked it in.

Two guards stood in the hallway below. Their loud breathing gave them away. With a big leap, she jumped down the stairway. The floor made a loud thud as she landed, one knee bent, the other stretched to the side, weight carried by the hand. 

“Does anyone know where the exit is?” she asked.

They exchanged looks.

“What, you don’t know? Bummer.”

The guns were easily loaded with the flick of a finger. Eliza buried her knife in one of the men’s shoulders. She proceeded to kick the other with the hard top of her boots. His arms flew forward and she caught the gun. The second kick landed in his chest, flying further into the dark hallway. 

The man on the ground screamed when she removed the knife. Blood between the skin flaps made the metal slip out easier, the sound reminding her of slurping an almost empty milkshake in the booth at a 24/7 diner. 

Neon light broke from the ceiling. Blue mixed with red to make purple inside her irises. She followed the hallway down to a set of metal doors set into the wall to her right. The second set of doors lay behind her, the supply closet. She considered stealing a few of the slaughter supplies, but then again she wasn’t here to kill anyone.

The space before her turned a lot colder. She flinched back at the sudden change of temperature. The door led to the cooler room. Low voices murmured on the other side. Two men guarding the door, colors distorted from the artificial light. The whimpers of the tied woman echoed off the cold tiles. Now and then, metal creaked. It was a heavy sound. 

As Clint Barton once said, vents are the greatest invention known to men. Perhaps he had an unhealthy relationship with the empty spots in the ceiling, but he wasn’t entirely wrong. Vents proved to be useful on many occasions.

Eliza climbed onto the stairway's handrail. The metal was narrow and she already saw herself breaking her neck if she dared to step one inch too far to the side. She wobbled, but the soles of her shoes kept her stable, holding tight onto the rounded metal beneath her feet. The thick stench of death arose from the vents. 

She removed the metal lid quietly. It creaked. The sound was so loud, that it jumped off the walls in a loud echo. She halted, stiff as a board, refusing to breathe in fear someone might come out and check where the excruciatingly high sound came from. Nothing happened. Even after supposedly five minutes of just standing on the handrail, holding the lid incredibly still in her steady hands, nothing happened. 

Eliza exhaled. She searched for something to hold onto, but other than the small metal edge leading inside there was nothing for her fingers to dig in. 

She had a death wish, sure, and dying while fighting was an excellent way to go, but there were a million other ways she’d rather die than in a butcher shop in the middle of the night, right for the police to realize she’d broken in and then her death would’ve been far from heroic. 

As she pushed herself up, Eliza prayed to the vent god Clint Barton that her hands would stick to the metal just long enough to make it into the vent. She flexed her biceps, attached to the metal with all the force she could muster. She stopped breathing. Her knee pressed upwards until her foot replaced her hand, which gave her an advantage. She used her free hand to hoist herself up into the straight tunnel.

She was about fifteen steps from the door. Quietly, she peaked through the holes in the metal lid underneath her thighs. She came face to face with a dead pig hanging ass down from the ceiling. Her eyes widened. At least six of the dead animals could cover her jump. They’d blame it on the air, on the metal moving in a natural rhythm.  

She removed the lid quietly, trying not to make it squeak this time. Breaking her fall by once again sliding one foot to the right and putting all the weight on one knee, she landed almost silently. The pig she came face to face with shook a little more, but other than a small creak from the hook the room stayed quiet. 

“Ugh,” she muttered. “That was disgusting.”

The guards were talking distinctively. Only psychopaths talk about their dinner plans while there was a woman trapped almost right next to them, surrounded by dead animals and heavily armed up to the chin. 

Eliza grabbed one hook and a piece of metal chain.

“What was that?” someone asked. 

She swung it around. 

A gun cocked. “Who’s there?” 

Once the chain was fast enough, she swung it over the ground. It wrapped around the American guy’s ankles, pulling him down. 

Eliza tossed the hook next. It penetrated the Russian’s eyeball. He screamed. Blood squirted from his flesh against the skinned pig across from him. He dropped his gun.

She slid through. He tried to reach for his gun, but she sat down on his leg, tossing the weapon from his hands. She fisted a handful of his hair and pulled him between her thighs where she locked them around his throat, choking him.

The man kept scratching at her thigh. Eventually, he slouched. His breaths came strangled. Only then did she let go of him.

His partner (she didn't want to call him a friend) recovered quickly from the shock. He tried to get out of the chain around his feet. Eliza met his eyes. “Do me a favor,” she said. “Don’t do that.”

His scream echoed off the walls. The red - still purple-looking - smoke carried him up, chains attached to the ceiling. They wrapped around one of the empty hooks. His bloodshot to his head as he hung there, upside down.

“Mikhail!” a voice shouted from the other side of the room. His steps came closer. “Mikhail, what’s going on? ”

“Mikhail just lost an eye,” Eliza answered casually.

Another set of steps seemed to follow. She used the hanging body as a carousel. She grabbed him by the legs and spun around. The pig she hit landed right into someone’s chest. 

She was on her knees then, turning on them, using the slippery floor as leverage. He looked around, searching for her. She punched him in the balls. He crumbled. She took his gun. It was easy.

Moving into a handstand, she flicked around. The move was risky, but she managed to get her thighs around his lowered head and claw herself onto him. His face was against her stomach now. She knocked her elbows against his scalp. Once, twice, three times. The bone cracked.

The man she knocked over with the pig was suddenly on his knees again. She saw him when it was already too late. He had a knife pulled from his pants and slid it across her thigh. 

The back of her head smashed into the cold tiles. She tried to keep her thighs around his head, but he punched her stomach - reflexes made her pull back, and curl in on herself. The skin on her forehead ripped, she felt it in every nerve of her body. Hot blood shot through the cut. Head wounds always bleed more than they should. It made her dizzy, and unfocused. Even with excessive blinking, it was almost too late when she regained self-control.

The knife hovered above her again. Whoever was wielding it worked with precision, determined to land the blade where he wanted it. He brought it down. Eliza rolled over in the last second, dodging the knife only by mere inches, and jumped back on her feet. She punched the man straight across the face. Another one to the side, foot to the stomach, and then his knife landed in his collarbone. The bone parted loud, cracking. She swore the blade bend right through.

Her victim’s partner screamed. Surprised, he stood with his head to the side for a second too long. She placed both hands on either side of his head. The veins in his body glowed red. He couldn’t scream, the pain paralyzed him. His mouth stayed open. She squeezed harder and harder – the power surged through her veins like sweet candy. She needed more, wanted more.

Angry red vanished into fearful green, his aura blinking like an alarm, red electricity guiding his emotions into the areas of his brain where she needed him. His amygdala reacted instantly. The fear paralyzed him. Stop, a voice inside her called. This is not you.

The sound of echo inside the cooler room was immaculate. Still, it didn’t save her from missing one crucial detail. These guys had Soviet-issued rifles and she had only taken out a handful. The fight made too much sound to go unnoticed. She should’ve focused, but she didn’t.

The shot rang out. She visualized the bullet. In slow motion, it flew its course towards her. Invisible sound waves and smoke surrounded the long projectile as it passed through the hanging meat.

Her eyelids fluttered close. 

Almost dying does a lot of things to a person. For some, a near-death experience is eye-opening. For others, almost dying spurs them on to make risky decisions with the explanation that you only live once. And you do, you only have one life to live. When you almost lose that life, it makes you think - it makes you reevaluate your priorities. 

The blow of the pistol knocked some sense back into her. 

It seemed a bit cliché, the pair of strong arms finding their way around her body. He jumped into her and for a second, they became one. Two planets collided, exploding into galaxies of stars, anger and pain, despair and desperation, the need for redemption, and broken faith.

Her lungs burst open. She exhaled loudly, pathetically. 

“Jesus Christ!” Her eyes squeezed in pain, the metaphorical knife cutting through her ribs. She felt his elbow right in her side and it made the pain only worse.

Eliza frowned. “What the hell are you doing here?” she asked.

“Saving your life,” he stated. 

“I thought I knocked you out.”

“Oh sweetheart,” he smirked, “can’t get rid of me that easy.”

“APPARENTLY!”

She rolled them over until she was on top of him. Without a second thought, she reached for the baton in his thigh holster and threw it at the armed man’s head.

Daredevil grunted. “That was mine!”

“You’re welcome.”

Eliza scrambled to her feet. She offered her hand, and he cocked his head. He contemplated. Then, he took her up on her offer.

"Those things hurt, by the way," she said. "I want one."

“Watch out!” he said. He took the second baton on the other side of his suit and hit their next attacker over the head. He landed a punch in his ribs. With the barrel of the gun, he knocked him out for good.

Daredevil casually danced the baton through his gloved fingers.

Eliza rolled her eyes. “Show off.”

Against her expectations, he handed her his second baton. “Try not to kill anyone,” he added then. 

She smirked. “No promises.”

”I’m getting that back after.”

”Probably not.” 

He bit his cheek. “Great. She’s a thief now, too.”

”What did you expect?” she asked and twisted the baton. 

Through the light hint of a smirk, she heard him say, “Go. We’ve got work to do.”

She couldn’t help but laugh a little.  “Maybe not so bad after all,” she told herself. 

The fight happened almost like a choreographed dance routine. Batons were flying around. Shots rang out, but both of them cartwheeled their way through it. They danced to the same rhythm. 

“Get her alive!” one man shouted. “And kill him! ”

Eliza allowed the energy to sizzle between her fingers. It shaped into a tight, hot ball, vibrating with the air in the room. 

The man didn’t see it coming. In this case, literally speaking. She opened her hands gently, the smoke traveling the distance towards the armed guard. She stood in the middle of the room, carrying the power of worlds in her hands. The energy flames reached through his eye sockets into his brain - he didn’t feel it. She grabbed a hold of his perception, twisting it with the reality she wanted him to see.

He walked straight ahead, right through her as the smoke engulfed her and turned her into nothing but a whisk of air. 

“Dude!” the man the voice belonged to stared at the scene before him. He lifted his gun, pointing it at her. “She’s right there,” he said. 

She winked. What was left of the ball shot towards him at twice the speed she used to hit his partner. Gravity tied his limbs to the ground. His veins turned bright red, the blood burning through his skin. The pain ate him whole. His soul started to waste away inside of him, memory after memory taking apart his brain. 

The man had noticed the warning given his way, but she was still nothing but thin air to him. He only saw his partner on his knees, tied together by an invisible string that kept his soul in a chokehold. Pictures flashed in his pupils, a series of moments of the past.

“What’s wrong?” he caught up to him. “Where is she?”

Eliza brought her wrist up. The hold broke. Her presence became visible behind him. He felt her breathing down his neck and the goosebumps that followed went deeper than the chill of the cooler room. She stood behind him, chain in hand, and she tied it like a noose around his neck. 

He gurgled. “Witch!” was all he managed to push out. 

“Sure,” she said. 

He fell to the ground, the chain still tied neatly around his neck. Her eyes switched between him and the other, both helpless and alone on the metal ground. 

Was that pity she felt? A seriously misplaced emotion in the sight of events. She used all the anger left inside of her, channeled it, transformed it into energy, and sent it hurling at them. The pair flew against the wall, tearing a hole through it.

Daredevil was fist fighting to her right when it happened. “What happened?” he asked. 

Even if she wanted to, there was no way to explain what she’d done. 

“Nothing,” her voice sounded eerily calm. 

He nodded. “I’ve got it under control here. Find the woman!”

“Yeah, right. The woman.”

These men didn’t deserve her pity. 

Rounding the last row of slaughtered pigs, she stared right down the barrels of several guns. The woman was guarded by a circle of heavily armed men. One of them stood right next to her, hand on her battered head. He grinned, not even an ounce of fear in his soul.

“Well, well, well,” he said. “What do we have here?”

“I could ask the same question,” Eliza said.  “Then again, I’m not the one with the big guns. They didn’t work, by the way. Nice try though.”

“You have quite the mouth on you.”

“So people keep telling me.”

She was supposed to be afraid, but the adrenaline pumped through her veins like breathing air. Her chest heaved and she tasted copper on her tongue.

“You know, I didn’t think you’d show up after we found out you gave up,” he said.

She tilted her head. “What?”

“The Avengers. Gone.“

“Yeah, shit happens,” Eliza shrugged. “I can’t exactly look away while you’re kidnapping a woman. For what? To get to her father?”

The woman cried out. She’d hit a nerve.

“What does he do? Sell weapons? Drugs? Who are you?”

He laughed. The men still kept their guns on her.

“Why don’t you kill me instead? I’m sure there’s a bounty on my head somewhere.”

“You’re worth much more to us alive,” he said. “I could get paid so much for your surrender, you know that?”

“Thanks?”

He flicked his fingers. “Seize her.”

“Please,” she snorted, “ We were having such a nice conversation. What happened?”

“We don’t have time for a good chat .”

“Oh, so you're on the clock? Interesting. Is your boss gonna join us anytime soon? I’d like to meet him. Maybe he’ll talk to me. I like to talk, you know. You just don’t seem competent enough to keep up with me. No offense. You know how to kidnap and shoot people. That takes a lot of practice. I wouldn’t lose my head over what I said; not everyone can live up to my potential.” 

At this point, Eliza was reaching. She didn’t mean a word coming out of her mouth, and neither did she believe them, but the confidence she gave off put a shield around her. She was stalling for time. 

The man laughed. “You’re special,” he said. “Impressive. I’m impressed. But like I said, I don’t have time to chat with you.”

Shots rang out. For a moment, she couldn’t hear anything behind her. What if Daredevil got hit? It would’ve been her fault.

“Your boss wants her father,” she said, trying hard not to let the worry show. “So you’re waiting for him to get her, is that it? And then you’re gonna blackmail him?”

He only chuckled.

“One question. Did you have to choose a butcher shop?”

The yellow of his teeth broke through his smile. “It’s the best way to hang corpses.”

Daredevil jumped through behind her. He tossed both of his batons at the surprised guards. They dropped to the ground like wet sacks of flour.

Both the man and Eliza followed the movements. “Damn,” he said. “Did you have to knock them out?”

“Give up,” Daredevil said. His voice was low, dangerous. She almost laughed at the way his voice changed.

The man sighed. He pressed a gun to the woman’s head.

“To be fair, I did not see that coming.”

Eliza glared at him. “Seriously?” she said. “I thought you needed her as leverage.”

“Did you really think she would survive this?” he scoffed. “You are stupid and soft.”

“Excuse me?”

Daredevil sighed. He wasn’t used to conversational exchanges. “You don’t have to do this,” he said. “Let the woman go. Hand yourself over to the police. I can make sure you get good legal counseling. It doesn’t have to end like this. No one has died yet. There’s still hope, you just have to trust me.”

Eliza pursed her lips. The laugh of the man was predictable. It was a full belly laugh. He couldn’t believe the words passing his ears and to be honest, neither could she. “Your friend is funny,” he said to her.

“Don’t encourage him,” she warned. “This isn’t gonna end well.”

He sighed. “I want her.” He pointed his gun at Daredevil. “It’s truly nothing personal, she’s just worth so much more to us alive. Can’t even get a piece of chicken for your head.”

“You can’t put a price on life, any life. Not mine, not his, not even hers,” she pointed to the restrained, crying woman. “This isn’t about ethics anymore, this is about you being greedy scum – there’s plenty of things you could be doing that would make you crazy rich, but instead, you come here to kidnap a woman. That’s pathetic. And I’m not gonna let you get away with hurting her, let alone allow you to take me for whatever perverted purpose you want me for.”

Eliza’s hands began to glow. She cocked her head to the side, challenging him. He stared at the smoke around her fingers and the crimson in her eyes.

Until then she believed he wanted her because an Avenger could be easily sold for a lot of money on the right market, but the widening of his eyes wasn’t an act of fear – it was like he saw Jesus for the first time, a legend come true.

“Dear lord!” he whispered. “He didn’t lie.”

“What’d you say?” Daredevil asked.

“He didn’t lie,” she translated for him. “Who didn’t lie?” she directed the question back at the man.

He lowered his gun. “This changes things.”

“Changes them how?”

“Changes a lot of things. God! It’s true.”

“I’m afraid I’m not following.” She played with the electricity. “I’ve got the upper hand here, better tell me what I want to hear before I make you regret ever getting out of bed this morning.”

Daredevil opened his mouth. “Nice,” he said sourly. 

“What?” Eliza smiled innocently. “It’s a good line.”

The man lifted his gun again. “On the edge, you mustn’t lie,” he sang. He actually sang.

She went completely stiff.

“Or the little red demon will come.”

“Stop,” she warned.

“And will nip you and will nip you on the tum, Tug you off into the wood, underneath the willow root.”

Pictures flashed in front of her mental eye. Pain shot through her chest and manifested in her head. The wheels began to turn, to burn, to tear her apart. 

Daredevil carried a confused pout as he cocked his head to listen closely. The words made no sense to him.

“What is he doing?” he asked.

Eliza stared blankly at the man in front of her. She didn’t know what else to do.

“Where did you learn that song?” she asked him.

He grinned again. The gun in his hand moved. He set it to the soft tissue beneath his jaw.

He whispered, “Hail Hydra!” 

“No!” She brought her hands up, but it was too late to stop the bullet. It shot out of the gun and into his head.

The projectile traveled through his skull, entering at the top, brain matter coloring the walls behind him dark red.  Some of the blood ended on the face of the crying woman. She closed her eyes, sobbing harder than ever.

“Fuck!”

“He’s dead,” Daredevil stated and his voice was fragile as if he was devastated and scared. His heart was beating heavily up to his throat. He could feel himself pulsating, the scent of blood, flesh, and death mixed with the nonexistent heartbeat sent him into overdrive, and she didn’t even know it. 

“You have to go,” Eliza told him. Her voice was steady, empty. 

She didn’t know what to be - was she supposed to be angry, sad, scared? She knew she was supposed to show some kind of reaction other than a series of curses and swear words. 

No one was prepared for the truth to come to light. She looked around and she saw nothing but a dead man in the corner, his last words being “Hail Hydra.” She was alone, entirely and frustratingly alone with the probably biggest discovery since Ultron destroyed Sokovia. 

The woman flinched back at the masked vigilante undoing her ties, but she relaxed soon enough. He freed her wrists and ankles and removed the cloth from her mouth. She cried into his arms, mascara running down her cheeks. He patted her back.

“You’re safe now,” he said. “I’m gonna get you out of here.”

“My father-“ she cried. She couldn’t even form a coherent sentence without shaking.

Eliza licked her lips. The pain of her teeth gnawing at it was just about everything she felt. “I’m gonna make sure he’s taken care of,” she swore. “What’s his name?”

“Rob- Robert Pfeiffer.”

“German?”

“My father is, but we migrated here over a decade ago. My mom’s American.”

“What’s your name?” Daredevil asked.

“Laura.”

“Okay, Laura. Can you stand?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Her knees wobbled. She saw the blood on the floor again, on her clothes, and once again sobs broke through her.

He nudged her aside. “Don’t look at him, look at me! You’re alright. I’ve got you. It’s over, you’re safe. You’re gonna go out of here and you’ll be safe. I promise you. I will look after you.”

Eliza’s nails still dug into her palms. She needed to feel something. Her mind was slipping and that was dangerous because she had something she had yet to understand the full extent of right there, yet unable to grasp it. But the song… the goddamn song stuck in her mind and it played on repeat.

He tilted his head. “The cops are here,” he stated.

“Let them,” she said. “Go ahead.”

“What? No, I’m not leaving.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“No. They’re gonna arrest you if you don’t come with me. They need someone to take the fall - you’d just be handing yourself in. For what? For getting to play the hero one last time? I can’t let you do that. You can’t take the fall for this. I’m not leaving you to suffer the consequences for the both of us.”

“I was just trying to help,” she shrugged it off. 

“You- whatever your name is, we both saved each other’s lives tonight. I owe you. I can find us a way out and we can bury this. No one has to find out.”

“Oh, but they do.” She smiled sourly. “And they will. They will trace this back to me, one way or another.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Believe whatever you want. Right now, you have the choice to save yourself. I suggest you take it. I will come back to you to pay off your debt some other time. Today’s not your night. Save yourself, let me fend for myself. I’m gonna be fine.”

Daredevil sighed. She was distant. Her voice sounded like the recording at the train station, automatic. In his mind, he desperately searched for a plan, but he came up with none. She’d made up her mind.

“Hey,” she called out for Laura. “Don’t tell them about him,” she said. “Whatever you do, it was me. Just me.”

She turned around, but Daredevil was gone. Laura’s steps retreated fast, silent agreement. Doors busted open. She heard the police scramble, guns in hand. Her eyes fluttered closed. She evened her heartbeat.

“NYPD, put your hands where we can see ‘em!” 

Eliza raised her arms.

“Behind your head. Now,” the cop tore at her.

She did.

A pair of hands pulled her arms onto her back. The cuffs slapped against her wrists, cold and tight.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” she said.

“Eliza?” the officer poked his head over her shoulder.

She smiled. “Surprise?”

“Jesus Christ! What did you do?” Brett Mahoney stared in shock at the scene in front of him. He hadn’t seen so much death and destruction in quite a while, and he’d been on the force for quite some time.

She felt like a criminal as he led her outside, hands cuffed behind her back, through the crowd of law officials that came hauling in. She hung her head low. They knew who she was, yet she tried to hide her face.

“Are you gonna report this?” she asked him once they were outside, right next to the blinking cop car.

Brett turned her around. “You’re bleeding,” he observed.

“Are you gonna report this or not? Be honest.”

“Was there anyone else in there with you?” he ignored her question. 

“Are you gonna report this, Brett?”

“Maybe a certain devil-horned vigilante in a red suit?” he asked. “Was he tearing the place apart with you?”

She scoffed.

“Come on, I’m just tryna help you.”

She turned, eyes cold when she looked into his. “No,” she stated. “I was on my own. I did this.”

“Eliza-”

“You want to coerce me into giving you the answer you want? That’s illegal.”

He opened the door of the police car, guiding her inside with his hand on her head. “I like you, Eliza, but if you haven’t learned from your mistakes by now,” he said and his eyes bore into her, “I can’t help you anymore.”

Eliza leaned back in the uncomfortable yet familiar leather seats. “Then I’m exercising my right to remain silent.”

“You’re a lost cause.”

“I know.”

Brett hesitated. Her eyes stayed laser-focused forward. She stared out of the windshield, boring holes into the glass. Her expression was blank, void of any emotions, any sign of remorse. She was as cold as ice and that terrified him a little, but also he was worried, concerned even, that the girl who he remembered to be the smartest Avenger on the team had relapsed, and returned to bad habits. 

But she was lucid when she made the decisions that lead her there and the law states the punishment. Without a miracle, there was nothing other to be done than sitting it out and suffering the consequences. 

Brett tapped the roof. The motor howled. 

She caught glimpse of his grim expression through the side-view mirror. 

I’m sorry, her throat swelled close. 

For lack of a better word, Eliza was beyond screwed. 

✧

3:42.

3:43.

3:45.

Every tick of the minute hand felt less like sixty seconds and more like sixty minutes. 

Three hours. Three fucking hours. 

They left Eliza hanging for three hours, alone in a cold and poorly lit interrogation room. Her hand was cuffed to the table and while she could’ve easily freed herself with one flick of the wrist, she knew that the action would only end her up in more trouble. She couldn’t afford any more mistakes. 

The cold shiver of sudden awareness hit her around an hour after they hurled her in there. The words kept repeating in her mind. She tried to make sense of what the strange man in the shop had said, of what he’d meant. Hail Hydra had become a word she feared to hear. It bordered on surreal like she was in a bad horror movie coming to an end, right through the climax, where the main character wakes up from the nightmare. 

They’d destroyed the tumor and the world went into remission only for the cancer to come back stronger, deadlier than ever. 

The cut on her leg pulsated heavily. Brett gave her a bandage to wrap around after she insisted she was fine. The blood was already seeping through it and she was pretty sure she needed stitches, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t in pain.

Half an hour later, she finally heard footsteps outside of the interrogation room. The voices sounded male, young, early thirties at best. 

“Thanks, Brett.” They were on a first-name basis, suggesting they knew each other. Not in the cops working together kind of way though. 

Eliza didn’t have much more time to speculate. The door opened. Brett stepped aside to let the two men inside, almost glad he no longer had to deal with her himself. She couldn’t blame him - she pushed him away as if they’d never met. After everything he pulled her out of, it wasn’t fair on him, but she also couldn’t tell him the truth. She wasn’t a snitch and she certainly didn’t want to admit that maybe, just maybe, she’d fucked up. 

She lowered the ice pack on her smashed-in forehead to get a closer look at the visitors. 

The blonde stranger had this boyish smile about him. His hair was wide, cheeks flushed. His style consisted of colors, which she appreciated. The interrogation room was dark enough to set her up with enough depression for weeks to come. He was the touch of life the police station was lacking. His heart weighed heavy like gold and it shone just the same. She hardly saw good-hearted people anymore. This man was an angel through and through. Instantly likable, caring, pure. 

The man next to him humbled the brightness in the room. Something about him felt oddly familiar. His soul was darkened from chronic pain and disappointment. The color wheel around him had all the colors she refused to see. They hurt. She didn’t have to touch him and feel to know he was broken. Broken with a heart of gold. 

While his friend was the morning sun, he was the night sky littered with clouds. But there was more than met the eye. 

“Miss Bennett,” Mister Tall-and-Broody said. “My name’s Matthew Murdock, this is my associate Foggy Nelson. We’re your attorneys.”

Eliza blinked. She looked at him, blinked, then at the Nelson half and blinked again. She tried to make sense of his words.

“Attorneys?” she asked.

“Forgive us for barging in like that. Officer Mahoney only just informed us about your case. We were around the precinct so we decided to take a look at it.” He pointed to the file before him. “I suppose you’ve been advised of your rights?”

“Yeah, I know how it goes.”

“Great. So you do know that you have the right to legal counsel. Yet you haven’t requested to see a lawyer. Why?” 

Matthew played with his glasses a lot, she noted. He was nervous, another reason for his constant smirking. With his smile, he could easily charm anyone. He did it not to ease the people around him but to calm his conscience.

Eliza took a deep breath. Her chest heaved with the long-awaited oxygen. “I don’t see why I’d need a lawyer,” she said. 

The Nelson half cocked an eyebrow, searching for his friend’s reaction. He only kept staring forward, eyes hidden, lip still quirked upwards. “It’s funny considering I do and I’m blind,” he countered. 

She cocked her head. Interesting.

“Seems like we skipped a few chapters here. Who are you again?”

He chuckled. His chuckle was dark. His voice carried an attractive rasp, but it wasn’t necessarily dark. His chuckle on the other hand held certain pressure behind it. 

“Point is, I don’t know you,” she said then. “I haven’t requested a lawyer because I was just planning to sit it out before you guys so rudely interrupted my sulking session.” She crossed her hands in her lap, satisfied. 

Nelson was the first to sacrifice himself. He shuffled with the file. His better half had the same edition printed in Braille, probably because it took them so long to get there. While Matthew’s fingers played with the dots, the other skimmed his eyes over Times New Roman version. 

He cleared his throat awkwardly, still the speck of color she saw when he first entered. “You were arrested on the suspicion of breaking and entering, vandalism, and physical assault,” he read aloud. “That’s, uh, quite the list. Also, we have your file right there. We usually just learn as we go.”

“Right,” she scoffed. 

“I’m serious. We just want to get you out of here.”

“You don’t know what you’re dealing with!”

“Eliza Bennett, twenty-three years old, currently residing in Hell’s Kitchen, New York City,” Matthew blurted right out. He went straight in for the kill, determined to hit her down as hard as he could, to humble and destroy her defenses. “Your current place of employment is listed as Stark Industries. You used to be an Avenger, which is why you signed the Sokovia Accords. Before that, you worked for SHIELD. That was about seven years ago, everything else before that is blacked out, and most of the information around that time frame is also redacted. Now I suspect it has something to do with the court proceeding you went to right after you appeared at SHIELD,” he said, “who seemed to have given you your identity in the first place. Before that, you didn’t exist. I suppose you’re older than seven, your name just isn’t. Why? I don’t know. No one has the answers to that but you. To protect you, I suppose. Else the truth would already be out there. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

He dared to look innocent. He was picking her life apart and she just sat there, taking it. She wanted to scream, but there was no reason to. It would’ve been entirely emotional, not based on facts. He didn’t deserve that, and she didn’t want to waste her breath on him either. 

“What I do know is that you’ve got a list of priors,” Matthew said. 

Eliza laughed sourly. Now, this was something she could argue with. “Did Tony send you?” she asked. 

“No.” He fixed his glasses again, still indulged in the breathless chuckle leaving his lips. “We, uh, we’re an independent law firm.”

“Right, so you have no right to pick me apart like that.”

“Possession and use of drug-related objects,” he said. No, he read it out and made it hang in there like a fact. “Every time you got arrested, Tony Stark bailed you out. You never faced serious jail time.”

“No,” Eliza shook her head wildly. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He didn’t stop. “You’re an Avenger. Sorry, you were, past tense. That’s over now, or so I’ve been told. I don’t watch television, I don’t even read the newspaper. But I’ve been told there was a falling out,” he said. “It’s, uh, kinda hard to miss when the rumor mill is turning and every news station in the country is reporting on an incident at the Berlin airport after Captain America turned himself into an international fugitive.”

She muttered, “You don’t say.”

“I’m sorry if I missed the point. I just wanted to tell you that while there’s enough reason to, I won’t let the news influence my thinking about you. We- we won’t. Right, Foggy?”

“Oh, yeah,” Foggy said. “Definitely not. Whatever thought we might’ve had about the situation beforehand doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is you and getting you out of here.” He smiled. She found solace in his smile. It was bright, although tired, but the sincerity made up for it. 

Eliza’s mouth twitched. “Thank you.”

She still wasn’t entirely convinced. 

“People look up to you,” Matt continued. There was seemingly nothing that could throw him off. “You’re a hero in most people’s books. I’m not surprised you’re here right now. You wanted to help, so you took the calculated risk to put someone else’s needs before your own. You did it because you thought it was the right thing to do. I’m not blaming you. The only ones blaming you are the police and maybe yourself, but that’s it. What you did today was selfless.”

“Shut up!” she pushed her palms into her eye sockets. “Just, shut up. Please. I can’t do this tonight. I really can’t…” the whine was a painful sound echoing through the room. “I don’t need you,” she said. 

“You kinda do,” Foggy cut in. 

“I can’t even pay you!” her eyes were red when she finally looked up. 

“You don’t have to. We work pro bono.”

“But Tony-”

“Oh, he won’t find out,” he said. “Attorney-client privilege and all that. It’s great. We can’t snitch on you, no matter what you tell us. And we do hope you tell us something so we can help you.”

She scoffed. “Convenient.”

“You need a lawyer. We’re your best shot to get out of here right now. You either take it or my partner and I have an early breakfast.”

Eliza ran a tired hand over her face. She kept it there, just holding it. Her heart was beating heavy in her chest. The dry air contracted her lungs. She didn’t realize she was bouncing her leg until it hit the table and she hissed at the pressure on the wound.

She fell back in her chair. “What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry?” she said. “I went in because I thought that woman was in danger and I was right. I can’t… I won’t go to jail for doing the right thing.“

“You won’t go to jail,” Matthew said. His voice remained calm, steady.

“Why, because you’ll help me?”

“Yes.”

“We can get you out of here in no time, Miss Bennett,” Nelson told her then. 

She dragged her nails over the bloodied bandage.

“It’s essentially not that hard. You were trying to help. The guys you took out won’t press charges. They, uh, refuse to talk. The only thing they can charge you with is breaking and entering.”

Eliza exhaled. “I can’t do this,” she said quietly. “Not again. I’m tired. I’m tired of being seen as the bad guy. It’s fucking exhausting. God!” She dropped her hands on the table. The cuffs clanked loudly.

“You’re angry,” Matthew observed.

“Yeah, no shit!”

“I know this must all be very hard for you.”

“You don’t understand! A year ago what I did today would’ve made me the hero. As you said, people looked up to me. But now… Now I’m the villain. Doesn’t seem fair.”

“Listen,” - he ran his fingers over the file - “Can I speak freely, Miss Bennett?”

“Eliza,” she corrected him, “And yeah, it’s not like you haven’t been doing it since you came in here. Knock yourself out!”

“Alright, Eliza. You were just a kid seven years ago. You got yourself into trouble like every other teenager. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“You sound like a fucking youth pastor trying to convert me to believe that God will guide me through the dark valley of my past.”

His lip twitched. “You’re cocky, Miss Bennett. That could get you into a lot of trouble.”

“Oh, please! I’m not violating any of the agreements that were made seven years ago or those from three years ago. I did what I had to do. End of story. If you want to blame me for that, go ahead!”

The air sizzled statically. A thick cloud of tension rose between them. Eliza bore her eyes into the man across from her, but he didn’t budge. He kept his head cocked, completely turned towards her. She hoped she glared just hard enough for him to feel it burn into every crevice of his face.

“The world already knows and blames me for everything that happened.” Eliza pursed her lips. “Can’t tell me you don’t know that.”

“I don’t believe in public judgment,” Matthew told her.

She scoffed. “You’d be the first person ever. I’m an Avenger. Lately, that’s a fucking death sentence,” she said. “Public court of opinion is the only thing defining me. I’m what they say I am, or maybe I’m not. Who cares. Everyone thinks what they want to think. Nothing of that’s gonna get me out of here.”

Matthew fixed his glasses - he did that an awful lot. The plump outline of his lips moved methodically. “I’m gonna keep being straight with you,” he said, calm as ever. “Tony Stark paid you out of a lot of trouble you should’ve gotten sentenced for. Does that make you a good person? The public doesn’t get to judge that, but if you let yourself get defined by their standards or what they think, then yeah, congratulations Eliza! You’re the villain.”

She prayed for the floor to open up and swallow her whole. His words penetrated parts of her she didn’t even know existed. Her heart bled. Knife through flesh. He was painfully right and she hated that he could read her like a five-page short story. She was anything but. She was an entire Novel, not quite finished. It wasn’t supposed to be that easy. She was the one with the gift, not him. 

“But you’re not the villain,” he told her. “You may be an annoying and terrible pain in the ass, but you’re not the villain. I don’t care what everyone says, I see the person before me. Do I think you’re spoiled? Yes. Do I think what the Avenger did was right? No. But I’m a strict believer in the good, and that’s what you do. You do good, not evil. These petty crimes,” - he shoved the file like a wet towel - “They mean nothing. What matters is what’s in your heart. No one can tell you who you are but yourself, and I usually don’t judge, but just from listening to you talk, I know your heart is set right. No evil person would’ve done what you did tonight. It was heroic and selfless. You are selfless. No one should hold the power to convince you of anything else.”

Eliza desperately tried to collect the spit in her mouth to wet her dried throat. Everything was so tight, that the air became hard to swallow. She wanted to scream, cry, both. A heavy weight fell off her heart. The cork in her chest popped. 

“Okay,” she sucked her bottom lip in. “Thank you.”

“But-”

The cork plopped back in place. She scoffed, sadly. “There’s always a but.”

“But, back then, you had the cover of SHIELD and the Avengers to back you up. What you did today was selfless but it was also stupid. Very stupid.”

“Very refreshing,” she said. “Thank you, Mister Murdock. I feel much better now.”

“I’m not saying you’re going to jail, I’m just saying you didn’t think, which was stupid. You were careless, it could’ve gotten you killed.”

“You basically just said I’m a lost cause.”

“Well, I am Catholic, so,” he chuckled again, “I have a thing for lost causes.”

Eliza stared blankly ahead. “Oh yeah, that explains a lot.”

Matthew grinned at her statement. “At least you kept your jokes about you,” he said. 

“No, seriously, you have this whole Jesus attitude about you.” She formed her lips in a thin line. “I listen to you and instantly think Jesus,” she said. “Minus the looks, of course. Your hair is magnificent.”

She blinked at her own choice of words. The blood rushed to her cheeks. Maybe next time she would think before she talked. 

“Uh, that’s not what I was planning to say. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” Quieter, she added, “Definitely going to hell now.”

Matt’s lips curled again. He laughed quietly. It was soft, gentle even. “Okay, I think that was enough blasphemy for today,” though she knew he was joking. “Maybe we should go back to your case.”

“Is it still blasphemy when I talk about Jesus? I don’t think so.”

Only Eliza could take an awkward situation and make it a hundred times worse. 

“You want to start this debate now?” he asked. 

“You were the one who put Catholicism on the table,” she said. 

Foggy cleared his throat. “Point is,” he said, finally the hint of a need to interject into the tensed conversation, “we’re here to help you. Now, so far no one has pressed charges yet, but it’s only been three hours and they can legally hold you for twenty-four, so there’s plenty of time for them to find something against you. You defended yourself against these men,” Foggy said. “That’s self-defense. There’s still the issue of breaking and entering though. Considering your history, we have to be careful with allegations like that.”

Eliza tore her eyes away from the man before her. “I tried to save Laura Pfeiffer’s life,” she stated. “I knew she was in danger, so I followed them inside. There has to be a law for that, right?”

“For cops, yeah.”

“I was an Avenger.”

“You were.” 

She slowly realized. “Oh.” She might’ve pushed her luck a little too far this time. 

If there was no grey zone to escape through, she was truly and thoroughly fucked. 

“So you’re saying that this is serious?” she asked. 

Matthew lowered his head as did his voice. “I’m afraid so, yes,” he said. 

“I could go to jail?”

“It’s a possibility, but not one we’re gonna concern ourselves with. As long as we can help it, you’re not going to jail. Worst case scenario you have to go to a parole hearing or they charge you with a fine.”

Eliza whined. “That’s even worse! God, what did I do?”

In retrospect, she should’ve thought about her actions. She singlehandedly defeated herself. She trapped herself between two heavy cement blocks - to get out, she had to break all of her limbs and bend inhuman ways and she’d still end up with cement on her back. 

“Eliza,” he called her name softly. The tone of his voice could reignite even the deadest flame of hope. “Everything’s going to be fine,” he said. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, not if I can help it. As I said, the world doesn’t get to judge you, and from where I’m standing, you’re more than just a decent human being. You’re good.”

You’re good. Hearing the adjective concerning herself had never felt better. She’d never cared much about good or evil. She grew up thinking of the world as black and white. You could either be one thing or the other, but then she came into the real world and her views adapted. She realized that the world was full of color and every corner had a grey zone. Nothing was ever fully anything and most things in life aren’t as they seem. 

Being an Avenger made her a hero. Heroes are perceived as good, but Eliza grew sick of the word not so long after learning it. ‘You’re good’ had meant nothing to her up until this point where that one adjective suddenly became the source of hope. She was good, not evil. Her picture had been twisted by bad photoshop and she chose to believe the black-and-white ideology the world thrust upon her because she stopped believing in herself. The world was back to being either or, the colors fading into darkness, and the grey zones magically vanished.

‘You’re good’ has never felt so good to hear.

“Thank you,” she told him. 

Matthew smiled. “You don’t have to thank me. That’s my job.”

“No, no it’s not. Any other lawyer would’ve run by now, worried about how this might look on their record. Not you.”

“We don’t exactly got a reputation to uphold,” Foggy said. 

“And we strongly believe that you’re a good person,” he jabbed his partner. 

“Yeah, that too.”

Eliza chuckled. The skin above her brow pinched. Her ears opened up without warning and in came the pain that had hidden behind the buckets of adrenaline her brain secreted. Grade two concussion, no doubt. The only thing separating her from a grade three was the fact she hadn't passed out. Though if the pain continued to persist, chances were high that that would happen too. 

The two men leaned into each other. 

“What do you think?” Foggy asked his partner. 

“I think they’re not gonna press charges,” Matthew said. 

“Why?”

“They have a list of offenses right there and still they haven’t even contacted a judge. I think they’re too scared to press charges because of Stark or maybe because she’s an Avenger and for some people, that might end up as bad publicity. You heard her," - he cocked his head in her direction - "Public court of opinion. There are enough supporters of the Avengers that would lick their fingers at the NYPD arresting one of them just because she tried to help someone," he said. "Either way, I think we can get her out of here without making any more noise.”

“What about the shop owner?” he asked. 

“If he decides to press charges, it’s not against her. The guys she took out have a record longer than the Sunday paper. She saved a woman, Foggy. No one’s going to convict her.”

“Then why exactly are we here again?”

“You know I can hear you, right?” Eliza said. 

Matthew, who was about to answer his friend, closed his mouth and turned back in her direction. “Right, sorry,” he said. “We were just talking about what to do next.”

“And you don’t think they’re going to charge me?” she questioned. “Like, at all?”

“No, in my opinion, I don’t think so.”

Foggy raised his hand. “We can’t be sure,” he clarified. “But- but my partner seems to believe that, so I don’t have a choice in the matter anymore.”

Eliza sensed the tension between them. The unsaid arguments, the knowing glances. “Are you guys alright?” 

“Oh, we’re fine!”

She raised her eyebrows. 

“Really. We couldn’t be better.” Whoever he was trying to fool, Foggy failed to convince her. “Let’s just go over your statement again and then we’ll see what Matthew and I can hash out for you.”

Judging by his reaction, Matt wasn’t used to being called his full name, at least not by his friend. Things weren’t alright between them. 

“So, you entered the building because you thought you heard those guys kidnap a woman,” Foggy stated. “What then?”

“I entered the building because I heard them pulling Laura into the butcher shop,” she said. “The door to the roof was open. Technically, I didn’t break in.”

“T-technically, that’d still be trespassing.”

“And technically, I made a bad judgment call.“

“Technically,” Matthew interjected, “you just lost all your friends, the only family you’ve ever known, not including SHIELD. I mean, you lost your first place of employment too. That’s a lot of loss in such a short amount of time.”

That catholic smirk was going to be the death of her and send her straight to hell.

She blinked at him. “What kind of a lawyer are you again?”

“I’m a really good lawyer.” The confidence he exceeded was inhuman. 

“Matt-“ Foggy urged. 

“I’ve got it under control, Foggy,” he shot him down.  “Miss Pfeiffer said the man that was holding her had the intent to hurt you. Did he say anything to you about why he wanted to hurt you?” he directed his question back to Eliza.

“Nope,” she replied. “He just pointed a gun at himself and then bang, bye-bye brain.”

“Any reason?” 

“Mental issues.” She nodded, satisfied with her answer. “Whole collection of ‘em.”

The pair exchanged another look. 

She watched Matt’s rather handsome face move, his fingers tracing the Braille on the documents. His glasses were a bit tilted and she caught glimpse of his eyes. Sensing it, he corrected them again. She bit her cheek. He was oddly interesting.

He unfolded his cane. “Give us a second.”

Eliza threw her head back. She counted the seconds as she did the stains on the ceiling. Her whole body was on fire. The adrenaline had long worn off, instead, pain filled her senses. Her leg was throbbing and the blow to the skull stung. Overall though, she felt the familiar pull of tiredness, asking her to finally give herself the benefit of sleep. Once again, she disappointed herself. Mostly because she wouldn’t sleep in an interrogation room, but also because she simply couldn’t. 

Her eyes flew open in unison with the door. Matthew stood inside the frame, proud hand on his cane. “You’re free to go,” he said. But there was something in his voice she couldn’t quite place.

“Really?” she asked.

Foggy peaked his head through. “I think there’s something you should know before you-“ he prompted.

“Oh, god.”

The nightmare came true.

“You’re definitely going to hell,” the statement was clear as day, the voice a painful sound in her ear.

“Fuck me!” she dropped her head on the table. 

“You,” Tony Stark stood behind the two lawyers. “out. Now !”

She searched for Matt’s eyes desperately. “Is it too late to plead guilty?”

“I’m sorry,” was all he could say. 

“There’s no reason for you to be sorry,” Tony told him. “She needs to be sorry. Honestly, part of me thinks you shouldn’t even have tried to get her out of this. Let her spend a night in jail. But I can’t say I’m not impressed she pulled this off.” 

“Tony, I know what you’re gonna say,” Eliza began. 

“No. You don’t know.”

She stepped out of the interrogation room hesitantly. As soon as she was in arm’s reach, Tony grabbed her. He pulled her aside. 

“Apologize,” he demanded. 

“What?” she asked. 

“To these men. Apologize, now!”

“Apologize for what ?”

“For wasting their time.”

Matt tensed visibly while Foggy stood around looking awkward. 

“They’re lawyers,” Eliza stated. “I might not have state-of-the-art education but I know for a fact that taking cases is kinda their job.”

“You’re wrong. You knew I’d come and bail you out. I always do.”

“I didn’t even want you to know!”

“That’s even worse.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “God, what did I do to deserve this?”

“Tony-”

“Don’t. Give me a second. If I'd known what you did, I would've meditated before I got here.”

“Well, I’m sorry that I’m such an inconvenience to you. Maybe we should just go.” She turned for the escape hatch - the elevator. 

“No,” he said. “You’re gonna suffer the consequences for what you did. I don’t care if I have to stand here all night, you’re gonna apologize.”

“I was the one who suggested taking her case,” Matt spoke suddenly. All eyes turned on him. “She needed help and we gave that to her. The case is clear, she did the right thing. We can give you that in writing, if that’s what you want, Mister Stark.”

Eliza bit down on her bottom lip, hard. The laugh bubbled up in her throat. She was in enough trouble already, but seeing Tony so flabbergasted was the most victorious feeling she’d had in years.

Tony laughed out. “You’re not bad,” he said, almost as if he was in disbelief over the fact. 

She glared at him. “What?” 

“Don’t say it often, but I’m impressed. What’s your pay grade, Mister-”

“Murdock,” Matt introduced himself. “Matthew Murdock. This is my associate, Franklin Nelson.”

“Please,” Foggy said, “just Foggy.”

His eyes glowed like a child’s on Christmas Day.

“Tony Stark,” he offered them his hand. 

Matt was hesitant at first, but after one particular swift kick from his friend, he shook the man’s hand with the fakest smile she’d ever seen anyone deliver so flawlessly. It didn’t take a genius to tell he detested the man from the second he met him. Matt was smiling like any other day, which made her heart beat out of her chest and fly to the moon where it suffocated due to the lack of oxygen. It seemed as if he recoiled from the man simply because he treated her like a misbehaving child, and because she looked like she was about to faint, but he knew how to play it off. She figured playing pretend came easy in his line of work. She knew it did in hers. 

Foggy laughed awkwardly. “We know,” he said. “Big fan, Mister Stark. Big fan of your work. I appreciate all you’ve done for this country. For- for the world, I mean. The whole big earth thing. Um.” He was sweating. “Iron Man’s my favorite Avenger, if- if it’s even okay to pick favorites. I mean, you all did amazing work. Everyone’s a hero, I just- I appreciate your genius, sir.”

Tony slapped his hand on his shoulder. “Thank you,” he smiled the way he always did when meeting fans in front of whatever venue he pulled up to. The crowd of screaming fangirls and fanboys and the press in midst of it. 

He had this charming smile that turned heads left and right and it usually got him what he wanted. He looked at Foggy the same way as if smiling at him would put him on the front page of the Bulletin as the hero of the story. 

“Well, I can’t exactly see you off without rewarding you,” he stated. 

Eliza watched in absolute shock as he pulled out his checkbook - his fucking checkbook. All his problems seemed to be solvable with money. 

It made her blood boil, knowing he didn’t do any of this for her. Brett probably called him - an act to protect her from getting busted by Secretary Ross, no doubt - and knowing Tony, he probably saw a scandal in Eliza’s arrest and headed straight for the station to make the issue simply disappear. 

“How much?” he asked them. 

“What?” Foggy asked back. 

“One, two? Maybe three?”

“Money?” he blinked. “You wanna give us money?” The disbelief stood like an obvious sign on his forehead. 

“Yeah, I thought that was implied. You’re lawyers, right? You gotta have a pay grade. How about four? A cut for either of you. Can get a new suit and new glasses for the Murdock half there. Does that sound good?”

“Hundred?” Foggy questioned. 

“No, thousand,” Tony said. 

“Th-oh, god!” He almost passed out, holding onto Matt’s jacket for dear life. “Four thousand, Matt!” he squealed. “Four thousand Dollars!”

“Yeah, I know. I’m blind, not deaf,” he retorted. 

Eliza snorted, for which she earned a harsh glare from Tony’s side. 

“I take it you guys are happy with four. Here.” He handed them the check. “In exchange, I’d like to get your contact info. You know, in case Stark Industries ever needs legal counseling. I’d like to put you on our list.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” she cursed to herself. She swore she saw Matthew’s lip twitch in an attempt not to laugh. 

Foggy searched for their company card in the depths of his suit jacket. He almost dropped it two times before shakily handing it to Tony.

“You're the man,” he gushed on and on. 

Tony raised his eyebrows. The familiar look of disgust soaked into his features. 

“Okay,” he said. “That's it. No more touching the artwork.”

Eliza wanted to kick him, but the entire police station was already watching them like a bad pastime soap and she didn’t want to draw any more attention to herself by assaulting the legendary Tony Stark. 

That changed behind closed doors. Their dynamic changed the second they were out of the limelight. Neither of them was a legendary hero then, only two human beings with too many issues to count down on both hands (even a third couldn’t have possibly sufficed). 

Instead, she retorted to the power of words. “Please don’t make a scene,” she begged him. 

“Oh, you bet!” Tony glared at her through his sunglasses - it was the middle of the night. His signature look. As if the press was going to appear anytime soon, ready to take a million pictures. 

Knowing the world, word had already gotten out. This wasn’t so much Tony’s fault than it was the press and their nosiness. 

“This is gonna have consequences,” he said. 

“I hate you,” she spat back at him, arms crossed to shield herself from the penetrating looks of the New York Police Department. 

She felt like the messed-up teenager being dragged into the building, pale and shaking, all over again. 

“You can hate me all you want, I’m still not gonna let you off easy. You brought this on yourself.”

He spoke her full name instead of using the many nicknames he made for her. She was in for a lot of trouble.

Eliza swallowed. She lifted her gaze to meet Matt’s glasses. The lower part of his face was motionless, features wiped clean. “Thank you,” she said. She lowered her head. Quieter, she added, “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” Tony cut in. 

“I am!”

“She’s not,” he turned to the two men, standing helplessly in the middle of the room. “I doubt she even knows what that word means.”

“Shut up!” Her ears burned hot with the blood moving its way from her heart into her head, collecting it like rainwater. “God, what is wrong with you?”

He forced her into the elevator, finally out of earshot, hidden away from the curious stares. He pushed the button repeatedly for the doors to slide close. 

She opened her mouth, but he shot her down the second her lips made that smacking sound.

“No,” he said. 

She closed it again.

✧

The paycheck felt like a goldmine in Foggy’s hands. The first payment made to Nelson & Murdock after almost a year of working strictly pro-bono. Under any other circumstances, he would’ve taken the check and celebrated right then and there, but the money stood under a darker light. Receiving it seemed like less of an achievement than bribery. 

Matt licked his lips. “Foggy,” he prompted. 

The disappointment on his friend’s face was audible. 

“Listen, Fog, I’m sorry,” he said. 

He had his arm wrapped tightly around his friend’s arm - if he hadn’t, he would’ve lost him by the speed he was strutting the streets. He recognized the angry pep in his step all too well. 

“For which part?” Foggy retorted. “The one where you woke me up in the middle of the night for a case or the part in which our case turned out to be a mistake you – the other you – made?” 

“It’s complicated.”

“It’s always complicated. You only wanted us to take this case to make sure you didn’t screw this up. I would’ve been fine with that, really, but you just had to go ahead and put the cherry on top. She’s an Avenger, dude! You only wanted me to be there to make it less obvious who you are. Well, let me tell you, she doesn’t have a clue, but you probably knew that already too.”

“I was worried,” Matt said. “I was worried and I wanted to make sure she doesn’t go to jail for protecting me.”

Foggy scoffed. “How noble of you.” 

“Can you blame me? You read what happened. I didn’t have a choice. Foggy,”- he pulled at his arm - “Please, slow down.”

He stopped suddenly. “That’s the problem! I don’t want to think about you ever having set foot in that place. You could’ve gotten killed, Matt! Killed. Dead. They could’ve killed you dead and her, too, probably.”

“Yeah, I know what ‘killed’ means.”

“This isn’t a game!” Foggy snapped. “You put me in a stupid position where everything I say could mean us stepping on a landmine,” he said. “I thought we were friends. Friends don’t do stuff like that to each other.”

Matt cocked his head slightly. The words in his mouth turned into breath. He put up with a lot, too much even, and still it wasn‘t often he saw Foggy completely upset. He was right though, he had put the cherry on top with this one. He still couldn’t believe it himself. The night felt surreal. 

“Honestly, why does it always have to be women with questionable morals?” his friend said then. “Can’t you just be normal for once and find someone at Starbucks or the library?”

“I don’t go to the library, Foggy,” he said. 

“That’s not my point! My point is, that woman is so infatuated with you, it’s insane! And she doesn’t even know who you are. Once again you’ve found a woman with questionable morals who’s hot as fuck and you made it my problem!” 

“I’m not disagreeing with anything you’re saying,” Matt said, “but you’re my friend. All I ask of you is to back me up.”

“I did. It sucked, but at least we got paid. No thanks to you. If it weren’t for this money, I would hit you. I mean that.” 

“Okay, I can live with that.” 

Satisfied with his answer, Foggy began to move on, stepping slower and steadier. 

“You think she’s hot?” the question slipped him before Matt could think.

“God, you’re blind and stupid!” Foggy said. “You already know she’s hot.” 

“I wouldn’t know, I can’t see her.”

“Yeah, but you know. You always know. It’s like you have a radar. It’s annoying.”

“I don’t have a radar.”

“Yeah, you do. You always attract danger, you get off on it. In the end, it’s me who has to deal with the consequences because you just don’t know when to stop. Think about Elek-”

Matt threw his head back. “We’re not doing this,” he cut him off. “Eliza is not Elektra.”

“Exactly. Elektra was a psychopath,” Foggy said. “So don’t screw it up.”

“I won’t. In fact, after tonight, I promise to never see her again.”

If only he had believed it, too. 

✧

The black limousine outside the station still had its motor running when Tony and Eliza walked up to it. Tinted windows protected the insides from being seen by any passerby. 

“Hey, kid,” Happy greeted her from the driver’s seat. 

Eliza smiled weakly. “Hi, Happy.”

Tony slid into the seat next to her. She knew she was in for it. 

Not even five minutes after Happy started the car and pulled onto the road again, the blaming began, as predicted. 

“Are you high?”

She just didn’t think he would pull that card out of his repertoire. 

“What?” she asked, dumbfounded. 

“Are you on drugs?” Tony asked. His face was blank, not even hiding how serious he truly was. 

Her heart was like badly glued glass. His words brought on the first crack. 

She blinked, taking in his words. She tried to comprehend them, but all that came back was anger. “I’m not high!” she snapped. 

“Thing is, I don’t believe you. No one in their right mind makes that decision.”

“I’ve been clean for almost three years now, Tony.” The familiar burn behind her eyes put pressure on her skull. “Do you think I’d start using again?” she asked. “I thought you said you trusted me.”

Happy turned his head around. “That’s not fair, Tony,” he told him.

God bless him for trying.

“ Can I trust you?” Tony cocked his eyebrow. 

He patted his jacket down. The device was flat and made out of metal. it fits perfectly into the size of a pocket. The screen was holographic, on the other side was a trigger button. 

Eliza stared at it - no, she glared. Without her permission, he grabbed her wrist and pushed her finger into the button. A small needle shot out, penetrating her skin. It stung. The blood formed a small bubble on the tip of her finger. 

“OW! What the fuck?”

He viewed the screen. The bar grew in percentage. “Friday?” he asked. 

The device sounded in agreement. “Blood work’s clean, sir,” the automatic voice said back to him. 

“Thanks so much for that, Friday,” she said. “Seriously, do you have that little faith in me?” 

Tony scoffed at her blank stare. “The way you’ve been acting since Rogers left, no I don’t. You’re self-destructive and seek out trouble every chance you get. Forgive me for assuming you’re taking whatever it is you used to take.”

“That’s rich! A lot has happened in the past months, things I’m not quite over yet. To accuse me of using drugs just because I’m going through a rough patch is beneath you, Tony! You used to have more faith in me.”

“Oh yeah? Who took you in after Loki’s attack? Who made you an Avenger? Who didn’t give up on you? Hm? Does that sound like someone who knows nothing about your stupid little life? Does that sound like someone who doesn’t care? Are you seriously blaming me for caring?”

Eliza crossed her arms. “You’re trying to make me feel guilty like I owe you. I paid my debt. I owe you nothing,” she said. 

She realized they’d never actually fought. They never argued before, or at least not one that ended in both of them throwing accusations at each other. But times changed - they were both different people. 

He shook his head. “What were you thinking, kid? You know better than that,” he said. “I taught you better than that. Especially after Berlin, you should’ve learned. God! Fucking lawyers- you know who needs lawyers? Criminals. Is that what you want to be? Do you want to flush the Accords down the drain?”

“These guys were kidnapping an innocent woman,” Eliza stated her case. “I followed them and then I just acted. They wanted to kill her, sooner or later. I don’t want to be a criminal, I just want to help people like we used to. I did what I had to do. Don’t turn this around to blame me, Tony. It’s not fair.”

For a second, he simply stared ahead. The many lights of the city passed them by. “And you just thought you could play the hero.” He turned to her. “Without back-up, without a plan. You didn’t even ask me first. The Accords exist for a reason, Eliza. If Brett hadn’t called me, you would’ve been in a hell lotta trouble. I hope for your sake Ross doesn’t find out. Look,” he said. “I’m trying here, but you overreact a lot sometimes. It’s what you do. You saw a mission in something that could’ve been easily solved with a 911 call. I taught you to be careful, not to get yourself into more trouble than you can handle. What did you do? You disobeyed my orders.”

“Like I just said, I acted. But I’m glad I did because of this… I found out something. This is so much bigger than I thought at first. It wasn’t just a kidnapping-”

“I don’t want to hear this.”

“Listen to me!” she cried. 

“Now I have to hear it.”

“These guys are working for someone and that someone wants something.”

“Yeah, that’s how this works. Honestly, are you even listening to yourself?”

“Yeah, I am. Why can’t you just listen?” Eliza desperately grabbed his forearm. “They knew me, Tony. One of them said I was worth a lot of I don’t know, money maybe.” In the end, she did what he told her not to do - yell. She was angry, off the rails. 

“You’re not making any sense!” Tony matched her tone. “You are an Avenger. Romanoff released your SHIELD files in 2014. After what happened, everyone knows your name. Everyone! And they know your story. When they said they knew you, it’s because you’re a public face. They realized you’re an Avenger, so boom, they saw an opportunity.”

Her eyes were wider than the fucking moon. “This makes even less sense!”

“Maybe in your book. In mine, nothing’s ever made more sense. You know why?” he asked. “Yeah, because I’m right.”

She rolled her eyes. “Why do you always have to be right?”

“Because I usually am.”

“You’re not always right!”

“Maybe not, but I have a point here. Have you ever tried to sell an Avenger on the black market? I haven’t, but let’s face it; You’re young, you’re powerful and you’re a woman. These guys saw their chance and took it, nothing more! It’s just that. A coincidence, an attempt to make you go crazy.”

The world around her spun. The words dug forward in her mind, but she pushed them away. She tried not to let him plant ideas in her head. She didn’t want him to control her. He had the power to change her mind every time - she refused to let it happen again. 

“See? This is what I’m talking about,” he said. “You’re pouting like a fucking child.”

“I’m not a child anymore!” Eliza retorted. “I’m an adult now. I make my own decisions. I know what I want, what I saw. I’m not crazy.”

“You sure? Ever since the whole Hydra debacle, you’ve been paranoid. At first, I didn’t blame you, but now it’s getting ridiculous.”

“Can’t you just listen to what I’m saying?”

“I am listening,” he stated. 

“No,” she said. “He knew me! He knew who I was. He knew the lullaby they used to sing to me.” she choked on a dry sob. “He said ‘Hail Hydra’ to my face. You don’t imagine stuff like that.”

“Did he say it like that, word for word, in an English sentence that the victim can testify on?”

She gnawed on her bottom lip. “He said it in Russian. Since she’s German, I doubt she understood, but I heard it. He said those exact words, I know it!”

“No, you didn’t! When was the last time you spoke Russian, actively?”

“It’s been a while, but I grew up there. I know-”

“You could’ve misheard. Language gets confusing, especially when you speak more than one.”

“Don’t turn this around on me,” she warned. “I speak Russian, I’m fluent, I know what I heard.”

“You were there when we destroyed Hydra,” Tony said. He brushed her off, just like that. “They’re gone. We did what he could.”

“No, but-”

“Coincidence.”

Eliza hit her fist against the car window. “Can’t you understand?” she asked. Her voice went quiet. “If there’s a possibility that they’re back, we have to do something. I have to do something.”

“If Hydra magically managed to come back, the police will figure it out. If they need help, we’ll know,” Tony said. “But until that happens, there is nothing you should do. No, scratch that! There is nothing you can do. Nobody knows what’s behind what happened today and thanks to your heroics, the only person who knows something shot himself, so you brought this upon yourself.”

“I can’t just sit back and watch while shit goes down. Since when is that something we do?”

“Since the last time we did, people died!” he wasn’t actively yelling, but the tone of his voice was sharp and it cut right through the already jagged scars on her heart. 

“This is different,” Eliza said. “If you’d just look into it-”

She should’ve known that trying to reason with him was a waste of time. 

“No,” he replied sternly. 

“You won’t even-”

“That’s right, I won’t even.” He took off his glasses. Brown eyes bore into hers, backing her into a corner. “I won’t waste resources on a hunch,” he said. “I won’t risk breaking the Accords or getting on Ross’s bad side just because you believe you’re onto something.”

“It’s not just a hunch. I know that something is going on.”

“Do you really? Or do you just have a bad feeling?”

“I-” anything other than admitting it was indeed just a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach would’ve been a lie. Though the bad feeling went deeper than any other; she felt it deep in her bones. She didn’t need evidence to prove her theory because she knew it was true. She simply knew. 

Eliza never went out of her way to do anything she believed in if she wasn’t one hundred percent certain that what she believed in was real and not just misplaced suspicion. 

Tony nodded, smugly satisfied. “I knew it,” he said. 

“But Tony,” she tried again. She needed him to listen so she could explain it to him. She hoped that somehow he’d come around if she just tried to put those feelings into words. 

The sharp look on his face shattered her hopes into tiny little pieces on the floor, on purpose and with inhuman force, she forgot how to breathe. He refused to listen. Like so many people before him, he turned his back. She was expected to follow him, to be undermined because that was all she was worth, to follow. Forced to listen, forced to submit, forced to be the person she was expected to be. 

He cleaned his glasses with the sleeves of the sweater poking out underneath the leather jacket. He must have become aware of the life draining from her eyes for he let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re a kid,” he said. “Maybe I spoiled you too much. Maybe I should’ve prepared you for the real world. God knows I should’ve known that this thing with Rogers would happen eventually. I don’t want to fight, I don’t, but you just won’t listen .”

Eliza exhaled through her nose. She pushed the tears and the pain down. He wasn’t supposed to see the disappointment. His mission was to make her feel bad and she did, but he didn’t deserve the gratification of seeing her suffer. 

Eliza fell back into the seat. “No,” she said. There wasn’t much fight left in her. “Hydra ruined my life.”

I just need you to see, to listen, to take me seriously. Her tone suggested not many things, only the raw through of what she was thinking, her last attempt to change his mind, to continue seeing him as her hero.

“They made me into a monster. If it hadn’t been for Natasha, I wouldn’t even be here. I can’t just drop it when there’s evidence. The guy killed himself because I was there. I can’t wash the blood off my hands. If I hadn’t gone in, this would’ve never happened. If I hadn’t gone in, we would’ve never known.”

Just like that though, her fight hit the brick wall in front of his heart. He wouldn’t even let them go through, only cherry-picked what he wanted to hear. 

“Exactly, if you hadn’t gone it. That’s it,” he stated. “That’s it, period.”

“Tony…” her lips formed the word ‘please’ like a reflex, but she bit the desperate plea away. 

Happy peaked through the rearview mirror again. “Tony, maybe you should listen to her,” he dared to interject. 

Tony turned instantly. How dare he? his eyes screamed. “Unbelievable! Am I the only one with functioning brain cells here?”

“All I’m saying is, maybe the kid has a point. You gotta at least check it out, if not for you, do it for her sake. I mean, when has she ever been wrong about something?”

“Oh, don’t even get me started,” he retorted. “There’s a whole list.”

“Tony, please,” Happy uttered the words for her. “You have to. ”

“I don’t have to do shit!”

“Tony-”

“No. Happy, stay out of it! I’m not falling for this. If you want to play the rebel,” he turned to Eliza, “and see danger everywhere you go, maybe you should’ve gone with Rogers.”

Her jaw slacked. 

“Shit like this doesn’t fly with me. Not anymore. We’re done, okay? Done. Finished. Nada. You are not an Avenger anymore, you’re simply just a kid, and you gotta figure your life out like a responsible adult. I am sick and tired of having to cover for you. You’re old enough to make your own decisions, too old to have someone control them for you. I’m not going to argue with you anymore.”

“This is not over,” she fired back, the stubborn crease between her eyebrows deepening to the point it became painful. 

Happy pulled the car up to the curb. 

“Yes, it is!” Tony said. He pushed her door open with his free hand. “This is done. You are done.”

“No!” she held onto his arm. “Don’t do this, Tony.”

“You’re done!” his shout echoed in the car, and even Happy flinched. “You’re done, alright? Now get out. I don’t want to see you again tonight.”

Eliza furiously wiped her cheeks. She spent the last couple of years looking up to him. He was the great Tony Stark, Iron Man. She wouldn’t go as far as to say she loved him like a father - she didn’t know what that was like - but he’d always been there. He was the closes thing to a father figure she had. 

The door shut loudly behind her. 

‘You’re done,’ the words repeated in her mind over and over again. With each dreaded step up the stairs to her small apartment, the words rang out louder. 

She unlocked the door. The quiet of the apartment pushed against her. She wanted to stumble back, turn around and run. She stared into the darkness, getting adjusted to the soft moonlight.

4:35 am. 

Eliza scoffed. She dropped the key on the hanger, flicking the light switch up. Soft yellow light filled the living room. 

“Yeah.” She checked the clock again. 4:36 am.

The German beer in the fridge appeared lonely between the leftovers of her pasta from the day before and an Avocado that desperately needed to be eaten. The least she could do was relieve it of its misery. 

4:37 am. Her fingers itched. The cold glass wet her hands in the wave of condensation. Disgusting, she thought, sipping the cheap alcohol. She drank it like water from the tap. 

Eliza was born to chase every high she could find, even if just for a second, she could finally breathe again. 

She stared at her reflection in the metal of the fridge. The watermelon magnet kept the picture of her, Natasha, and Steve stuck tightly to the material. She saw herself not only once but twice.

“Cheers,” she tipped her glass. “I did something bad today, but it felt good. It was worth it,” she said. “All of this was worth it.”

The necklace with the small hematite pendant weighed dozens of pounds in her delicate hands. Hands that have been through hell and back. A necklace that meant so much more than jewelry. 

If not, she told herself, the end was nearer than she first expected it to be. 

And then ‘fucked’ would be the understatement of the fucking year. 

[delicrieux]

☆ﾐ 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢 “𝚘𝚑”

PART 23: PRETTY BOY

emotions run wild when everyone is drunk and hardly coherent. quackity is always loud, but tonight is a full on assault on the senses (the ears, in particular). bretman simps for corpse too much for your liking. rae is happy for once. there’s a confession of love somewhere in there. sister james makes a very good impostor, but that’s old news, the real question is who gave you a knife? a new persona emerges that leaves the roaches quivering in their boots.

─── corpse husband x reader, a lil bit of everyone x reader (because she’s a queen) ─── soc. media + written fiction! ─── word count: a lil over 7k.

author’s note: it’s the way i can’t follow a fucking calendar for me. sorry guys, i swear to god i thought i had one more day before thursday . the idiot award goes to me and i accept it with pride. anyway, i was excited to write this for a while! quackity is in mexico, that’s why he drinks, too. my fic, my rules, he’s too funny not to include. im also working on an extra w dream and mr quack so look forward to that, too! hopefully u like this part ily xx and as always lmk wat u think!!

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The outfit for today was picked with care and consideration. Hot, as always- you had forgotten your roots, your hoodie and sweats lay hidden in the bottom of your drawer never to be worn on stream again. You’ve changed. Clout really does that to people. Some viewers, naturally, find your hotness near insulting: how dare you rub your beauty in their faces, and so unabashedly, too?! If only you had a twinge of self-awareness, perhaps you would tone it down. But you don’t, and whether that’s by choice or not is the mystery the whole internet tries to solve (ARMY has been working diligently, and you admire their effort, though in the end their tireless labor brings no tangible results). 

You went from hot to hotter. In all truth, the fires eating away at California can be blamed on you. You carry this burden in stride, in your platform overpriced shoes some girl scammed you on Depop with, in your fishnets, in your skirt, in your corset, in your rings and necklaces and chains. You woke up today and chose violence. Decided your existence will be a plague to the rest of the populace, and meant it (that, maybe, you took inspiration from a certain faceless Youtuber that so happens to be your boyfriend or whatever). You feel powerful. Like you could step on the world and the world would let you. You decide that it’s the way it should always be. 

The smile on your lips informs of nothing good to your quaint, small audience of 40k. You change the lighting in your room from the soft cherry blossom pink to menacing violet. As fitting for a villain.

Perhaps California’s hellish sun has finally purged you of your bubbly, docile nature (arguably, you had never possessed it to begin with); perhaps it’s the forth mimosa you’re mixing as people slowly trickle into the lobby. Who knows?! Not you, definitely. What do all of those boring dead white European philosophers say? Embrace the unknown? Cheers, you’ll drink to that.

In stark contrast to your appearance, your room is a fucking mess. A war-zone of epic anime scale. Everything is scattered, well, everywhere. A perfect representation on what’s going on in your mind, always. You don’t like how people focus on your surroundings-- you’re the main attraction, hello? Are you not enough to sustain them? Must they beg for more?! Totally ungrateful. You shake your head in disappointment, as if a mother scolding her children. 

noooooo! mom pls forgive me i will never ask abt anything ever again T_T

yall looking at the room? lol couldnt be me

feels like im five and my mum just told me i cant eat a pretty rock i found on the pavement:(

You can’t contain your sly grin. Eyes twinkle with a purplish hue, appearing all the more menacing. You tricked them once again, oh how absolutely evil of you. In your blind delight you accidentally spill champagne on your lap.

“-Oop, fuck.” You snort.

why does she sound like goofy 

The scandalous drunk Among Us stream is about to start. You had been eerily silent through the greetings, and those that chose to approach you were met with a cold shoulder and minimal replies. All on purpose, of course. You wish to plant a seed of unease within them, and so far, it’s working. There are questions unanswered, jokes unsaid, Quackity unteased. It breaks your heart, but it must be done. You look into the camera, all vulnerable and devout, as if to say: I’m doing this for you, all for you.

pack it up yandere simulator

idk whats going on but i think im into it?

villain arc villain arc villain aRC VILLAIN ARC

“Hey, guys,” Corpse’s voices rings in your headphones, and not a blink later his astronaut appears in the lobby in a cloud of smoke, “Hi, Y/n.”

More sharp, excited hellos follow after. You merely hum, though give no further reply. As Corpse strays to your side, Charlie steps in in front of him, “BDA access only. You have a permit, bitch?”

“Y/n is being quiet-she’s being quiet, guys!” Quackity helpfully informs, as if the rest failed to notice your cryptic silence, “Don’t be sad Corpse, man, Corpse don’t be-she didn’t say shit to me either.”

“Y/n has decided to not waste her breath on the SDS.” Charlie voices, “And you know what? I actually agree with her for once.”

“SD-what now?” Dream questions.

“The Small Dick Society.” Charlie explains, noting Dream’s whine of protest, “Oh no, don’t give me that shit, weren’t you bitching about not being invited and not belonging to exclusive clubs? Congratulations, you’re finally part of one.”

“Wait!” Quackity interjects, “Am I part of it too?”

“Guess, Sherlock.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Corpse says. You nod to your audience, like he just spoke the God honest truth, and follow in his example. Your tentative sip unexpectedly turns into a greedy gulp, but you’re not complaining. The only slightly coherent thought that rings in your mind is drink tasty.

“Ignore them,” Rae chimes, “Y/n’s probably plotting something and using Charlie as a cover up.”

“I’d never.” The words slip past your lips before you can stop them.

“Well you sure are very quick to deny it.” You can hear her smirking, can hear the proud lilt in her voice, like she caught onto your silly little scheme, like she has you all figured out. Your eyes narrow dangerously. The night behind your window pools dark, with far away city lights glimmering before they, too, seem to dim. 

Your roommate is back on your shitlist. How her name was missed among the rest.

“I’m defending my honor.” You yelp, the playfulness back in your voice along with your sunny smile, “I can’t have my wifey slandering me online. At least do it in private, geez.”

If Rae’s such a good detective, you’ll give her a good chase. Perhaps you’ve been laying it on too thick. Made her too suspicious. She can’t out you yet--not when your plans are so grand, so fun. It would be a waste.

“Why weren’t you saying anything then?” Quackity questions.

“Do I need a reason not wanting to talk to you?” You shoot back. Your friends laugh and he tries to shriek something past their cackle. You lean back into your chair, the tension from Rae’s confrontation finally easing. You wink at the camera and bring a finger to your lips. The roaches swear to secrecy, elated by your wickedness. As appropriate, they spam devil emojis and various renditions of evil hohohos and hehehes. The apple truly does not fall far from the tree. You had raised them well. You raise your glass in solidarity. A few donations fall into your pocket, easily summed up as: make them suffer.

Muting the discord call, you give a single response, “Oh, I intend to.”

i hope this doesn’t awaken something in me

^already too late for me bro

As caught up in wreaking havoc among your viewers as you are, you miss Sykkuno’s entrance, though from what you can tell, Charlie gave a stern warning to back the fuck off to him, too. He’s playing into your plan so beautifully. Truly, you couldn’t do this without him. Back to stalking the chat you go.

Your eyes flicker to the game upon Bretman’s signature drawl and “Hi, daddy.”. You have no time to get offended at Corpse’s sweet “Hi, honey” back, because the next person to join the discord call and the lobby leaves you speechless. You knew, of course, you had been informed of the line-up, but still, you had never expected yourself to be so close to Jomes Chorles himself. You make a weird gesture with your hands, half wave half excited wiggle, as if you’re telling the audience to calm down, when, in fact, it is you that needs calming.

He goes saying his hello’s like doing a public service, name by name, before, lastly, uttering, “Hi, Miss Y/n. Loooove the vids.”

He’s a roach in disguise, who could’ve known?! Your audience is so diverse and unexpected, gosh, you’d shed a tear if the mascara wasn’t so expensive.

“Hi!” You reply with a grin, and it’s genuine this time, a glimmer of your old self, “Hi, I love your videos, too. It’s like, really cool to finally meet you.”

“Oh my God, you too!” Is his enthusiastic reply, “Okay, the energy in the studio today? Love it.”

“Is this all of us?” Quackity asks.

“Sadly.” James says with a note of disappointment.

“HEY!”

“Okay, guys!” Ash chimes, “Let’s do this! Proximity Among Us, round one, go go go!”

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

Luck does not shine upon you during the first round- you are stuck as Crew Mate, your life cut short by Bretman who had the audacity to bite your head off. You’re positive Ke$ha wrote her hit single Cannibal about him, and if she didn’t, she definitely had a That’s So Raven moment and predicted it. It’s also insanely suspicious as after you are eliminated he sticks real close to Corpse, feigning innocence (and this is a controversial opinion you do not endorse) better than even you. It wounds your pride, having been picked off so casually, so quickly, and now stuck a ghost you roam the halls of the dying spaceship, lost, confused, heartbroken.

Charlie runs past you, not once even glancing in your direction. “Brother...” You mutter sadly, “Do you not see me here? Do you not feel... the loss of your twin’s heartbeat...?" Damn, these mimosas really are making you emotional. You sniffle and take a sip to calm the storm within you. No rage, just sadness. You are still processing your own tragic demise.

Suddenly, a meeting is called. There’s a horrible red X on your astronaut. You are the only one dead so far, and of course the rest won’t vote out the fucker. How bitterly you sit! With your arms crossed over your chest and your glare sharp enough to cut through glass. Fuck the sad shit, now you’re just angry. At the very least, the second Impostor could’ve given you some company!

“I knew something felt off.” Charlie is first to speak.

“Who the fuck killed Y/n?” Corpse questions, and his voice ignites a whole discussion that lasts much too short. The others skip, having no suspect yet. It’s much too soon to start pointing fingers, but you still feel like they should have at least tried. Pouting, you fix yourself another drink.

“Stop drinking!?” You gasp, exasperated at your chats demands, “I’m dead! What else should I do, the tasks?! Nah, fuck that. I’m done. I’m out. Charlie better employ his fucking detective skills because if the Impostors win, I will literally quit the game--yes I will, no I’m not bullshitting, fucking watch me.”

Thankfully, Bretman was caught venting, and you didn’t have to end the stream prematurely. The second Impostor, your roommate (oh, the betrayal, Rae, how could you?!) was voted out due to Corpse’s suspicion. Victory to the Crew Mates! The game restarts and you find yourself back in the lobby.

“Miss Y/n,” Bretman says, “I am sooo sorry for killing you first, baby. It was just too easy. I couldn’t pass it up.”

Giggling, Quackity chimes, “Sister slaughtered.”

“Oh my God,” James groans, “shut up!”

“Yeah, Y/n.” Charlie speaks, and there’s an accusatory note in his calm voice, “Why the fuck did you allow yourself to be eliminated first? Real noob shit, I expected more of you.”

“HUH?!” You frown, “What’s with the victim blaming?! I literally was doing my task and Bretman snuck up on me. It’s not like I had a weapon to defend myself!”

“You have been avenged,” Corpse states, “and that’s all that matters.”

“Thank you, Corpse!” You say, “At least someone cares.”

“Hey, I helped, too!” Dream pipes up.

“No, you didn’t.” Corpse shoots him down, “I was the only one.”

“You were not--”

“Literally was. Isn’t that right, Sykkuno?”

“Uhhhh-” Sykkuno trails off, “Well, we-we all helped!” You can hear his shy smile, and you just know he’s bobbing his head up and down at this exact moment, “We all helped. Team work!”

“Team work!” The rest echo, save for yourself, Corpse, Charlie, and the two Impostors. Silence speaks more than a thousand words or whatever. You pray to any higher power willing to listen to finally assign you the role of the villain, the one you were born to do. 

Sadly, higher powers must have either shitty customer service or are in need of hearing aids, and you almost scream in frustration when your astronaut appears along with the others, the bold CREW MATE title chipping away at your master plan.

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

“Hey, Y/n, hey! Hey, Y/n!” Rae finds you in Cafeteria, where you, metaphorically, are eating your feelings. Not that she needs to know, of course. She sounds chipper, a bit ditsy, and that must mean she’s sufficiently tipsy. You store that information for later, and forget about it as soon as you notice Dream and Sykkuno, like her very own personal bodyguards, trailing after her, “Wanna play a game?!”

“Is this Saw?” You inquire, somewhat lazy. You’d be lying if you said the alcohol wasn’t affecting you, it’s just instead of making you bubbly, it makes you mellow. This was supposed to be fun, you were supposed to terrorize everyone and laugh as they perished by your hand, yet here you are, wallowing in self-pity. The roaches start worrying. The donation jingle chimes.

BEATINGS & SLUTATIONS yns_fishnets donated 5$ mom just wait it out & dont worry youll get your vengeance soon lead them on!!!!

Your fishnets have a point! 

“Saw?--No, no, haa, no it’s a drinking game.” Dream sounds like he has had one too many rounds of this mysterious game, and naturally, you are intrigued.

“Where we drink!” Sykkuno clarifies. Right, well that explains everything! If you had any questions, you surely have none now.

“Okay, so, name a category, and you have to, like, say a word associated with it...Or something along those lines.” You hadn’t even agreed and Rae is explaining the rules already. She knows you too well. It’s both a blessing and a curse, “Can be anything! Okay, Y/n, Y/n, Y/n start!”

“Uhh--” If only your brain computed as fast as she spoke! “Song lyrics! Wait--who drinks?”

“You fail, you drink!” She hurries, “Choke me like you hate me but you love meeeeee. Syk, go, go go!”

“Uhm, ah, I don’t wanna feel like this, uh, fuck?” He laughs--it’s a raspy, embarrassed little sound, “I don’t...wanna look like this? Dream, now you!”

“Wait, we’re singing Corpse’s songs?”

“Any song!” You urge him quickly, “Hurry! Or drink!”

“She say I kill her cat like I'm Luka Magnotta--”

“Hey! That’s cheating! You can’t use my song!” Rae protest.

“That wasn’t in the rules!” He counters.

“Y/n! Time’s running out!” Sykkuno exclaims.

“Oh, uh, will-will the real Slim Shady please stand up!”

NOT EMINEM WHAT THE FUCK

MOOOM WHT THE HELL THIS ISNT 2008 T_T

“Ra-Ra-Rasputin, Russia’s greatest love machine--”

“All...All the other kids with the pumped up kicks better, uhh, run better run, faster...-faster than my gun?”

“Uhh, shit--fucking hell.” Dream laughs, and Rae practically screams at him to keep going, “Alright! Okay! I’m singing--uh, you’re so golden, na na na na?”

“I tell you what a woman loves most,” You chime gleefully, “it’s a man who can slap but can also stroke.”

finally, the mother mother representation we’ve all been waiting for

i aint exactly gay but i aint exactly not gay >:)

the bis won

“I steal a few breeeeaaaths from the woooorld for a minute--”

“Mitski?!” You question, eyes bulging, “Baby, who hurt you?”

Even if you can’t see her, you know she’s waving her arms around and shaking her head, “Not the point! Sykkuno!”

“Uh, I-I, uhm, I don’t--”

“Drinnnnk!” You all chorus. 

“It was a good concert,” You say, “Syk, I’ll drink with you.”

“Thank you, Y/n. That’s very kind of you.” He says softly, with a smile lining his lips. You grin.

“Oh, fine. Everyone, bottoms up!” Rae decides, and no one protest. A moment of silence passes, then, “Well, GG, GG, let’s do some tasks?”

Your enthusiastic Ariana Grande-esque “yuh” is cut short by the second meeting of game two being called. The first one to go had been Ash, voted out during a bathroom break as a joke, and you still feel a bit bad about that. Now, you notice Charlie has been eliminated. A sense of righteousness fills you--while you mourn for your brother from another mother and father and family tree, you feel like this is divine punishment for slandering you before the start of this round. Karma. Nothing much is discussed, and the meeting ends shortly with everyone skipping. 

You spend a good ten minutes wandering around with Dream, who’s mission appears to be convincing you to join his Minecraft server, and really, there was no need for him to try so hard. You failed to provide him with a concrete answer only because it would've been to humiliating to admit that you agreed instantly upon hearing the word Minecraft.

That’s when things get fucking weird. Another meeting is called whilst you’re in the middle of fixing lights, and once the board with the members appears you audibly gasp. There had been 8 living, breathing astronauts rushing around the map, and now only 4 remain. You, Corpse, James, and Alex. 

“What the fuck--what the fuck?!” You screech alarmed, noting Dream being among the perished crew, “I was just with Dream fixing the lights, I was just with him, what the fuck--”

“Okay, no one panic.” James says, “Let’s figure this out. Okay? Okay. Who else is close to Electrical?”

“I’m at Nav.” Quackity says.

“I’m at Cafeteria, but Y/n--” Corpse starts, “kinda weird that Dream died when you were with him?”

“I didn’t fucking kill him, I swear to God, Corpse, why are you accusing me?”

“Don’t be so defensive.” He says smoothly, “I’m just pointing out the obvious. We all have a reason to be sus, no? Considering you were right with him.”

“...It is suspicious.” James agrees, and a part of you dies inside. You understand their hesitance to trust you, but it doesn’t make it any less frustrating!

“Guys, I didn’t kill him, I swear. He invited me to play Minecraft, I wouldn’t do that to him, not after that!”

Corpse merely hums, and it brings no comfort what’s so ever. The situation is spiraling, and not in your favor. Trying to salvage your chances at freedom, you try again, “Wh-James, James, you called the meeting, right?”

“Yeah, I found Rae’s body near Medical.”

“So I couldn’t have killed her and Dream at the same time!” You latch onto that piece of information, hoping it will save you.

“You could’ve vented.” Corpse points out, “Plus, there’s no telling how old the body is.”

“Killing five fucking people? It’s the work of one person, or else the game would have already ended. As it stands, I am no way sober enough to think all of this out.”

A brief silence hangs in the air; your lungs constrict from tension, from spilling words so hotly. You grasp your glass, as if for emphasis, and take a shy sip. It taste sweet, a bit too sweet for your liking. Must be your nerves. You drink again to wash the taste out of your mouth, which, surprisingly, doesn’t work. You whine a little, stomping your feet like a child about to throw a temper tantrum.

“...I believe her.” Quackity says. You breathe out a sigh of relief.

“Alex, thank youuuuuu!” You gush, batting your lashes as if he could somehow see you and that would somehow portray your innocence, “I knew I liked you for a reason!”

He mutes his mic, his spill of words lost to your ears, but chat helpfully informs that he’s screaming because you don’t hate him. 

y/n out here collecting men like pokemon cards

Now all that’s left is to convince the others. You start with the one you know will work, “Corpse,” You address him in your sweetest voice.

“Y/n,” James warns, “don’t you dare--”

“Baby, I didn’t kill anyone, I’m crew mate, you gotta believe me.”

“She's innocent.” Corpse declare, thoroughly convinced.

“Oh my fucking God, you fucking simp!” James laughs, “She’s obviously manipulating you!”

“No, no, she isn’t. She’s innocent, I agree with Quackity. Now, it’s either you or him.”

“Could be you for all we know!” Alex accuses.

“Guys, time’s running out.” You mutter fretfully, noting the seconds tick by from white to red. 

“I’m voting Alex.” Corpse says.

“What?! Fucking traitor! Fine, I’m voting for you.” Alex hisses.

“Ugh, hate agreeing with Quackity, but I’m also voting Corpse. Sorry, hon, nothing personal.” James says. The VOTED icons pop up beside their characters and you panic, pressing your mouse idly but it’s too late, there wasn’t enough time, and you cry as Corpse is thrown into lava. The chat spams F, and it feels like salt on a fresh wound.

In a second you’re back in Cafeteria, shell-shocked and trembling, and Quackity cusses because the Impostor is still among you. His frustration doesn’t last long as you watch in horror as Jams Chortles, beauty guru supreme, murders the only other crew mate in cold blood and all you can do is gape and let his cheerful laughter fill your ears. The screen bleeds red, informing of Impostor victory, the second one being Ash. Looks like you voted her off for the right reason, but little difference did it make.

“Corpse!” You yell past the cacophony of voices, all in varying forms of excitement or anger, beelining for his in-game figure, “Corpse, I’m so sorry, I panicked, I tried pressing the button but I wasn’t quick enough--”

“It’s alright, baby. Don’t worry about it.” He’s so calming, so gentle, you might burst into tears again. What did you do to deserve him? You wish he was with you so you could smother him in a hug. Alas, all you can do now is say “I kith you, mwah!” and rush to the other side of the lobby, as if to hide from such a bold display of affection, even if it was a joke (it wasn’t).

yall say corpse simps for y/n but the reality is y/n simps for corpse harder

queen stop its embarrassing

bhaddies can simp!! i wouldnt but its her choice <3

More deliberations, commentary, and short breaks. Once everyone has returned, the countdown starts. You’re still reeling from the chaos of emotions, the five stages of grief you experienced in 1 second upon Corpse’s unjust demise, that it takes you a moment, a single heartbeat to realize what you’re seeing on screen.

The letters IMPOSTOR hang above your astronaut, with Dream standing just behind you as your newly appointed partner in crime. And suddenly, all the sadness and the tenderness and sympathy vanish with a curt exhale. You slowly turn your head to the chat, muting the Discord call, your soft chuckle of disbelief turning into a full blown laugh.

it’s happening!!!! 

omg omg omg omg

VILLAIN ARC VILLAIN ARC VILLAIN ARC

You slap your palm over your lips, trying to contain your wicked smile, to tone down your broken giggles, “N-No, I can’t laugh yet,” shaking your head softly, you look into the camera, “they’re all going to die.”

pack it up light yagami

this has awoken something in me.

^ same

The crew mates go their own ways, rushing to do their tasks like the diligent little workers they are. How adorable. Their grim fate is still miles away from them. The shit you’ll pull will be for the history books. Much like your outfit, which you picked keeping in mind your newfound thirst for blood, you had devised your plan of action with care and consideration. You had been mulling it over all day, drawing on paper like the absolute madwoman you are; hell, you even made sticky notes on who to go for first and what to say. Sure, being moderately drunk hinders your memory slightly (an understatement of the century), but you got a feel for what you’re going to do. It’s nothing short of evil.

Dream and you don’t exchange words, you merely nod at him-- which he, of course, can’t see-- but your criminal bond enables telepathic communication. You can hear his thoughts, ones that strangely sound like drink drink, drink drink. And really, who are you to refuse such an enticing offer?! As he fucks off to stalk his victims, or play pretend, you take a sip. The cocktail is still sweet, but this time it’s not the icky sweet you had tasted prior. You glance at your sticky notes, ones the roaches can’t see, and nearly spill your drink for the second time today as you jerk.

“Fuck!” You exclaim, shoving your headphones off and spinning in your chair. You hastily stand up, wobble -- the world is pleasantly funny right about now -- and giggle. Stepping past the mountains of abandoned clothes and pillows and blankets and anime plushies, you maneuver your way to your bedside table and yank it open, nearly taking out the whole drawer with you. In the mess of old diaries and bad drawings, pencils, jewelry, and stickers, you fish out something you should not be wielding in your inebriated state.

It’s a knife.

In midst of teenage angst you had ordered it off of Amazon with your mom’s credit card, all the while whining that it’s not a phase, mom, and it’s what all of my cool kid friends with fried hair have, and don’t you want me to fit in, don’t you want your daughter to be happy?! You think it’s about that time, the time of too much uneven eyeliner and black eye shadow, that she took to calling you little raccoon. Trash rabbit was your personal favorite, but she used it sparingly. When you presented your Macy’s outfit, holding up a fucking butterfly knife, to your dad, asking if it was a look, he glanced up from some boring business magazine all boring business dads read and said, with a bright smile might you add, “It’s a something!”.

Oh, how it gleams in the lilac light. You used to do tricks with it, back in eight grade maybe, and--what the fuck? Why did you parents allow you to buy it in the first place? Well, because you’re the only child, the only one important, of course they got it for you and clapped enthusiastically at your performances, because why wouldn’t they? The whining they’d face otherwise would’ve been harder to endure than a whole dance number to Panic! At The Disco’s greatest hits. Broadway looked so fucking shabby in comparison. Your mom said so, so it must be true.

Stumbling back to your extremely confused viewers, you take your seat, feeling a bit more grounded now that you’re not standing on your platform shoes anymore. Putting on your headphones, you grin at the chat that starts swimming, and not from too much drinking either. You do a quick flick of your wrist, one that thankfully doesn’t end in injury, and the sharp tip of the exposed knife points upwards, glimmering. It’s a rainbow colored one, because one, it’s pretty, and two, you weren’t hardcore enough for the jet-black or straight up military ones the other emo kids had. Cute and dangerous, just like you.

So you just sit there, holding it up, looking somewhat sly as the roaches capture this momentous moment with screen-caps. Someone definitely clipped you trudging past the obstacle course to obtain a weapon of mass destruction. You must be already trending on Twitter, though you can’t exactly log on and confirm your suspicions. You just feel like you might be, like you should be, because your audience wouldn’t let this slide. Thankfully, your friends don’t have time to check social media, or you’d be outed in an instant.

“Y/n?” Your roommates voice booms from your headphones, and you perk up with a stupid realization that you completely forgot about Among Us. Stuck at the start, at the lobby where Dream had left you, you see her astronaut waddling to you, “What are you doing here? Wait--Have you not moved from the beginning?” She can barely finish the sentence without giggling. 

You grin, “I was looking for something.”

Your voice is soft, too calm for your usual frantic spill. You gently set the knife down, hand coming to rest on your mouse, fingers idly, slowly, bouncing on the buttons.

“...What were you looking for?” She’s none the wiser, the numerous drinks consumed tonight numbing her sharp mind. She would have noticed. Your eerie composure would’ve given it away in a heartbeat, or at least hinted at something being objectively wrong. But she sounds curious. Poor girl, hasn’t she heard? Curiosity killed the cat.

“A knife.”

“A knife?!” There’s something about her tone that implies a mental clicking, the puzzle pieces falling together, “You have a knife?!”

“Yes.”

“No!”

You think it would only be appropriate that the random sequence of killing animations renders the backstabbing one. You grin, biting your lower lip with a quiet snicker.

i love women

if evil bad...why seggy?

You take your time leaving her there -- in true serial-killer-to-be fashion, you stick around for a bit longer, admiring your handiwork, or more like the chat singing your praises. You joined today with the intent of making an interesting stream. You have no doubt in your mind that now it will be legendary.

You move down the hallway, and you let your imagination wander: you can almost feel the stuffy air of your helmet, can almost hear your loud footsteps echoing in all this hush, can almost see your reflection in the spotless tile floor. It’s not long before your second victim makes an appearance, running circles in Cafeteria. You hear his voice first before you see him, recognizing Alex by his unhinged screech of “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s goooo!” 

“And what’s got you so excited?” How cool and collected you are, gosh, you barely contain the quiver of excitement that threatens to slip out. 

“Y/n!” He exclaims, rushing to your side like a lost puppy--he’s really making this easy for you, he’s not even trying, “You just missed--Oh my fucking God, you just missed James, he-he called me tall, he called me fucking tall! Let’s go, let’s gooooo!”

“Well, you are tall, aren’t you?” You chime sweetly, almost as sweet as the drink that lingers on the tip of your tongue, “Real 6′3 energy, no?”

“Yes, yes, exactly! You get it, you fucking get it--” Once again, his mic goes mute, and you glance at the chat for help.

hard to transcribe what hes saying but hes taking shots and yelling that he loves you good job mom

hey, queen! girl, you have done it again, constantly raising the bar for us all and doing it flawlessly

mom plz dont kill alex hes too cute hes all uwu rn

Oh, how you’re about to break his poor little heart. If you had any good left in you, you’d spare him. You don’t, and you’re not taking requests at the moment, so all you do is smile at your chat and they know. They just do. Hive-mind shit, you’re all two-faced little fuckers.

You giggle, and it sounds a tad fake, “You’re so weird, Alex,” You start, and he’s back in the call, a sound of confusion echoing in your ears, “but I get it, you know. You’re weird. You’re a weirdo. You don’t fit it, and you don’t want to fit in. I mean, really, has anyone even seen you without your stupid hat?”

“...Do--” He sputters, bellowing a laugh, “Do you have that whole fucking monologue memorized?!”

“Is it because you’re bald?”

“I’m not fucking bald!” His giddiness is quickly replaced by anger.

You hum, pretend to think, lastly barking a “Liar.” before you kill him. His scream is cut off, leaving only deafening silence at it’s wake. Unlike with Rae, you don’t stick around. You didn’t appreciate how little he enjoyed your recital.

You run into James near Navigation, most likely on his way to Cafeteria. He ends his song mid-note, and you breathe a sigh of relief, “Finally! Someone! I’ve been looking all over, where the hell is everyone?” You question, blocking his way, lest he accidentally stumbles onto the crime scene and easily pins it on you. You’re not done yet.

“Honestly? No clue. I’m searching for them myself, like, everyone’s scattered. I hope no one died.”

You smile. You tried not to, but you can’t contain it, “Me, too.” You echo the sentiment, urging him to join you, and he does. Too trusting. Everyone in this game is too fucking trusting. You lead him back to Nav, feigning that you have a task here. As you pretend to move the spaceship, you can’t help but ask, “Hey, James?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s your favorite scary movie?”

A beat of silence passes, “Oh no, fuck that, I don’t like this at all.” He states, about to spin on his heel and bolt like he should do, but you’re quicker-- killer instincts and all-- and he’s dead before he makes it out the doorway.

“See, after your No More Lies video, I figured you’d only tell the truth.” Yes, this is the part of the anime where the villain monologues, only the hero in this case is an astronaut cut in half, and not exactly alive to listen to you. You hope James’ ghost sticks around, “Case in point, why the fuck did you tell Quackity he’s tall?” You eye the chat, which’s mostly spamming W and comparing you to Ryo from Devilman Crybaby. “Such a shame...” You murmur, pressing the REPORT button.

“What?! How are so many people dead?!” Ash gasps, her kind voice tinted with fear and confusion. Your three kills, like military stars on an uniform of a distinguished officer, are displayed on the board. Dream appears to be slacking, having yet to take a life.

“Someone’s been real fucking busy.” Charlie observes. It’s true, you have been.

“I found James in Nav, but holy shit--” You begin, exasperated, “--what the fuck, guys, how did we miss this shit? Where is everyone?”

“I’m at Electrical.” Corpse voices.

“And I’m with Corpse.” One sentence is all it takes to figure out your next target: Bretman. Revenge for being killed first in the first goddamn round, and for spending so much time with your boyfriend.

Eep!!! Boyfriend boyfriend boyfriend!!! The word even makes you forget your thirst for blood, that’s how whipped you are. Sadly, it’s time to return to reality, to this grave situation.

“And what have the two of you been conspiring?” You keep your tone level, but that alone is enough to set everyone off. The unease you had planted within them before the game started is starting to bloom. However, if they suspect you, they don’t speak up, not yet.

“Fishnets, mostly.” Corpse says.

only partly a lie he was mostly talking abt u queen <3

corpse simping for y/n is the sweetest thing ever

the times corpse used y/ns name when talking abt y/n: 1. the times he used baby or my baby: infinite

“I’m wearing them right nyoooow.” Bretman drawls.

You hum, “What a coincidence. I am, too.”

“Wait--For real?” That seems to catch Corpse’s attention, because of course it does, you picked them with him in mind, after all.

“No peeping.” You tsk, obviously referring to his tendency to hop onto your stream unprompted. Whether he actually listens to your demands is beyond you, “Peeping means cheating.”

“For the love of fuck all, can we get back to the three dead bodies, please? Because I’m about to have a second coming of Christ moment and taste my consumed, digested beer for the second time.” Charlie interjects.

“I mean, anyone have any ideas who’d do this?” Dream takes hold of the conversation. Quiet, disappointed nos greet him. They have nothing to go on, no clues, not even a subliminal message. With everyone scattered, there is no way of locating the actual bodies and drawing a long red trail leading back to you. 

You’re too good at lying, and Dream is too good of a publicist. People tend to trust his judgement, which is his main asset (besides his calm demeanor of course). When the Among Us gods chose you as Impostor, they made sure you had every advantage. 

“Who-Who do you think it is, Dream?” Ash questions, “I trust you. I do. Just know that.”

“No fucking clue.”

“Y/n?” She tries again.

“Same. I’m a bit worried, though.”

“Let’s, uhhh, let’s skip?” Sykkuno offers. The consensus is to start voting at six. Your new mission is to make sure you dwindle the numbers down drastically before that can happen. You have no qualms about sacrificing Dream in order to meet your goals, either. Absolutely cold blooded.

Back at Cafeteria, there are words exchanged about Quackity’s body just laying there, forgotten. Blame is shifted: how come we didn’t notice sooner? Where’s Rae? And you mindlessly go along with their mourning, not really paying attention. Dream leaves with Charlie and Sykkuno, Corpse requests you stay with him and you sprout fake apologies. Not his time yet. Us girls need to stick together!, you sing, following after Ashley and getting further and further away from him, going deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of the spaceship.

You find yourself in Security with her, her cute astronaut pressed to the cameras, watching the live feed, “Let’s lurk here, okay? Maybe we’ll see something.” If only she saw who was standing behind her. 

“Who do you think is the Impostor?” You ask, standing in the doorway, “Or, more like, who are the Impostors?”

“Honestly?” She ends her word with a little sigh, “I think it might be Corpse and Bretman. I haven’t seen them at all this game.”

You smile, raising your brows, tilting your heard, and you sound so kind, like a dear old friend about to deliver a tender message, “...Have you seen me?”

“SHIT!”

Too late. In one smooth motion she joins the afterlife. You cut the lights, venting mindlessly till you spot Corpse and Bretman panicking in Weapons. Your existence is still a mystery to them.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck--” Corpse mumbles, “Bretman, don’t you dare fucking kill me right now.”

“I’m not Impostor!”

“Okay, I’ll drink to that.”

They rush out of Weapons, most likely on their way to Electrical, and you trail after them like the Grim Reaper itself, biding your time till you can deliver the killing blow.

“Corpse?!” You call out, mild panic ringing in your voice, “Is that you?”

“Shit, Y/n? Where are you?” He questions. Crew vision is so sad, so small, how can he not see you standing almost right next to him? “Where’s Ash?”

“I dunno,” You say, “when the lights went out I ran. Please don’t kill me.”

“I’d never do that, baby.”

Too easy. They’re all too fucking easy. You bite your lower lip, trying to stop the laugh bubbling in your chest, to stop the lightheaded dizziness that overcomes you with a rush of excitement. 

“Thanks, pretty boy.” You mutter, and it sounds a bit lower than you intended, a bit darker, something sinister lurking underneath cotton candy words. It instantly clicks in Bretman and he makes a noise, something like a whine, and you see him backing away, “I know I can always trust you.” 

Whether Corpse notices the odd shift in tone, he doesn’t show it, “I like it when you call me that.” Is all he says, and you hear the smile in his voice, the appreciation. The trek to Electrical is all but forgotten. You slowly make your way to Bretman, “Where are you? Come here.”

“Just a minute,” You say cheerily, “I just need to kill Bret first.”

“Holy shit.”

“N-” Your victim’s sentence is cut off in a second, and you can’t contain your manic cackle this time, because the screen bleeds red, the words VICTORY splattered on it, depicting yours and Dream’s sneaky astronauts. You’re still laughing as the voices of your fallen friends ring in your ears.

“Y/n, what the fuck, you’re an actual monster.” Dream says, but there’s no actual weight behind his words, each syllable punctured with a laugh.

“I knew the second she asked me about my favorite scary movie that I’d get the chop.” James states.

“Wait, Y/n, did you kill everyone?” Corpse questions.

“She fucking did!” Dream answers for you, “I got Charlie and Sykkuno, and barely at that. What the fuck.”

“I’ve been waiting so fucking long for this.” You admit, giggling, raising you glass, “I toast to you, Dream. My perfect partner in crime.”

“I didn’t really do shit, but cheers.”

Quackity heaves a heavy sigh, “Y/n, Y/n, you don’t actually think I’m weird, right? Right?”

“No, she does.” James chimes.

“WHAT THE FUCK DID I EVER DO TO YOU, DUDE?!”

More commotion, more noise, and you just sit there, buzzed, snickering, reading the chat as the rest agree to play another round. You thank the people who donated that you had accidentally missed among the, you know, murder, reply to a few questions, bow dramatically to the many praises and invisible flowers you receive for such beautiful assassin work. When you look back at the screen, you throw your head back with a maniacal laugh.

Impostor again, only this time it’s with Charlie. Family bonds are often restored when united under a common goal. You’re so happy. So happy. You weren’t done terrorizing your friends yet.

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

tags (in italics is those i couldn’t tag! make sure all’s ok w your settings!) : @littlebabysandboxburritos​ - @fairywriter-oracle​ - @tsukishimawh0re​ - @ofstarsanddreams​ - @bbecc-a​ - @annshit​ - @leahh19​ - @letsloveimagines​ - @bellomi-clarke​ - @wineandionysus​ - @guiltydols​ - @onephootinfrontoftheother​ - @liamakorn​ - @thirstyfangirl​ - @lilysdaydreams​ - @pan-ini​ - @mxqicshxp​ - @tanchosanke​ - @yoshinorecommends​ - @flightsandfantasy​ - @liljennyx3​ - @bingusmode - @unknown-and-invisible​ - @sinister-sleep​ - @fivedicksinatrenchcoat​ - @mercury–moon - @peterparkerspjsuit​ - @unstableye​ - @simonsbluee​ - @shinyshimaagain​ - @ppopty​ - @siriuslystupid​ - @crapimahuman​ - @ofthedewthesunlight​ - @mythicalamphitrite​ - @artsyally​ - @corpsesimpp​ - @corpsewhitetee​ - @corpse-husbandsimp​ - @hyp-oh-critical​ - @roses-and-grasses​ - @rhyrhy462​ - @sparklylandflaplawyer​ - @charbkgo​ - @airwaveee​ - @creativedogs​ - @kaitlyn2907​ - @loxbbg​ - @afuckingunicornn​ - @fleurmoon​ - @yeolliedokai​

more tags are in the comments bcs tumblr only allows me to tag 50 people max 💙

[the-bau-quinjet]

Shut Up!

Summary: request! Bucky and Y/N hate each other... or so they say.

Warnings: as Steve would say: Language!, but really it's just a bunch of fluff.

Word Count: 1798

a/n: Italics are thoughts in their heads!!

This request brought me so much joy to think about. Happy Birthday anon! Thank you so much for all the love!!! ❤️ 💕 💗 💖 💘

"BARNES!" You screamed, giving him the customary warning before throwing your least favorite knife at him.

He flung himself backward, catching the knife in midair.

Damn, that's hot. You shook the thought away, glaring at Bucky as he turned to look at you.

"Did you just throw a knife at me?" He asked, incredulous.

You rolled your eyes. "You deserved it. Plus, I warned you." You bit back.

"Y/N, you can't just throw knives at people." Steve sighed, tired of the two of you arguing all the time.

"I don't throw knives at people. Just Bucky." You said his name with disgusted expression. "And he deserved it!"

"What the hell did he do to deserve being impaled by a knife?" Sam chuckled, but only to keep the mood light.

"He wasn't impaled. I knew he would dodge it." You defended yourself, sneering at Bucky's smug grin.

"Not the point. What did he do?" Steve asked again, trying to clear the air despite it never working before.

You pulled the beanie you were wearing off your head, showing off your freshly bleached hair. It was nearly white, a stark platinum blonde contrasting your typical dark style.

"You know what they say, 'blondes have more fun'. I was just looking out for your social life." Bucky smirked, enjoying the rage.

She's so cute when she's angry. He thought as he stared at you.

Sam snorted, trying to hold in the laugh under your glare.

"How thoughtful." You quipped sarcastically, leaning in to threaten him. "I'm going to get you back for this." Your words were laced with venom, the anger palpable even in the vast gym.

"Looking forward to it! Thanks for the knife!" Bucky called as you stormed away, ignoring the thoughts lingering in his head. Not cute. Hot. So very hot when she's angry.

-

The next few days, Bucky heard nothing from you. He didn't think much of it, considering you were likely plotting. It wasn't until you started being uncharacteristically sweet to him that he grew nervous.

"Hey, Buck, Steve." You smiled as you walked up to him and Steve.

"Hi, Y/N." Steve greeted you warmly, glad to see you at least acting cordial after the stunt Bucky pulled.

"Hi..." Bucky hesitated, unsure of what you were playing at.

He's so adorable when he's nervous. You shook your head, getting back on track.

"I brought you some drinks!" You excitedly exclaimed, handing the drink carrier to Steve since Bucky seemed frozen in place. "Protein smoothie for Steve, chocolate milkshake for Bucky."

You walked away without another word, throwing a thumbs up to accept Steve's thanks.

Steve happily drank his smoothie, enjoying the energy boost. Bucky just stared at the milkshake before throwing the entire thing away.

"Buck! Don't be a jerk. She bought that for you." Steve huffed, annoyed with his friend's childish behavior.

"I can't trust anything she gives me unless I saw it being made." He shrugged as if it was obvious.

"Jerk, she's not going to poison you." Steve rolled his eyes.

"You don't know that." Bucky shook his head, walking into the kitchen. The idea of a milkshake made him hungry.

The next day, you were back with more treats. This time a cinnamon roll for Steve, something he said was his guilty pleasure, and a chocolate eclair for Bucky. You were grinning ear to ear as Steve thanked you profusely.

She's so adorable when she's this happy.

Once again, Bucky threw it away, ignoring the glare Steve shot his way.

The next days followed the same pattern. You would seek out Bucky and Steve, giving each of them some snack, dessert, or drink. Bucky threw it away every single time, not trusting your motives.

You didn't break pattern for a solid week, watching as Steve grew increasingly annoyed with Bucky throwing away all of your treats.

"I made cookies!" You walked into the living room where everyone was enjoying movie night. You handed out cookies to every member of the team, saving Bucky for last.

As you walked back into the kitchen to return the platter, you heard Steve whisper yell at Bucky.

"Just eat the cookie." Steve glared, thinking you would be upset if you saw him through it away.

"I can't! What if she did something to it?" Bucky whispered right back.

"Buck! She gave one to everyone! You really think she would purposefully keep track of one specific cookie just to get you back?" Steve rolled his eyes, completely fed up with the situation.

"Yes! I really do!" Bucky defended.

"Eat the damn cookie." Steve spoke between his teeth, elbowing him in the side.

"Fine." Bucky hesitated in bringing the cookie up to his mouth, but ultimately gave in.

As soon as he swallowed the cookie, he knew something was off. His whole body felt tingly, but there was a pleasant warmth to it.

A sudden bright flash of light had you walking back into the room, watching as Bucky turned into a cat.

"What the hell..." Sam turned, glancing between the small white kitten and Steve's shocked expression.

He's cuter as a person. You couldn't stop the thought from popping into your head, causing you to chuckle.

Steve suddenly whipped his head to you.

"Y/N. What did you do?" He sighed, exasperated but a little impressed.

A small meow followed the question, earning various "awws" from the entire room.

"I turned him into a cat." You shrugged nonchalantly, pretending this was a normal occurrence.

"Did everything you brought him this week have the power to do... that?" He gestured to Bucky, who hissed at Steve as if to say I told you so.

"Nope." You shook your head, laughing as Bucky wobbled across the couch, not used to how it felt to move as a feline. "I knew he would think I did something to them, so I didn't. Just plain old snacks."

Damn, she is so fucking smart. Bucky's thoughts came out as a purr, startling the room.

"How long is tinman stuck as a cat?" Tony laughed, enjoying the sight.

"Just a few hours. Long enough to think about why he deserves this." You gestured to your hair.

"Can we take pictures of him in cute cat outfits?" Nat questioned, always up for blackmail material.

You pulled a shopping bag out from behind you, pulling a series of Avenger themes costumes.

"I'm one step ahead of you." You grinned devilishly, swiftly scooping Bucky up from off the couch.

-

"You're evil." Bucky glared at you as soon as he turned back into a human.

"You deserved it. Plus, you were so cute as a little kitten." You pouted.

That pout is doing things to me. Bucky shook his head, trying to maintain the angry facade. He ran his hands through his hair, causing your own thoughts to spiral.

What I would give to run my hands through his hair when he wasn't a cat.

"You turned me into a cat!" He yelled, chasing you down the hall back to the living room.

"You died my hair platinum fucking blonde!" You screamed right back, turning on him once you made it to the end of the hallway.

"I can't stand you." Bucky spat, while simultaneously thinking if only she wanted to touch me not as a cat.

"Yeah, well newsflash! I can't stand you either." You glared right back.

The team watched on with amused expressions.

"Who wants to see pictures of kitty Barnes in cat costumes?" You turned to the room, a wide grin adorning your lips. Without waiting for an answer, you displayed your phone on the TV screen.

He is so damn cute. Cat or no cat. You laughed as you swiped through the pictures.

Bucky tried to grab the phone from you, not wanting to give you the satisfaction of enjoying this too much.

Her laugh is like music.

"Oh my god! Shut up!" Wanda suddenly stood up, pointing at the both of you. "You two pretend to hate each other so much, but your thoughts tell different stories."

Your mouth dropped open, shocked at both Wanda's volume and words.

Bucky wore a similar expression, eyes wide and heart beating fast.

"Wanda, you read my mind?" You tried to deflect the attention.

"No. You were just thinking so damn loud it involuntarily popped into my head." She grinned, trying to impersonate your voice as she quoted your thoughts

"Damn, that's hot. He's so adorable when he's nervous. He's cuter as a person. What I wouldn't give to run my hands through his hair when he wasn't a cat. He is so damn cute. Cat or no cat."

"And those are just from the past week and a half!" She yelled at you.

Bucky grinned smugly, forgetting Wanda also heard his thoughts. "Oh, doll. Why didn't you just say you cared?" He asked in fake sympathy.

You glared at him, ready to fight again when Wanda switched focus.

"Don't start with me Barnes. You think just as loudly!" Her voice took on an exaggerated depth as she impersonated Bucky, sighing dramatically between sentences.

"She's so cute when she's angry. Not cute. Hot. So very hot when she's angry. She's so adorable when she's this happy. Damn, she is so fucking smart. That pout is doing things to me. If only she wanted to touch me not as a cat. Her laugh is like music."

"I can't take it anymore! The two of you are driving me insane." She huffed, barging out of the room in an effort to hear nothing but peace and quiet.

Everyone else quickly followed, figuring the two of you could use a minute to talk.

"You think I'm hot." Bucky stated the fact. "That's embarrassing." He grinned, slowly walking closer to you.

"Not as embarrassing you thinking I'm smart." You countered, a matching grin on your face.

"You want to run your hands through my hair." He smirked, placing his hands on your waist.

"My laugh is like music to your ears." You leaned closer.

"Just kiss already!" Sam shouted from the hallway, but the two of you were in your own world.

"Do you want to get dinner with me? Tomorrow?" Bucky asked, his forehead pressed to yours.

"I'd like that." You smiled back.

The two of you moved in tandem, pressing your lips together, fighting for dominance of the kiss.

You pulled back, breathless and needing air. "I hope you know I'm not deleting the pictures of you as a cat."

"I wouldn't think so." Bucky chuckled, pressing another quick kiss to your lips.

"You know what this means?" He asked, an eyebrow raised.

You grinned conspiratorially while nodding. "We can team up on Wilson!"

"My thoughts exactly." He smiled, pulling you into another breathtaking kiss.

Permanent taglist:

@averyhotchner @jesuswasnotawhiteman

[twittytelly]

My Girl

Jake Jensen x Female Reader

Inspired by

Summary: Jensen returns home from a night out on the town with The Losers, and makes an interesting choice...

Warnings: One swear word, drunken idiocy, fluff.

Word Count: 967

BANG!

You jolted awake, almost certain that someone had kicked the door down. Sitting up, you looked at your phone. 3 AM. You listened for the source of the noise as you recounted what your boyfriend had told you to do if someone broke in when he wasn't around, muttering the steps beneath your breath.

“Ssh!” You heard a familiar voice say, not realising how loud he was being. “You'll wake everyone up and they'll be grumpy!”

Sighing with relief, you relaxed. Of course it was your boyfriend Jensen. He always ended up pretty sloshed after a night out with his teammates, and when he was drunk he was more of a liability than a herd of cattle in a china shop. Turning on your bedside lamp, you listened out as Jensen stumbled through the house, making his way to your shared bedroom. The door creaked as Jenson opened it slowly, poking his head thorough the doorway. As he made eye contact with you, he looked at you sheepishly as if he was a toddler that had done something wrong.

“Did I make you grumpy?” Jensen quietly asked, doing his best not to slur his words.

“No, I'm not grumpy at all,” you said, in fact you couldn't hide your amusement. Drunk Jake was always a hilarious occurrence.

“Good,” Jake said as he plodded into the room, taking his glasses off and throwing them onto the floor.

You couldn't help but stare at Jensen as he tore his clothes from his body. After all this time, he still took your breath away. Even in the low light he looked glorious, and you took in his lean muscular body that looked as if it had been carved from marble as he clumsily chucked his clothes every which way. Soon he was stood before you stark bollock naked with a perplexed look on his face, as if he was trying to hack into a government mainframe.

“So, are you getting into bed or what?” You asked, patting Jensen's side of the bed.

“Erm…” Jensen started. “I'm sorry Miss... I mean, you're really pretty and all. But, my girl is the most beautiful, most wonderful woman in the whole world and I would never do anything that would hurt her.”

You couldn't figure out if you were meant to be flattered or insulted by Jensen's statement. But before you had chance to say anything back, Jensen had laid down on the floor and fallen asleep. You jumped out of bed and prodded his shoulder with your foot, but his only response was a loud snore. Kneeling down, you tried to shake him awake, but it was no use, Jake Jensen was dead to the world. There was no way you would be able to carry that hunk of muscle into the bed without injuring at least one of you; and even if one of his fellow Losers was awake and sober enough to come and help you, you knew that Jensen would never live it down.

Pushing yourself back onto your feet, you retreated from the bedroom to grab what you needed. Upon your return, you covered Jensen with a blanket and you did your best to squeeze a pillow beneath his head. Finally, you put his glasses, phone as well as a glass of water and painkillers somewhere where he could see them, but also where they couldn't be knocked over. Climbing back into bed, you had to suppress the giggles that had formed as you thought about what fun you were going to have with Jensen in the morning.

-

Jensen was woken up by a beam of sunlight shining into his eyes. As he slowly sat up, he tried to figure out where on Earth he could be. It didn't help that the room was spinning. Spying the round frames of his spectacles, he reached out and put them on while he tried to get his bearings. He quickly realised that he had been sleeping on the floor of his own bedroom. Before he could think too hard about why he had slept on the floor, he was hit with a wave of nausea and his head began pounding. He reached  for the glass of water and painkillers and figured that you must have left them there.

Jensen slowly stood up on his feet and made his way to the kitchen, grabbing some PJ bottoms from the chest of drawers. As he got closer to the kitchen he was met with the aroma of bacon and fresh bread and Jensen thanked his lucky stars. How did he get so lucky as to have someone as caring and considerate as his girl? As he entered, you had your back to him, placing rashers of bacon between thick buttered slices of crusty bread. You must've sensed him as you quickly turned to him and offered a small, sweet, sympathetic smile.

“How's your head?” you asked.

“It feels like The Petunias have been using it for soccer practice,” said Jake as he sat down at the breakfast bar with a groan. “Thanks for leaving out the water.”

“No problem,” You said as you put the plate as well as a large mug full to the brim with tea in front of him, a smirk forming on your face. “Now eat your bacon and then you're gonna tell me about this beautiful, wonderful girl of yours.”

Jensen gave you a confused look as you watched the gears in his head turn behind his glasses. Sitting on the stool beside him, you couldn't contain your laughter when Jensen gasped as the memories of the night before came flooding back. His face was soon crimson and he buried his face in his hands, cursing under his breath, swearing that he would never drink again.

-

Taglist: @whiskey-cokenfanfic @mrs-captain-evans @katiew1973 @supersoldiersruined-me @kelbabyblue @amiquette @feelmyroarrrr​ @patzammit @daydreamerinadazedworld @denisemarieangelina @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @bellaireland1981 @sweater-daddiesdumbdork​ @georgeweasleydumbhoe @ladydmalfoy

[preromantics]

Praise Kink with IronStrange; Tony seems to need a lot of reassurance.

(Continuing the trend of not being able to control myself when answering what are supposed to be short prompt fills…)

Hope you enjoy! Again, written on my phone so all mistakes are mine and also autocorrects.

Tony/Stephen, E, 1600 words (praise kink but also just dirty talk!)

-

“Total trash,” Tony says, throwing another balled up scrap of paper across the room.

This one, Stephen notes with a raised brow, actually makes it into the small hotel room trash can, an outlier to all the scattered balls of paper littering the floor around it.

He glances back over his book at Tony and sighs. “I thought we were on vacation to, what was it you said? Clear your mind?”

“And avoid that horrible Governor’s Gala,” Tony says, meeting his glance even though he’s already scribbling something new on his fresh page.

“I don’t see how what you’re doing is any different than what you do in New York, except you’ve decided to go with paper instead of your StarkPad,” Stephen says.

Tony is slightly hunched over the desk he’s at now, completely ignoring the lush view of Bali outside of the window in front of him.

Normally Stephen can admit that Tony looks good when he’s immersed in his work, and especially when he’s being quiet — but Stephen had agreed to go on this vacation and try and enjoy time spent not saving this world or another. Which meant Stark had to stop trying to save the world with water purification tech, too.

“You’re reading some ancient wizard book, doesn’t that count as work?” Tony says.

Stephen realizes with a small jolt he was narrating out loud — Tony seems to bring out the best and worst in him, sometimes. Including an honest inner monologue that tends to escape.

Stephen shuts his book with a snap. “Fine, we’ll both stop.”

Tony tears off and crumbles up his current sheet of paper and throws it at Stephen in what Stephen takes to be a childish form of agreement.

“Now what, Doctor?” Tony asks.

Stephen rolls his eyes. “You could start by cleaning up your mess over here. Your aim is terrible, by the way.”

To Stephen’s surprise, and a little to his delight, Tony comes over and drops down to his knees on the floor to gather up his scraps of paper and throw them all into the trash can.

Tony sweeps his hands around in a sarcastic gesture after he plucks the last piece of paper from near Stephen’s foot, a little gleam in his eye that looks enough like a challenge to Stephen to bait him.

For the record, he lets himself be baited by Tony. These days, at least. At first it was hard not to fall into arguments and traded quips whenever he was in Tony’s presence. At some point they went from thinly veiled annoyance to seeking each other out to trade insults like fifth graders with a crush and now — well, now they’re on a mutually agreed upon vacation. Funny how that works.

Stephen sets his book on the table. “Done already? See, was that hard?”

“Next time I’ll practice my aim with your face,” Tony says, though any threat is lost by the fact he’s still on his knees on the floor.

“If you say so,” Stephen says, as he spreads his legs into a more relaxed position in his chair. “In the meantime why don’t you move over here?”

Somewhat surprising is the way Tony complies without another remark, shuffling over until he’s between Stephen’s legs.

Unsurprising is the way Tony’s tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, or the way his eyes are suddenly hooded, his pupils darker when he looks up at Stephen.

“Good job,” Stephen says evenly, tracking the way Tony’s shoulders slump a little, relaxing.

Stephen reaches down and undoes his belt, flicks the button on his slack and then the zip. It’s perfunctory, efficient. Nothing Tony hasn’t seen Stephen do before at this point. But the way Tony is waiting patiently between Stephen’s thighs, on the floor and watching, makes it feel more like a show, a tease, and Stephen is half-hard already.

He may be confident in his own power, his own abilities, but Tony Stark on his knees in a lavish hotel suite and expensive button down, waiting compliantly and without a word for Stephen to pull his cock out, is enough to make Stephen momentarily question his place in the universe.

The way Tony’s mouth closes around the head, all wet warm heat and eager suction is enough to bring him back down to their current plane and recognize this is where he’s meant to be right now.

“This feels like a better use of our time,” Stephen says.

He positions one hand around the base of his cock, angling it better for Tony to take him deeper, and the other hand lightly around the back of Tony’s head.

Tony groans, low and soft around Stephen’s cock at that. Stephen isn’t using any pressure, not even attempting to guide Tony’s head, and yet the idea that he could seems to be enough for Tony.

“That’s it,” Stephen encourages, just letting his fingers brush Tony’s scalp through his hair.

He leans back in his chair, tipping his head and closing his eyes to better enjoy just the sensations: the way Tony flicks his tongue on ever upward pass of his mouth, the way Tony’s hand is splayed over Stephen’s thigh through his slacks.

With his eyes closed he can also hear the rustle of Tony’s other hand, knows without looking that Tony is stroking his own cock, getting off on sucking Stephen and never having the patience to deny himself his own pleasure.

“You couldn’t help yourself?” Stephen asks, lazily looking down to see the way Tony’s mouth is stretching around the head of his cock, his lips trying to curl up into a smile at being caught but barely managing it around his mouth full.

“You never can,” Stephen answers for him. “Always taking what you want, what you need.”

Tony’s expression flashes to something slightly tense, maybe annoyed, and Stephen releases his own cock to stoke down the bulge of Tony’s cheek to soothe it away.

“I like it,” Stephen clarifies. “That sucking me off gets you too hard to wait, to take your time. That you have to touch yourself instead of waiting for me, even though you know I’d gladly return the favor.”

Tony hums softly in agreement, and Stephen sees the angle of his arm change, the movement of his stroke faster even as he languidly swirls his tongue over Stephen.

“Take me further, Stark,” Stephen says. “We both know you can take more than that.”

Tony’s eyes flutter shut as he shifts to accommodate the request, sucking Stephen further down his throat, velvety smooth and tight.

Stephen strokes through Tony’s hair, down his cheek. “Just like that, you’re built for this,” he praises.

“No more working,” Stephen adds, resisting the urge to loll his head back again as Tony quickens his pace, saliva dripping down to the base of Stephen’s cock now in a reflection of Tony’s enjoyment. “This is a much better use of your time, anyway. Might have to keep you like this the whole week.”

Tony moans at that, and the sound of it shoots straight down Stephen’s cock.

He’s learned recently that nothing gets him off harder than bringing Tony to incoherency. Something about getting Tony to shut up and stop thinking and working, knowing Stephen can do it just with a well placed remark and his mouth, his hands, his cock — the power of it is more heady than magic, sometimes.

“You’re just so good like this, Tony,” Stephen says. “So good at taking every inch of me.”

Tony does just that, taking Stephen to the root, this throat sliding open and pulsing around Stephen’s length as his gag reflex kicks in and his pulls back, licking and sucking at the salty precome beading out of the head. He moves his hand from Stephen’s thigh to wrap it around the rest of Stephen’s cock, too, stroking what his mouth isn’t as efficiently able to reach as he pulls Stephen closer to the edge.

“We’re in no hurry,” Stephen says, though he feels it gritty in his throat, the words almost sticking. They have days of leisure spread out before them, and Stephen is already almost ready to come, so he doesn’t have much mind to wait.

He focuses in on the way Tony’s hands are quickening on both of their cocks, slightly out of rhythm as his mouth and motion gets sloppier.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” Stephen asks, though he doesn’t need an answer. “So good at sucking cock you’re desperate about it.”

Tony pulls off with a low “fuck,” and Stephen finally increases the pressure of his hand at the back of Tony’s head, guiding him back until his mouth is too full to say anything else.

“It’s okay,” Stephen says, “you can come when I do. I’ll just take my time later, maybe teach you more patience if you can be good for me, Stark.”

Stephen feels it building, reaches down to knock Tony’s hand off his own cock so he can up the pace, raising his hips in the chair to fuck up into Tony’s mouth a little more urgently than he means to, using the soft spread of his lips to slide deep as his orgasm builds.

“So good, gonna make me come,” Stephen says, reduced to words between pants.

“You can come now,” he adds. “Want you to, right when I come down your throat.”

Tony’s body bucks between Stephen’s thighs as he comes, following directions more perfectly than he does on the battlefield, spilling into his own hand as Stephen spills between his lips.

“Wow,” Tony says, leaning his head on Stephen’s thigh and regaining his voice far faster than Stephen, though he sounds low and wrecked. “I have the best ideas.”

“I’m sorry, who’s idea?” Stephen manages in response — but in the end, as they fall tiredly into the shower together a few minutes later, it doesn’t really matter.

[wlwmarvelenthusiast]

Darkest Secrets

Requested by @mcmorgan9794

Summary: Keeping this secret from Wanda has been hard, but you don't have a choice but to come clean when everything is brought to light.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 3,446

You’d always wanted to tell Wanda your deepest, darkest secret. You had been with her for well over a year, after all. A secret like the one you harboured wasn’t something that you should keep from someone you loved so dearly. But your secret was the ugliest part of yourself. It was something you hated, lurking deep within every inch of your body. It brewed in your blood and rested in your bones, uncontrolled at the best of times and unstoppable at the worst. It was a burden you’d never wanted to place upon the girl you loved.

Yet, keeping it from her hurt too. She’d look at you with those soft green eyes, spilling everything to you. Tears would stream down her cheeks as she’d tell you all about how much she hated the powers she’d been given. You’d hold her close and whisper soft words of comfort, wiping her tears away with the pad of your thumb, refusing to tell her you felt the same about your own. She would tell you everything. You wouldn’t tell her anything. You couldn’t tell her anything. She thought she was a monster. In reality, you were the monster. If she knew that, her heart would shatter.

Sometimes, these facts were all you could think about. It was the quiet moments. Wanda was away getting coffee with Natasha, Tony and Bruce were in the lab, Thor was on Asgard, and Clint was home with his family. You were left alone at the compound. You hardly ventured out of your own room. While silence screamed in the dark room, you tried to distract yourself with a book or a movie, but it didn’t last. Instead, the weight of your secret was crushing the oxygen out of your lungs. It always did. You longed to have Wanda back, to have her by your side and thread your fingers through hers. She didn’t know how agonizing solitude could be.

You curled up in your armchair, pulling your knees up to your chest and curling your arms around them. You squeezed your eyes shut, wishing you could will the overwhelming thoughts out of your head. They were screaming at you. They were reminding you of the monster that lay dormant in your very soul, cackling as they pushed images of what you were capable of. Then you imagined Wanda. You could do her so much harm and she didn’t even know it. Were you putting her in danger every day you lay by her side? You swallowed as you tried to force back the tears.

The dark thoughts came next. They always did. You wondered how much better off the world would be without you. You wondered how much better off she would be without you. She loved you. Losing you would break her heart, but she’d be okay eventually. If you hurt her in the way only you knew you were capable of, you knew she would never be okay again. None of them would. The dam broke and tears spilled down your cheeks. Hurting Wanda Maximoff would kill you.

And as you were about to imagine all the ways you could take yourself and your monster out of this world, your phone rang.

You grabbed the phone off the table, wiping the tears from your eyes with the back of your hand. You took a steadying breath before you even dared look down at the screen. The first thing you noticed wasn’t the person who was calling, but the time. It hadn’t felt like it had been as long as it had since the other had left you alone in the compound. The darkness in your head could do that. You lost track of time often when you reached that place. An hour could pass, then two, and then six.

It was Natasha’s face that was flashing on your screen. Worry filled your gut. Was Wanda okay? She had to be okay. You forced a deep breath in, and then out. Her phone had probably died. The Sokovian was notorious for remembering to plug the charger into her phone, but forgetting to plug it into the wall on the other end. After reminding yourself of that a few times, you finally found the ability to slide the answer button and hold the phone up to your ear.

“Hey.”

“Thank god,” Natasha’s voice said. There was a loud screech in the background, the sound of metal grinding against metal. “Listen you need to get to the hospital.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach. Oxygen caught in your throat and you were barely able to let words squeeze past the lump that had formed. “The hospital?”

“The ambulance is almost there. She’s hurt bad. Don’t come anywhere near Midtown.”

You didn’t even bother to respond. In fact, you didn’t even bother to hang up the phone. You simply slammed it down on the table that you’d only just picked it up from, heading for the elevator. A million thoughts were racing through your head. There were so many emotions tugging at your heart that you could hardly decipher one from the next. Fear, anger, and worry were all fighting to take over every one of your senses. You couldn’t breathe. It was as if on autopilot that you made it to the garage and hotwired one of Tony’s cars.

Scenery was flashing by you, mere streaks outside the windows of the car. The pedal was on the floor beneath your foot. You flexed your fingers; knuckles having gone white with the force of your grip on the steering wheel. Your brain was showing you visuals of Wanda lying on the table, shining green eyes dulled in the absence of life. Head too wrapped up in the thoughts that ran through it, you didn’t realize you weren’t headed for the hospital at all. You were headed toward midtown, exactly where Natasha had told you not to go.

You’d never been an Avenger. You would never be an Avenger. Maybe it was selfish, refusing to help others when you had the ability to. People died and you might have been able to stop it. Your own powers scared you too much to allow you to. It was something you’d decided long ago. The lives of every civilian that you could have saved were worth it. You couldn’t unleash that sinister thing that lived inside you. Yet, here you were, rushing toward the fight like you were Tony Stark in his suit of armour, or Steve Rogers with a vibranium shield strapped to your back.

The car screeched as you slammed your foot down on the brake. The seatbelt dug so hard into your ribs that you weren’t sure a few hadn’t snapped beneath the pressure. The adrenaline pumping through your veins assured you wouldn’t feel it even if they did. You fought to keep your breathing under control as you stepped out of the car and took in the destruction around you. Someone here had hurt Wanda, and, honestly, you couldn’t find it in you to care which one it had been. You’d kill every single one.

Gravel and rubble crunched beneath your feet as you ventured further and further into the warzone that had broken out in Midtown New York. They looked human, whoever they were. They were armed to the teeth and attacking every moving thing in sight. None of them had noticed you yet. That was better for both of you, for the time being. You shut your eyes for a brief moment and listen to the sounds around you. Civilians were screaming and car alarms were blaring and explosions roared. Then there was running, and it stopped at your side.

“I told you not to come here. Wanda’s at the hospital.”

You opened your eyes. Natasha was at your side. Blood trickled down her temple, staining her pale skin. She flinched as she put weight on her left leg to move a little closer to you. Wanda might have been the woman you called your own, but the Avengers were your family. Seeing one of them hurting in the way Natasha was only stoked the fire that was beginning to burn hotter and hotter inside of you. Your gaze moved away from her and back to the oncoming forces. They were getting closer.

“How did you know I was here?”

“Tony’s cars have trackers. We got an alert the second you left the compound and another as you came here. Get to the hospital.”

But you’d already stopped listening. The incoming threat had gotten close enough to notice you now. Green eyes followed your gaze until she, too, noticed the men approaching the two of you. She raised her arm, the gun still clutched tight in her grip. You could tell by the bewildered expression on her face that she hadn’t at all been expecting you to stop her. Your hand grabbed her wrist, lowering her arm until it was back against her side. You suspected it was the crimson gleam in your eyes that was the only thing that was keeping her weapon lowered.

You turned back to her once more. Surprise was written across every feature on her face… no, it was fear. She was afraid. She should be scared of you. Your skin began to blacken as you began to fade into nothing. Her eyes were still able to find yours, glowing bright as ever. She flinched when you reached out, backing up as you reached for her hand in an attempt for a final goodbye. You bowed your head, wishing she’d let you feel the warmth of her skin beneath your hand one final time.

“I’m sorry, Natasha.”

Then you turned away from her. The last of your human form faded away. It was hard to make out any shape in the tall, dark shadow that you’d become. Haunting golden eyes cast to the men that were racing toward you. As if to match the scene, a dark cloud rolled in front of the sun. Its shadow cast down onto the city, the darkness concealing you even further and making your eyes glow seemingly brighter. They continued to approach. They didn’t know their mistake. You did. You were dangerous at any time. You were more dangerous now that they’d hurt the person you loved more than you had ever loved before.

You raised your arms into the sky, feet leaving the ground. When your feet had been touching the concrete below them, you’d already been towering over the oncoming men. Now, you looked down upon them. Guns raised to where you hovered in the sky. It was almost comical. One of them screamed, and suddenly they were all firing. Their bullets tore through you, yet they didn’t touch you. Your head tilted to the side ever so slightly as an unsettling grin appeared in your dark shadow, disrupted by the whiz of dozens of bullets flying through it.

“Knock knock,” you said. Even your voice was sinister, a deep rumble that felt like it emanated from every direction, or deep inside of any listener.

The laughter that burst from their chests was strange, at first. It seemed out of place in such a setting. Confusion flickered across each of their faces. Then they laughed harder, and harder. Guns fell to the ground and they howled with laughter, but it contrasted their eyes. There was no sparkle of amusement in even one. It was pure, unbridled fear that you could see shining in them. One by one they fell to their knees, clawing at their throats as they tried to stop. One had tears streaming down his cheeks as he covered his ears, trying to block out the sounds that were torn from his own throat.

They couldn’t get in their comms to tell their men to keep away.

The next group that came for you met the same fate. Soon they, too, were on the ground. You got some sort of sick satisfaction as you watched them fall, unable to control their bodies. You’d taken over, grabbing hold of their heads and their bodies. You’d grabbed onto their lungs and ripped laughter from their chests, absolutely uncontrollable. When they lost control of that, that was when the fear started to take over. Fear would grip at them; you could feel it emanating off them. It would only get worse. You’d watched men take their lives as they lost their minds.

There was a reason you never used your powers. You were afraid of them, sure. The reason you were afraid of them, however, wasn’t because of their strength. Their strength could have saved lives. It wasn’t even because you couldn’t control them. You were addicted to your own powers. You took pride in watching grown men reduced to tears, curled up on the ground, shaking like an abused puppy. Your sick satisfaction was what you feared.

Was this what it felt like to be an Avenger? Were you taking pride in watching the civilians able to run from the scene, or was your pride in the fact that they no longer feared the invading forces, but you instead? The men were rendered immobile as the New Yorkers ran far from the scene. There you were in the centre of it, arms outstretched eyes gleaming, and grin growing wider and ever more evil. Natasha was still hovering just outside of your reach. You could feel her. You turned to face her. You could tell by the look in her eyes that she no longer recognized you. She put her lips to her comm.

“Evacuate the area. Don’t come down this way. Clint, go check on Wanda.”

Wanda.

Your powers ceased. No one rose right away. It would take some time for them to recover. They were gasping for breath. Their arms were too preoccupied hugging themselves tight to bother even trying to wipe the tears that covered many of their faces. Some of them were even rocking back and forth as the effect wore off. You dropped to the ground, human form taking back over. Your eyes were back to normal as you looked to Natasha once more. Neither of you said anything, but you took off running.

*

You pulled your hood up further, gaze locked to your black running shoes. You couldn’t help but feel like every set of eyes was on you. That’s how it felt, you supposed, being wanted by every agency on the planet. With the ability to change your form, though, it was pretty easy to hide in plain sight. Your footsteps echoed on the hard floor beneath your feet as you kept forward. Anyone who saw you would know you were on a mission. You knew exactly where you were going.

She was sleeping when you arrived. The cuts on her body had been stitched and bandaged, and her broken arm had been cast. Sam’s signature was already present on the red material, accompanied by a bad drawing of a bird. You couldn’t help but smile a little to yourself at that. Hopefully, it had kept a smile on her face as her world fell into turmoil, something undoubtedly caused by you. That simple fact would always break your heart. You had to turn to the window to keep the tears at bay.

When you turned back to Wanda, her green eyes were on you. There was something in her eyes that you couldn’t quite read. Her head tilted to the side as she looked at you, in a form that would be unrecognizable. It wasn’t just hiding you from the authorities, but it was hiding you from her. It was protecting her from you. She didn’t need to know that it was you, the woman who had never for a single second deserved to love her or be loved by her. A small smile grew on her lips.

“You forget I can read minds, my love.”

Of course. Wanda had always promised you she’d never read your mind. She would never violate your privacy like that. Right now, though, standing in her hospital room, you hadn’t been you. Obviously, she’d found it appropriate to peek into the mind of the stranger who had been watching her sleep. You should have been mortified. You’d never wanted her to know that you were here. Instead, a large part of you was relieved.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” she breathed out. “So, that was quite the secret.”

Even though you deserved it, it still felt like a knife to the heart when she said it aloud. You nodded slowly, cracking your knuckles nervously. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

You studied her face. Wanda really was a saint, with powers like the ones she had. She was kind, thoughtful, and respectful. You were sure if you’d had her powers right then, you’d be digging through her mind trying to find out what she was thinking. Her eyes weren’t showing you enough. They were calm, though, and it was keeping you calm. Your breathing was level and your head was steady on your shoulders, something you wouldn’t have had been able to say only five short minutes ago.

“Are you afraid?” You managed.

“No,” she assured instantly. “Confused. Why didn’t you tell me?”

You breathed out slowly. “I didn’t want to hurt you. My powers? They’ll hurt you.”

“Will you hurt me?”

“Never!” You insisted. “I… I only hurt them because they hurt you.”

She smiled. “Then I’m not afraid.”

She beckoned you. You padded slowly toward the bed, watching as she stared up at you with an amount of love and adoration that you didn't deserve. Wanda glanced at the door, making sure no one was there to see, and then took your hand in hers, tugging on it to get you to sit down next to her. Instant calm washed over you, drowning out any negative, scared thoughts that had been in your head for days previous. It was like her hand was a lifeline, keeping you anchored on the spot. In the last few days, you’d been anything but calm and present.

You’d been a wreck without her, not knowing if she’d hate you… if you even saw her again. You didn’t know if you’d be able to feel her touch again, to feel her hands on your cheeks or to feel her grab onto you and pull you into a searing kiss the way she did. But you had seen her again, and, somehow, she didn’t hate you. Now, it seemed now you could get oxygen flowing through your body again. Still, you were uncertain.

“And can you forgive me?” You asked, voice so quiet she almost didn’t hear it. “Can you ever love me again?”

Wanda took her free hand and put it on the underside of your chin, tilting your gaze up to hers. “I see nothing that has to be forgiven.” She brushed her thumb across your cheek, wiping away a stray tear. “I love you. I will never, ever stop loving you.”

“Promise?”

“I promise you,” she assured.

She leaned forward and then her lips were on yours. It took you a second to realize the salty taste was from the tears that were streaming down your cheeks, but it didn’t seem to be bothering the Sokovian. Both of your hands found hers and you held tight, as if afraid you’d never see her again if you dared to let go. She slipped one hand out of yours as she pulled back, using it to brush a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I’m sorry I kept it from you,” you muttered.

“I’m sorry you were so scared all alone.”

Your heart swelled. You really had found the perfect woman. “You’re really too good to me. You know that?”

Wanda laughed. “You deserve the world. You know that?”

With the way you tucked yourself against her in a hug, it was obvious she knew you felt the same of her. Her hand stroked your hair as you finally, for the first time ever, felt absolute ease and a sense of peace. Hiding that secret from Wanda had been the second hardest thing you’d ever done. The hardest had been coming clean with it. You snuggled a little closer to her, burying your head into the crook of her neck and mumbling against her skin.

“I’ll never hide anything from you again. I promise.”

Wanda pulled you away so she could look at you. “While we’re revealing secrets, I suppose I should tell you about the engagement ring in my jacket pocket.”

[cinnaminsvga]

a love that endures | Yoongi

→ summary: 

“Oh come on! Just go say hi to him already,” Seokjin huffs. He wiggles his eyebrows, striking you with the urge to shave them off in retaliation. “I could feel your ‘God, I miss his dick’ vibes from across the room!”

“I do not emit dick thirst vibes,” you respond hotly, swatting him in the tit. You pause, considering. “Wait, but do you think he misses my p—”

“Say no more,” Seokjin interrupts, a wicked smirk gracing his lips. His gaze is fixed somewhere behind you, but you have a sinking suspicion you know why he looks like he’s won the lottery. “Speaking of the devil, look who’s coming over to say hello!”

{or alternatively: Yoongi and Y/N. Y/N and Yoongi. High school sweethearts that were never meant to last, until a reunion ten years later manages to reignite a flame that never quite burnt out.} 

→ genre: high school reunion!au, exes to lovers, fluff, humor, minor angst → warnings: shy!yoongi and shy!oc live rent free in my brain, mutual pining is poggers, hoseok and seokjin aren’t evil for once in a cinnaminsvga fic, implied smut so it’s pg-13 because i’m a wimp → words: 14.4K → a/n: SHE’S ALIVE!! this is dedicated to @himbeaux-joon​ who commissioned this piece ages ago. thank you again for requesting this because this was honestly so much fun to write. i’ve been in a bit of writing slump these past few weeks but this fic came out so easily and got way longer than expected (perhaps because it’s about yoongi and he’s always been the easiest one to write for me). enjoy!! ;o;

The mere sight of him is enough to knock the wind out of you.

Your body freezes, the hand curled around your paper cup filled with punch tightening ever so slightly. It isn’t like you’re surprised that he came; you aren’t supposed to be. Of course, you should have expected his arrival, but you’ve been hoping all night that he might have been too busy to attend.

He isn’t even on time—it has almost been two hours since the event started and you had been filled with a false hope that perhaps he had RSVP’d and decided he couldn’t make it. 

You had seen Hoseok, his best friend from your younger days, standing outside the entrance of the ballroom before they had started letting people in. The moment Hoseok saw you, he immediately came over to sweep you into a tight hug, his infectious laughter ringing in your ears. He had greeted you happily, expressing how much he missed you since high school, but never once bringing up the elephant in the room.

It wasn’t like you were going to bring him up first. No, that would be weird on your part. Nevermind the fact that going to high school reunions was a recipe for reliving past traumas and seeing all your childhood friends either married or pregnant—you weren’t going to be that person who asked where their ex was. You refused to be the person craning their neck to spy on the entrance every two minutes, hoping to catch sight of an old familiar face.

The problem is that you are that person, and you kind of hate yourself for it. However, it is also the reason why you are probably the only person in the entire ballroom who notices his quiet arrival.

He has never liked causing commotions, which is often apparent from the way he conducts himself. He walks into the room just as a loud round of applause breaks out; an old schoolmate of yours is walking up to the podium, probably the person who had arranged the get-together in the first place. It is a perfect distraction for him as he slinks past the door, keeping near the wall so as not to be seen by anyone just yet.

(Except he has been seen—he just doesn’t know it yet.)

You do not know for how long you stare at him, just that it takes you a moment to realize you haven’t taken a breath since he stepped foot into the same space as you. You take a deep, shuddering breath, forcing your racing heartbeat to calm down. You swallow thickly, throat so unbearably dry that even drinking from your lukewarm cup of punch doesn’t seem to do anything.

But the undeniable truth is there, standing only a few meters away from you, and nothing on earth will be able to wash away the nerves flooding through your system.

After ten years of radio silence, Min Yoongi is in your orbit once again.

In the grand scheme of things, ten years wasn’t all that long. Four years in university had passed by in a blur, and the absolute chaos that ensued right after you graduated as you scrambled to secure a job and move out of your hometown had made the days seem shorter than they actually were. You had not even noticed that time was passing until you found that cream envelope waiting for you one day after work, your alma mater’s school crest painfully recognizable even after all these years.

During all that time, the world around you shifted without you noticing, and that meant people were changing too.

Yoongi is 28 now. And so are you, after many months of denial. You have not seen each other since you were both 18—both of you far too young to know about any of the things you would experience in the next ten years.

He might have grown a little taller since then, something you are sure that your brother will find amusing. His hair isn’t dyed like you remembered, as he has opted to keep it his natural dark black that you have not seen since you were both in middle school. It’s styled differently too: combed over and gelled back, with his bangs pushed back and his forehead exposed. When he turns his head to the side, a gasp spills past your lips before you can stop it.

“Is that a fucking undercut?” you mutter in shock, your eyes straining out of their sockets as you try to drink him in. Even under the dim lighting of the ballroom, his new haircut is hard to miss. No one else seems to be undergoing the same mental collapse as you, judging by how everyone’s attention is still fixated on the person speaking at the podium. How the hell is no one else losing their fucking minds to the sight of Min Yoongi with a fucking undercut? Some questions are impossible to answer, you surmise.

When you decided to attend the reunion, you had not once thought about how Yoongi would look like. Somehow, you had developed this stagnant picture of him in your head, even after all these years. To you, he will always be the boy with the stark blonde hair, the mismatched eyelids, the pouty lips, the dumpling cheeks. He is the boy who can’t wear his own contact lenses to save his life, the boy who sometimes wears his favorite leather jacket to sleep, the boy who only drinks Americanos like it was water.

Gone are those days, you realize. That image of him has been smashed to pieces, instead replaced by this dashing (and incredibly hot) man—a stranger. A stranger with unbleached (and healthy) hair, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. He has his glasses kept away, and there is no leather jacket in sight.

But you can see him, if you look hard enough. The same spark in his eye, the same curve of his lips. You catch him smiling for a second, and his cheeks still puff up like dough. Maybe it’s just hopeless thinking, but you see him. It’s still him. To you, he will always be your 18-year-old Min Yoongi, the one who would greet you with a sweet kiss on the forehead every time you would—

Raucous applause breaks you from your train of thought, and you blink rapidly in surprise. You have to forcibly pull yourself out of your Yoongi-induced trance, clapping alongside everyone without really knowing what was going on. All of the extra noise sounds like buzzing in your ears, especially when it is drowned out by the roar of your blood rushing to your head all at once.

“Once again, I’d like to thank you all for coming tonight. We will begin the program right after dinner, so please feel free to help yourselves to the buffet! Cheers everyone!” You faintly hear your old schoolmate speak, before her voice is quickly overrun by the commotion of people walking over to the extravagant display of food. It takes a moment for the crowd of heads to disperse, so when you can finally look back to where you last saw Yoongi, he is no longer alone.

Hoseok has his arm slung around Yoongi, his infectious laughter loud enough to be heard over clinking plates and silverware. The two are as different as night and day, with Hoseok practically bouncing from excitement and Yoongi rolling his eyes from annoyance. But it is easy to see that his pout is nothing but a ruse; you can already catch the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips.

You feel your own seams breaking, unwittingly sporting a grin of your own. It is nice to know that Yoongi hasn’t been alone all this time, that he still seems close with his old best friend. You cannot count the number of friendships that you have lost over time, and you still grieve many of them during your quiet moments. Alas, it was often never even anyone’s fault, the strains of adulthood often being the biggest deal breakers in your relationships.

That is, of course, except for one.

“Enjoying yourself? I didn’t think we’d share the same voyeuristic tendencies,” says a voice, creeping up behind you. Now, normal people would not usually expect other sane people to invade your personal space and breathe directly into your ear, but that’s just your humble opinion. What you do know is that one certain individual enjoys breaking the mold when it comes to societal norms, and it is none other than…

“Jesus fucking Christ!” You shriek, nearly sucker-punching the offending degenerate in the face. You hold back your fist from connecting with his face, but your resulting irritation remains. Whether that irritation is because you regret holding back or not will unfortunately also have to remain unanswered. “Oh God, it’s you.”

“Oh, no need for that. Most people usually call me Seokjin,” he snickers, thoroughly enjoying your flushed face. Kim Seokjin pats you on the shoulder, his trademark “pretty boy” smile still as radiant as you remembered. It does nothing to quell your urge to raise your fists again, however. “Hello, Y/N. Fancy seeing you here!”

“The feeling is not mutual,” you snort. Much like how Yoongi was with Hoseok, your derision is nothing but a rouse. As much as you want to kick Seokjin in the nuts, you also cannot ignore how much you want to hug him the slimy bastard—but you definitely will not be the first one to admit it. So like the tsundere that you are, you decide to insult him instead. “Why are you here? You’re not even from this class. Don’t you have other things to do? Or rather, people to do?”

“My heart! You wound me,” he gasps, grasping his chest as though he’d been shot. “How could you say that to your best friend in the entire world? Don’t you know how much I missed you?”

“Easy. I do it because the only other alternative would lead me straight to prison,” you shrug, but your grin betrays you.

This time, you don’t jolt away when he closes in for a hug. “And I guess I miss you too,” you say, your words slightly muffled into his chest. Like always, he sees through your prickly act because as much as you like to pretend, Kim Seokjin is kind of amazing—loose bolts and all.

“It’s nice to know that your tongue hasn’t lost its edge, though I suppose I wouldn’t be intimately knowledgeable in that area. After all, I still am very much a raging homosexual and pussy isn’t really my forte,” Seokjin guffaws, his volume causing a few nearby guests to raise their heads in alarm.

You bow at them, sheepishly apologizing on his behalf before grabbing him by the collar.

“Will you stop being embarrassing for just one second? I swear, I thought I retired from my babysitting job when I graduated high school,” you hiss, but the way his mouth curls up with mischief is answer enough. God, you missed this son of a bitch.

“Unfortunately for you, being a pest is part of my DNA,” he smirks, carefully plucking your hands off from his neck, as though your nails were not mere inches away from ripping his trachea into pieces. “Though, I am offended by your assumption that I am still the same slut that you knew. I’ve grown up a little, you know! I’m a changed man!”

“Oh, please. Don’t tell me you of all people have settled down,” you laugh, not missing the way Seokjin’s perfectly stenciled brow raises slightly.

“I know we haven’t seen each other since Christmas, but come on Y/N! You of all people should be applauding me for my improved behavior! You must have noticed how much I changed when I visited.”

“When you visited me last Christmas, you immediately insulted my taste in kitchen towels, went on Grindr to find a hookup despite my numerous pleas, and promptly desecrated my guest bedroom that no housekeeper or priest is willing to exorcise to this day,” you gag, shuddering at the memory. “And then you ate all my ice cream and proceeded to clog my toilet!”

“Um? Aren’t you forgetting that I also bought you that dress you wanted? Rude,” Seokjin retorts, not the least bit remorseful. “Well, that’s what you get for agreeing to be my best bitch for life. You know that I take pinky promises very seriously.”

Unfortunately, he does take his promises seriously. It is probably the only thing he’ll ever be serious about, as much as the man enjoys parading his depravity. “Okay, whatever. I’ll bite. Who’s the unlucky man you’ve managed to deceive into a relationship?”

“Oh, it’s someone we both used to know. I’m his plus one for tonight,” he says, supplying you with the most useless non-answer imaginable.

“Seokjin. We’re at a high school reunion. We know everyone here. That could be anyone!” you exclaim.

“Well, isn’t that fun? Then we can do a scavenger hunt!” Seokjin grins, clapping his hands together excitedly. He pulls you in front of him, forcing the two of you to survey the crowd. “Okay, hold your arm out like this—” After a few seconds of you failing to resist him, he manages to get you to unfurl your finger as if you were about to order something from the dollar menu at McDonalds. Unfortunately for you, the tall twink is stronger than he appears. “—and just keep pointing around until I tell you that you’re getting warmer!”

“Seokjin, I don’t think this is very—” you start, but Seokjin is already moving your arm for you. Like a hurricane, Kim Seokjin listens to no one but his own homewrecking whims.

“Park Chanyeol? Close, but not really. You should know that I don’t double dip with past flings,” he says, shifting you to the left. “Kim Namjoon? Now that’s a hunk of meat that I wish I’d taken a bite of, but unfortunately he’s as straight as a ruler. Pass,” he hums, continuing to move you bit by bit.

You’re both getting uncomfortably close to where Yoongi is, and Seokjin doesn’t appear to be stopping any time soon. You did notice that Yoongi had come dateless to the reunion (a fact, by the way, that you did not rejoice over when you had noticed), but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s single. You have known Seokjin for more than a decade at this point, and despite your odd friendship, you are sure that he would never do anything to hurt you on purpose.

Though, that does beg the question… How far does his dick thirst really go? Maybe you’ll finally find out today.

“Warmer, getting warmer…” Seokjin inches you closer and closer to where Yoongi is standing. You feel frozen in his grasp, unsure if you wanted to know anymore. If Seokjin really is dating Yoongi, then what? It’s not like you were dating him anyway… What difference does it make if it’s Seokjin?

(It makes all the difference, but you refuse to think about it.)

“Nope, not Wonho... A little bit to the left… Bingo!” Seokjin declares, stopping your finger right on— “No, Y/N! Stop moving! You’ve gone too far to the wall! I was pointing at him.”

“H-Hoseok? You’re dating Hoseok?!” You squeak, an avalanche of relief flooding through you. You don’t even have the energy to pretend to be composed as your entire body starts untensing involuntarily, your shoulders slumping as though a weight has been lifted from you. “Why couldn’t you have just told me like a normal person? Why must everything be tortuous and dramatic when it comes to you?”

“I am a naturally insufferable and theatrical person. Sue me,” he shrugs, greatly enjoying the exhausted look on your face. “What? Were you actually scared that I was dating your sloppy seconds? What do you think I am? An asshole?”

You stare at him. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

Seokjin scoffs. “If I wanted to get roasted, I would approach two tops at a gay bar.” He pauses. “Wait, are you seriously not going to congratulate me for finally snagging a boy who has a functioning moral compass?”

“Define ‘snagging.’ Did you, like, tie him up and blackmail him to become your boyfriend like those terrible One Direction Wattpad fanfics, or—” You stop halfway, giggling at your friend’s unamused pout. “Okay, okay. Yes, Seokjin. I am very proud of you. Congrats on finally becoming an adult. Your hoe days are over.”

“Who said they were over?” He snorts. Noticing your alarm, Seokjin rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Oh, don’t give me that look! I’m not into infidelity and you know that. I just meant that I’m still a hoe with significantly fewer options.”

“How did that even happen in the first place?” you say, jabbing your thumb in Hoseok’s direction. Thankfully, the man in question is still busy talking to Yoongi, though you don’t know for how much longer. If Seokjin isn’t lying, then there’s a high chance they’re going to walk over to say hi and you’re not sure if you’re mentally prepared to go through the five stages of grief all over again.

“Believe me, I’m surprised as well. I started dating Hoseok after he asked me for help with his sister’s wedding gift. He asked me to help arrange an itinerary for her sister’s honeymoon in America,” Seokjin explains with a dreamy smile. He sighs, holding a hand up to his chest. You can physically see the heart emojis circling his head like a halo. “We hit it off from there and dare I say… Not only is he the only person who can keep up with my high maintenance lifestyle, but dear Lord, he could totally be recruited into the NDA for his astounding dick game—”

“Ever heard of TMI? Gross,” you interrupt, your face crumpling in disgust. You shove him away when his loud cackles start rattling your eardrums.

“You were scared though, right?” he says through his giggles. “When you thought that I was dating Yoongi?”

Of course Seokjin had noticed your mini-mental breakdown, judging from the shit-eating grin on his face.

“N-no,” you stutter, but your heated cheeks and averted gaze give you away. “E-either way, I wouldn’t have cared if you did!” you say. You know, like a liar.

“I bet you don’t care that Yoongi got significantly hotter in the past ten years too, huh?” Seokjin teases, snickering loudly. Under the harsh lighting of the fluorescent chandelier lights, you might have mistaken the boy in front of you for the devil instead of your best friend of almost twenty years.

“I sincerely rue the day I introduced myself to you in the third grade,” you hiss, sipping from your cup to hide your humiliation.

“Aww, you’re so cute when you’re all embarrassed,” Seokjin coos, pinching your cheeks with the gentleness of an ape. You slap his hand away, unable to think of any retort.

“Cat got your tongue? You didn’t even deny it when I accused you,” Seokjin laughs. He claps his hands jovially, acting as though he’s enjoying a show at the circus. Given your performance tonight, that statement isn’t all that far from reality.

“I don’t need to defend myself from you,” you say, puffing your cheeks indignantly. “I just… think he looks handsome. Is that illegal or something?”

“Certainly not. Though, you might want to dial down the pining a teensy bit,” he singsongs. “That’s how I found you in the first place. I sensed your pining from a mile away and came as soon as I could!”

“I wasn’t pining!” you exclaim. “I was just… admiring the plant beside him.”

“Right, sure,” Seokjin says, arching an eyebrow in challenge. You feel your hackles rising at his smug expression, your ‘Seokjin-is-about-to-ruin-your-life’ alarm ringing in your ears. “So, you wouldn’t mind if I brought you over there to say hello? After all, my boyfriend is over there and as much as I enjoy pestering you, I also want to be with him very much.”

You whistle lowly, impressed. “Wow, that’s actually kind of sweet of you.”

“Yes, I know. Kim Seokjin’s heart grew three sizes that day, yada yada yada.” Seokjin says sarcastically, but his lovesick smile ruins the effect. When he opens his mouth once more, the mirage instantly disappears. “But you would understand if you saw how much he’s packing—”

“Shut up, I didn’t ask—”

“Fine, then let’s ask the man himself! Besides, you know you’re being ridiculous, right?” Seokjin tuts, annoyed. He fixes you with a glare, making you feel like a scolded child. “It’s just Yoongi. You and I both know he doesn’t have a mean bone in his body and probably would love to see you after so long.”

You wave your hands around helplessly, almost sloshing your drink onto a nearby bystander. After muttering a meek apology at your harried classmate, you turn back to Seokjin with a defeated sigh.

You know that he’s right, and you absolutely hate him for it. “Jinnie, I’m a mess! I can hardly think with Yoongi standing meters away from me, much less if he were to stand right in front of me! I’m just going to embarrass myself,” you lament, holding your head in your hand.

“That’s true. You will definitely embarrass yourself,” Seokjin hums, nodding sagely. He shrugs his shoulders. “All the more reason we should do it. Relax, I’ll be your wingman like old times! All we have to do is remind him of all the fantastic, mind-blowing coitus you had in your youth and he’ll be a goner for sure.”

“If by goner, you mean he’ll be gone from my life permanently this time, then you’re right,” you groan. You have a half a mind to dump the remainder of your disgusting punch all over his expensive Bottega Veneta coat, though you also don’t want to spend the next three months receiving packaged turds from Seokjin in your mailbox. “Please, just let me suffer in silence for the remainder of the night, okay? Is that really too much to ask?”

“Oh come on! Just go say hi to him already,” Seokjin huffs. He wiggles his eyebrows, striking you with the urge to shave them off in retaliation. “I could feel your ‘God, I miss his dick’ vibes from across the room!”

“I do not emit dick thirst vibes,” you respond hotly, swatting him in the tit. You pause, considering. “Wait, but do you think he misses my p—”

“Say no more,” Seokjin interrupts, a wicked smirk gracing his lips. His gaze is fixed somewhere behind you, but you have a sinking suspicion you know why he looks like he’s won the lottery. “Speaking of the devil, look of who’s coming over to say hello!”

Swiveling around, you see that your intuition is right: Yoongi and Hoseok are swiftly making their way through the crowd, one of them appearing to be more enthusiastic than the other. You swallow thickly, your palms growing damp as they get closer to where the two of you stand.

"Seokjin, we gotta go!" you hiss, but your panic goes largely ignored as your best friend leaves you to envelop his lover in a dramatic embrace.

The two men exchange teary and heartfelt touches, acting as if they had been separated by years of war instead of the meager minutes they had spent apart to greet their long-time friends.

"My honeybunch! Oh, how I've missed you so much!" Seokjin cries, nuzzling his nose into Hoseok's neck. You might have mistaken him for a vampire with how aggressively he sniffs Hoseok's skin. Had Seokjin been 5% more unhinged, you do not doubt that he might have started suckling on his boyfriend like a leech.

"Oh, hyung. It's barely been an hour, but why does it feel like it has been forever?" Hoseok sighs forlornly, jaw clenching as though he's in pain. He croaks out a sob, lifting Seokjin in the air and spinning him around. "My love, let us never part again!"

You take a few steps away from them, trying to make it apparent to all the bewildered onlookers that you have nothing to do with homosexual Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

"What kind of shitty production is this? I want my money back," you murmur, fake-gagging behind the two of them. The lovesick fools pay no mind to your disgust; in fact, they seem to relish in it. Their efforts double, their theatrical kissy-smoochy sound effects causing goosebumps to form on your arms. "Seriously, I've had enough of this and I've only been forced to witness it for two seconds."

"Tell me about it," says a voice to your left. Startled, you nearly let out a shocked gasp when you realize that Yoongi had found his way by your side, his own disgusted gaze fixed on the bumbling buffoons still lost in their world. He glances at you for a second, quirking his lips into a small smile. "Hey, Y/N."

In just six words, Min Yoongi manages to make time grind to a halt. You gape at him, your brain ceasing in function. It takes you a full minute to realize that the man standing beside you is not a figment of your imagination. You had been so caught up in the absurdity of the situation that for a moment you had forgotten that Yoongi is a real person.

It's Yoongi, your first love. The person you haven't seen or spoken to in years. The man who has haunted your dreams for over a decade. He's standing right beside you, and he's smiling at you. He's here, he's hot, and he's saying hello.

Like the incredibly eloquent and profound person that you are, you reply: "Yellow!"

You had meant to say "Yoongi, hello!" like a normal person, but your brain had amalgamated your words during its rebooting process. And so, you are left standing there silently, frozen by your embarrassment. You swear you can hear a pin drop as you beg for the earth to swallow you whole.

Unfortunately for you, the floor remains painfully tangible beneath your feet, forcing you to clear your throat and expound on your mystifying exclamation. Yoongi watches you with curious eyes, patiently waiting for you to speak.

"W-what I meant to say is, uh," you stammer, your cheeks heating up to an alarming degree. "Those yellow streamers are pretty tacky, don't you think?"

Nice one. In terms of comebacks, you would personally give yourself a C for effort. (Note: C stands for "Can I please shove a fist up my ass and crabwalk the fuck out of here?")

Yoongi contemplates the tacky decorations in question, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, I guess. They pretty much look like the stuff we'd make in elementary school during Arts and Crafts." He points to your mutual friends, grimacing in annoyance. "Them, on the other hand? No child should ever come into contact with those heathens."

"You're right," you snort, shaking your head.

There is a long and awkward pause. Yoongi clears his throat, swaying from side to side while staring at his shoes. You aren't any better, twiddling your thumbs as you will your cheeks to stop flushing. Your senses are practically screaming at you to run away and hide forever, but your limbs feel disjointed from the rest of you.

It's like we're at the zoo on a date and the monkeys won't stop fucking each other, your mind unhelpfully supplies, offering you an image that will permanently make its home on the backs of your eyelids.

Desperate to break the silence, eventually you say, "Hey, Yoongi—"

Right at the same time, Yoongi says, "Hey, Y/N—"

Another pause, but this one is slightly less tense. The two of you share a nervous laugh, though yours sounds a little bit more hysterical. You motion for him to speak first.

"I, uh... wanted to say that you look great. Yeah. Like, you haven't aged a day at all. N-not to say that I don't think you've matured or..." Yoongi stumbles over his words, his voice cracking.

Instead of feeling relieved that he's just as nervous as you, his anxiety only exacerbates your own. There's a reason you have never been good at public speaking, and this is a good example of why:

"No! I get what you mean, don't worry about it," you laugh, on the verge of a mental breakdown. What the fuck is this conversation, even? "You look exactly the same too. Umm... Of course, except for the, uh, hair?"

"Oh, you mean the gray hairs?"

"No, no! Of course not! I m-meant your hair looks really hot—I mean good! It looks GOOD," you repeat, frantically emphasizing the last bit. You had instinctively panicked, your voice rising in pitch.  If your cheeks weren't flaming hot already, then they're definitely redder than Seokjin's ass after a Friday night of fun.

The apples of Yoongi's cheek match your own flustered state, though you can imagine that you’re probably at least a hundred times worse. “Well, thank you. I was actually feeling self-conscious about my hair, so hearing that from you is really… nice,” he says, brushing his hair shyly. “I’m kinda done with bright colored hair for now, so seeing my hair in its natural state is still kind of weird.”

“I seriously doubt that Y/N was talking about your hair color, Yoongi,” Hoseok interjects, magically reappearing behind you when you don’t notice. You flinch in surprise, causing him to let out a hearty chuckle at your jumpiness. It seems that today is “Let’s scare the living shit out of Y/N” day with how many people have crept up on you in just one night.

Beside him, Seokjin looks like a bomb ready to explode, his fist jammed up his mouth to keep his guffaws from slipping out. “God, this is even better than the cringe compilations I watch on Youtube,” he wheezes, wiping a stray tear.

“Don’t be so mean to them, hyung! Don’t mind him,” Hoseok says to you, bowing apologetically. He smiles cherubically at Yoongi. “See, Yoongi? I told you that Y/N is even hotter up close!”

“God, fucking kill me,” you hear Yoongi groan.

“So, have you guys caught up yet, or have you just been fumbling around each other like a couple of horny teenagers?” Seokjin snickers, narrowly avoiding your heel stomping his foot.

“We’ve only just said hello. Leave us alone, jackass,” you huff.

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Well, Hoseok and I can go on our merry ways if you wish—”

“Yoongi! Did you tell Y/N about your work back in Seoul? I bet she’d love to hear about it,” Hoseok interrupts smoothly, saving you from further embarrassment (courtesy of his infuriating goblin of a boyfriend.)

You blink in surprise, turning to the man in question. “You live in Seoul now? Did you move there after finishing university?” you ask.

“Well,” Yoongi starts, clearing his throat. He’s permanently pink at this point, not that you mind in the slightest. He always did have the cutest blush (and once upon a time, you used to love teasing him about it.) “I sort of dropped out of university early. Decided it wasn’t really my thing, you know?”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Yoongi. You were a fantastic student. I’m sure Y/N remembers how smart you are,” Hoseok says, winking inconspicuously at you.

You force out a laugh in response. You know perfectly well what he was trying to do; Hoseok isn’t slick in the slightest, though you do admit that you are intrigued to find out what Yoongi had done over the years.

It isn’t like you haven’t been keeping tabs on him. In your defense, it’s hard to stay away from news about Yoongi when he’s such a big deal. So what if you’ve watched a couple of his interviews and streamed all of his songs? He’s always been talented with music, and all the radio shows seem to agree. You couldn’t get away from him if you tried (and it’s not like you were trying very hard, anyway.)

Yoongi shrugs, rubbing his neck bashfully. “E-either way, I decided to tough it out, you know? Follow my dreams and all that, even if it nearly killed me.”

“And now, he’s working in a famous idol company as one of their head producers,” Hoseok finishes for him, chest puffing up in pride. He slaps his best friend on the back, not noticing that he had inadvertently caused Yoongi's spine to cave in from his strength. “Yoongi is so cool, and humble too! He’s been working behind the scenes for a bunch of big names and never got greedy for attention even though he totally deserves it.”

“Damn, so no street cred? Bit schewpid, innit? Imagine all the chicks you could’ve landed, bruv!” Seokjin says, imitating a terrible British accent. You make a move to hit him in the groin, but for once, Hoseok beats you to the punch.

“Nope! Yoongi-chi is super single, aren’t you?” Hoseok says with a sweet grin, ignoring the pained groans of his lover on the floor.

“No need to rub it in, Seok-ah,” Yoongi grumbles defensively. He coughs into his fist, grinding his foot into the floor. He throws a glance your way. “Just been… too busy, I guess.”

From the floor, Seokjin holds up a hand, grasping at Hoseok’s pant leg to hoist himself up. “What a coincidence. Y/N is super single too. In fact, her pussy is so dry that there’d be no chance for any yeast infections to develop—WAIT, DON’T HIT ME AGAIN I PROMISE I’LL BEHAVE!” Seokjin is on his knees, holding his arms up in surrender as Hoseok’s boot is about to connect with his stomach.

“I know I said I was into BDSM, but not like this!” Seokjin says, faking a sob.

“Then behave, darling,” Hoseok replies, eyes lighting dangerously. When he returns his attention to you, you and Yoongi back away instinctively. “Sorry about him. We have an… arrangement,” he says, waving his hands vaguely.

“Understood,” you both say, not understanding but also not wanting to.

Seokjin manages to straighten up eventually, his skin slightly paler than it was before. “A-as I was saying,” he exhales, still gingerly cupping his crotch. “Y/N has been single for so long, but I don’t blame her. Not after that awful disaster of a boyfriend, right? God, Sungjae fucking sucked ass, and not even in the sexy way.”

“Um, yeah…” you say hesitantly, avoiding eye contact. You can feel Hoseok’s and Yoongi’s eyes trained on you, but you’re not confident enough to know that you can keep your face neutral.

With your gaze averted, you don’t notice the way Yoongi’s posture tenses. “Is that so,” he says carefully.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Hoseok says. You can hear the genuine sadness in his tone, and you chance a peek at him. He pats your shoulder gently, giving you a soft smile. “Honestly, I feel you. I’ve definitely been there, done that. That’s why I’m grateful for Seokjin-hyung, believe it or not. He’s been really good for me.”

“Hah, I told you I’m a good person!” Seokjin says. Again, he goes ignored.

“It’s fine. It’s all water under the bridge,” you say, shrugging. You can still feel Yoongi’s persistent gaze on the side of your head like a brand. You’re kind of afraid to see what sort of expression he has despite the curiosity burning inside of you.

You are still in the middle of debating if it’s worth explaining or not (and to a lesser extent, why you feel like you need to explain yourself to anyone), everyone’s attention is caught by the onslaught of waiters bringing in a fresh batch of food to the buffet. Your stomach growls in response, and you are reminded of the fact that you haven’t eaten since breakfast in preparation for tonight’s event.

“Hold that thought, Y/N,” Hoseok says, holding up a finger. “Hyung! I saw a platter of tuna belly and I know that shit is gonna disappear in two seconds. Let’s head out!” He tugs Seokjin in a hurry, the elder’s gangly legs flying about as he trips over himself to keep up. Seokjin yelps and hollers for him to slow down, but the hangry Hoseok train stops for no one. They run off, leaving Hoseok-and-Seokjin-shaped dust clouds in their wakes.

“Wow,” Yoongi says, dumbfounded. “Did we just get ditched by our two self-proclaimed best friends in the world?”

You nod, equally dumbfounded. “I guess we did.”

He shakes his head. “Fucking traitors.”

And just like that, the conversation dies.

Without your friends acting as buffers, the pair of you return to your painfully awkward states. You rack your brain for a conversation topic, anything to keep the tension at bay. You don’t feel nearly comfortable enough to ask him about his love life, even though you want nothing more than to shake the details right out of him. For perfectly sane reasons, of course.

Lucky for you, Yoongi thinks of a solution. “Um, I guess we should go grab our food as well? I’m assuming we’ll be sitting together since our friends are... you know. Unless you don’t want to, then that’s also perfectly fine with me. I can find somewhere else to sit.”

“I’d love to sit with you,” you say, cringing at your choice of words. Love to? What are you, desperate?! your brain screeches at you, and you mentally beat yourself in the coochie.

Deep down, you know that you’re overreacting, but you can’t help acting like a blushy teenager talking to your crush when you’re around Yoongi. It’s almost as if you’ve reverted to your high school days, back when you’d both started to notice your feelings for each other and the steady flow of butterflies erupting in your stomach had felt less like a burden and more like a revelation.

After tossing your disgusting drink into a nearby bin, you and Yoongi line up behind the rest of your classmates for the buffet, the scene reminiscent of having lunch at your old high school cafeteria. You’re still mildly distracted by Yoongi’s proximity, not looking at what food you were getting and randomly scooping and hoping you don’t dislike all of them.

From the corner of your eye, you notice that Yoongi’s plate is steadily piling up, probably with enough food to feed two people. You’ve never known Yoongi to be much of a heavy eater, but you suppose that free food is still free food at the end of the day.

“So,” Yoongi says after a beat. He pulls you from your trance, and you catch the small smile on his face that tells you that he figured you had been distracted. “How is Jungkook, by the way? He graduated from university a year ago or something, right?”

You pause, your hand stilling on the metal tongs. “How did you know he graduated last year?”

He shrugs. “Well, assuming that he didn’t take any gap years, I did the math and figured he should be at the age where he’s looking for a job.” He turns to you with a sly grin. “Plus, I’m still his friend on Facebook.”

“That’s surprising,” you comment. You backtrack a little, “And I mean it’s surprising in the sense that… All his posts are reshares from dank meme pages and I thought you wouldn’t be into that.”

Yoongi laughs. “I’m not. But… it’s nice to know how things are back home, I guess.”

Do you wonder about me, too? you think, but you internally shake your head. But why would he? He doesn’t owe you anything.

“And your dad? I heard he got hip surgery last fall,” Yoongi says.

“Wait, Jungkook has been posting about our dad’s surgery on his Facebook?”

“Oh! No, not exactly.” Yoongi clears his throat, suddenly nervous. He heaps a big portion of kimchi, some of it staining his sleeve. “I… called him a few days ago, to catch up.”

You’re staring at him, and you dimly register the people lined up behind you huffing impatiently. “You… called him? You have his cell number, too?”

“No, I just… happen to still have your home telephone number memorized and hoped that you guys hadn’t moved,” he says, a little guiltily.

You’re silent for a moment, thoughtlessly scooping more bean sprouts onto your plate than any sane person would be comfortable eating. The two of you inch along the buffet display as you attempt to process his sudden confession.

On one hand, you’re slightly betrayed that your own brother hadn’t thought to mention that your ex had called him, but on the other hand, what would you have done if he did? Ask if you could say hello? The Y/N from last month probably would have laughed if she had known that Min Yoongi still cared enough to call and check on her family, much less have her landline memorized even after all these years.

He still cared.

Unbeknownst to everyone in the room, your heart skips a beat at the thought. You cradle a hand to your chest, urging your nerves to quell. Keep it together, you beg your stupid, naive heart. You can survive one night without falling in love again, can’t you?

...can you?

“I…” you stammer. You swallow thickly, desperate for something to say, anything to stop your mind from going in the wrong direction. “They miss you, you know? You have no idea how many times my parents ask if you’re coming home for Christmas, or—I don’t know.”

“Yeah, my parents are the same. They always wanna know if I’m coming home for the holidays, and they,” he hesitates, swallowing thickly, “They always ask about you, too.”

Oh.

“Oh,” you mutter lamely. Your cheeks feel like they’ve been lit on fire the moment you got here, and you haven’t even visited the bar yet.

You finally make it to the end of the long buffet table where there is a large chocolate fountain just begging for you to ravage if only your stomach wasn’t besieged by butterflies. Yoongi glances at you, his own hands too full to get any desserts, but he still pauses as if he’s waiting for you. When you make it apparent you aren’t interested in the mouthwatering cakes and pastries (a big fat lie, but you also don’t want to vomit in front of him and your hundreds of schoolmates), he raises a brow as though he’s surprised.

“What? I’m not that much of a sweet tooth,” you scoff.

“This is coming from the girl who broke into her little brother’s piggy bank to buy some ice cream from a passing street vendor?” he teases.

“That’s the old me. Now, I make enough money to buy my own sweets,” you say smugly.

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say.” If you didn’t know any better, you might have thought he looked endeared.

The pair of you search for Hoseok and Seokjin, only to find that the couple had somehow found a table for all of you somewhere near the back. With one last longing glance at the wondrous chocolate fountain, you walk away with Yoongi in tow. You have to push through throngs of people, a few old familiar faces stopping to say hello before they notice the precarious situation on Yoongi’s plate and let you through. You wave at them, promising to greet them later before turning to Yoongi.

“Isn’t it kind of weird to see all these people again? Not gonna lie, it’s almost hard to recognize a few of them.” You note some of the crazy hair colors and drastic fashion choices that you never thought you’d see a decade ago. An even stranger sight, however, is the occasional schoolmates with little ones attached to their hips. You recognize one of the new parents, your mouth dropping in shock.

“Wait, is that Seulgi? And is that her—”

“Her son? Jesus Christ,” Yoongi mutters, equally as bewildered as you. “Damn, I did not expect her of all people to be one of the first to have a kid. I’d always thought it’d be Sooyoung.”

You nod in agreement. You observe the little boy tug roughly at her skirt, his tiny fists making grabbing motions at the cookies on her plate. “Yeah. I always thought I’d have a kid before Seulgi, at least. What a surprise.”

You speak before you think, and it takes longer than it should have for you to realize your mistake. By then, Yoongi’s expression had already morphed into astonishment, his eyes bugging out as he chokes on his spit.

Your cheeks are burning, your mouth opening and closing as pure panic seizes you. You cannot believe that you just said that! No fucking way! Did you eat lube this morning or something? Why are words just spilling out of your mouth at an unprecedented rate?! You’re begging your brain to come up with something, anything, to control the damage, but alas your thoughts remain resolutely frozen.

If aliens were to choose to study the human race right now, they’d be sorely disappointed to find the lack of intelligent lifeforms. No complex thoughts going on over here! Not one goddamn neuron firing in this bitch!

“O-oh, well, that’s…” he trails off. He clears his throat, his jaw clenched as he awkwardly tries to feign composure. “I didn’t know you were, um, interested? Well, n-not that I think you were averse to the idea of having kids, since I remember you mentioning it when we were, um,” he pauses, struggling to find a word other than dating, or together, or in love, or not painstakingly careful around each other, like every conversation topic was a fucking minefield.

“Younger?” you supply. A safe, neutral word. Yay for you! You deserve a snack from your animal care keeper right about now.

“Right,” he nods. He looks down at his shoes, revealing his flushed neck. He’s frustratingly adorable like this, but it does nothing except distract you. “Were you, um, planning on having a kid with your ex-boyfriend? Before you broke up?”

Ex-boyfriend? Why is he bringing him up all of a sudden? You stare at him in confusion for half a second before realization strikes you. Thankfully (or unthankfully), it seems that Yoongi misunderstands the implication behind your words and has taken your little slip-up the wrong way. For once, you are so thankful that Yoongi almost failed Math during the 10th grade and never learned to put two and two together.

“Definitely not,” you bark out a laugh, but it sounds incredibly forced, even to your own ears. You stare at the plate of food in your hands, a wave of unpleasant memories washing over you. “I doubt he’d ever want kids, anyway. Seokjin used to make fun of him and call him the world’s biggest toddler.”

Yoongi winces, his brow furrowing. “How long were you together?”

“Like, two years?” You shrug. “It felt longer, to be honest. Even if we dated for so long, I could never imagine myself having a family with him,” you say.

It was almost the truth, but not quite. While your ex-boyfriend had undoubtedly been a pain in your ass, he wasn’t completely bad, especially in the beginning. You had enough self-respect that you would have ended the relationship earlier if he didn’t have any redeeming qualities. The main problem was that he had a tough act to follow, and you don’t think any man on earth would be able to live up to your lofty expectations at this point, not when you’d constantly be comparing everyone to—

Yoongi speaks up again. “Seokjin seems to really dislike him. Was he really that bad?”

“Seokjin has never really liked any of my past flings,” you admit, rolling your eyes. (You fail to mention that Yoongi has always been the only exception.) “Despite his own disgustingly high body count, I can’t say he was wrong. Sungjae was a self-centered prick who never gave me the time of day. Hell, I was almost thankful when I caught him cheating. It was the final push I needed.”

Even though it’s been so long, the pain of seeing your ex-boyfriend locking lips with a stranger he had randomly picked up from the street still throbs inside of you. It wasn’t like you were particularly sad or surprised to find out, but you’d always been a bit sensitive to people who kept secrets from you. Plus, it kinda sucked to know that they had fucked on your favorite Egyptian cotton sheets.

“Fucking bastard. If I ever saw him in person, I’d definitely kick his nuts ‘til he’s left with a concave crotch,” he seethes, eyes narrowing.

You laugh. You have to confess that the mental image is satisfying. “You don’t even know what he looks like though!”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m sure Seokjin would tell me if I asked,” he huffs. He mutters something else after, but his volume drops to a whisper and you have to step closer to properly hear him.

“What? Sorry, I missed that,” you say, but you could have sworn he said something like “I wouldn’t have done that if it were me” but you couldn’t be completely sure.

“N-nothing,” he stutters, waving off your confusion. He tacks on a smile, but you can tell that he must have been embarrassed by whatever he’d said. If it was anything like what you thought he’d said, then you could understand. It wasn’t like he was wrong, anyway.

He makes a move to rub the back of his neck, but he greatly underestimates the weight of his platter and nearly drops everything. Something deep inside of you kicks in, and your body instinctively moves to hold his plate with your free hand, saving him from a very messy situation. However, that also means that your hands are now touching each other, your fingertips grazing his knuckles.

Instead of letting him go like a normal person, your ape brain makes the first move (as per usual).

“Your hands are still cold,” you say dumbly. You had wanted to say more, like “your hands are still as cold as they were from when we were younger,” but bringing up your past together, even for something so harmless, still feels taboo. You keep your hands where they are, your eyes locked on his. It feels like you’re in the middle of a dramatic TV show while I Will Go To You by Ailee plays in the background. You can almost imagine the numerous ads for random Korean cosmetic products framing the two of you in slow motion.

Yoongi chuckles, reluctantly pulling away from you. You already miss the sensation of his skin on yours. “I guess some things never change, huh?” he says, wavering slightly. He stares at you for another moment before shaking his head, as though he’s pushing away some unwelcome thoughts. He turns away, leaving you behind to make his way to your table.

Despite the unbidden emotions bubbling up your throat and threatening to spill over, you have no choice but to follow.

At the table, Seokjin and Hoseok speak mutely with each other, though the exaggerated expressions on both their faces tell you that they had been in the middle of an argument. When Yoongi takes his place beside Hoseok, the couple pauses in their bickering to greet you.

Hoseok looks at Yoongi’s overflowing plate. “Dude. I know I teased you about being a skinny twig a while ago, but I wasn’t implying that you gorge yourself.”

Yoongi jolts in surprise before staring back at his plate. Weirdly enough, he looks just as shocked as Hoseok to find the amount of food he had gotten, as though he hadn’t even noticed.

Perhaps he was just as distracted as you had been? you think, staring at your own meager pickings. Oops, you definitely didn’t get enough food to fill your ravenous appetite.

“That’s fine. I can share with you guys,” Yoongi says.

Seokjin peers at your plate, smirking knowingly. “Oh, yes. I’m sure Y/N would love to get some of your food. It seems like the two of you either over or underestimated how much you’d eat.”

“Aww, cute!” Hoseok coos, pinching Yoongi’s cheek. “You still have the habit of getting food for her. That’s so sweet that you still remember that about her!”

You had been in the middle of taking a swig of your water, but Hoseok’s comment nearly causes it to spew out from your nose. You cough harshly, beating your chest as your nose burns, among other things.

“Hoseok!” Yoongi scolds. He hits his friend on the shoulder, but Hoseok’s giggles refuse to stop.

“Oh shit, you’re totally right! Remember all those times when either one of us was forced to third-wheel with them?” Seokjin guffaws. “Y/N always orders something gross whenever we eat out together, and Yoongi ends up having to share half of his food with her when she starts moping.”

“I did not mope!” you retort vehemently.

“You kind of did,” Yoongi mutters under his breath, but you catch him this time.

You cross your arms, scowling. “Did not!”

Yoongi covers his mouth to fake a cough, but you can tell he’s smiling from how his eyes start to crinkle.

“You guys are so cute,” Hoseok sighs, squeezing Yoongi into a hug. Yoongi paws at him weakly, but you know that he enjoys skinship too much to push his friend away.  Still, he pouts cutely, his cheeks puffing up like a pastry.

“Anyway, why were you guys arguing a while ago?” Yoongi asks, changing the subject. “Seokjin-hyung is kinda red in the face.”

“Oh, we weren’t really arguing. Hyung had gotten some wine from the bar but he forgot to get me some,” Hoseok says. He glares sharply at Seokjin. “Bastard.”

“You just said we weren’t fighting!” Seokjin whines. He stands up, raising his arms in surrender. “But fine! I’ll go get your damn wine,” he sulks, groaning when he stretches his back and a few worrisome pops resound from his joints.

“Damn, hyung. I know I told you that I hope you grow up well when we were kids, but I didn’t think you’d take it that literally,” Yoongi jokes, earning a sharp laugh from you. Yoongi glances at you then, visibly proud when he catches the wide grin on your face.

Seokjin gasps, offended. “I am not old! I’m literally a year older than you guys! And here I was, about to get you both drinks as well! It sucks to be the nice one in a friend group,” he sniffs.

“Yes, we are eternally grateful for your service,” Hoseok says sarcastically. “Oh, and remember to get some drinks for Y/N and Yoongi-chi too!” Hoseok adds, slamming his palm on Seokjin’s sore back.

Seokjin yelps, before biting his lip. “Owwie, that hurt,” he moans, winking salaciously.

As the closest person to him, you make it your right to jam your heeled foot onto his gelatinous and push away with a shout of disgust. “Leave, wench!” you snarl, but you’re unfortunately drowned out by his cackling. Even so, he does make his leave, affording your table some level of peace.

“So,” Hoseok starts, a twinkle of mischief in his eye. He cradles his chin with his hands, smiling innocuously at the two of you. “How’s it goin’? Are you both having fun?” he says, laced with meaning.

Ah, you had forgotten; peace was never an option.

Though he is undoubtedly less annoying than Seokjin, you still don’t trust the way he’s staring at you, like he’s waiting for one of you to jump into the other’s lap and recreate his favorite porn scene.

(A terrible thought to have, especially when you’d probably be as begrudging as you should be if you were swayed sufficiently.)

“It’s going fine, thank you very much,” Yoongi responds, giving his best friend a stern look.

You nod wordlessly, unable to trust yourself to keep from stammering and making your frayed nerves apparent (if they aren’t already.) You grab your glass and busy yourself with your drink to delay answering.

You don’t notice that you had taken Yoongi’s cup by accident until you’ve already gulped a third of his water, dropping it with a loud clunk. “Oh shit, sorry! I didn’t mean to drink from yours,” you say sheepishly.

Yoongi smiles at your concern. “No worries. It’s just a cup.”

“Sharing cups too? Damn, what happened while Seokjin and I were away?” Hoseok laughs. Yoongi flicks him lightly on the wrist in retaliation.

“It’s just a cup,” he repeats before turning to you. “Sorry, I think he’s a bit drunk.”

“Haven’t had a single drop of alcohol but whatever,” Hoseok says, shoveling a large piece of tuna belly into his mouth.

The sight of him eating reminds you of your own hunger, your food slightly colder now after talking to Yoongi and your friends for so long. You take a spoonful of chicken, the taste not terrible but not as good as you would like. Your face must give your disappointment away because you hear Yoongi chuckling beside you.

“Bad food again? Guess you really are the same,” Yoongi says, low enough that Hoseok wouldn’t hear. He pushes his plate towards you, carefully nudging some of his bulgogi onto yours. “This tastes kind of sweet, so I’m not really into it. But you prefer it sweeter right?”

All you can do is nod in agreement, watching as he piles your plate with his food. His sleeves, which had already been stained previously by some stray bits of kimchi, become even more saturated with sauces and oils. Now that you see it up close, his sleeves seem a bit too long for him, his palms half covered like sweater paws.  

Without thinking too hard, you place your hands over Yoongi’s wrists, his entire body freezing as he waits for what you will do. Gently, as though you’re approaching a frightened kitten, you fold his sleeves until they’re no longer dangling into his food. The gesture is more intimate than you had intended, his proximity allowing you to smell the familiar fragrance of his cologne.

Paco Rabanne, your mind reminds you. Of course.

You pull away, trying your best to appear as unfazed as possible. You clench your hands and dig your nails into your skin to keep them from trembling. “If I’m the same, you’re no better. You always used to forget to pull back your sleeves before eating.”

After a beat, Yoongi returns from his stupor, licking his lips. “My hands were cold,” he explains.

“I know.” You lick your lips too, suddenly parched despite all the water you have drunk.

A forgotten treasure trove of memories resurrects inside of you, things that you had thought had been buried too deep for you to find again. You are filled with this odd feeling, an awareness. An old wound has resurfaced, one that you thought had healed long ago.

That wound throbs, still.

It’s so strange, being with him like this. A piece of your past that has come to your present, both the same and different as you remember. He knows parts of you that no one else will, as do you with him. But those parts were only ever supposed to stay buried: memories, after all, aren’t supposed to be tangible.

And yet, here he stands: real, alive, close.

It leaves you feeling emptier than before.

The atmosphere grows somber after that, neither of you offering much to the conversation. Hoseok is more than happy to pick up the slack, filling the stark silence along with the occasional hums from Yoongi. When Seokjin returns, he makes no note of the change in mood and focuses more on eating and talking with his partner. It allows the two of you to remain deep in thought.

You are pushing your remaining bits of food around your plate when the soft instrumental music playing on the overhead speaker stops abruptly, and the sound of a microphone being tapped prompts everyone to turn to the front of the ballroom. The host of the event announces that the next part of the reunion will begin shortly and encourages all the performers to head to the sound booth to prepare. A couple of your schoolmates rise from their seats, most of whom were the students you remembered being part of choir or band.

You half-expect Yoongi to stand up as well, but he stays rooted to the spot. Apparently, Hoseok is wondering the same thing.

“Yoongi? Didn’t you say that the organizers asked you to perform some of your songs?” Hoseok questions.

“They did.”

“But?”

Yoongi brings his fingers to his teeth, biting on them anxiously. Your hand makes a move to pull them away, but you think better of it. No need to supply your friends with more teasing ammunition. “But I changed my mind last minute. I felt kind of embarrassed to be performing my own songs. I’m more of a producer, not a performer.”

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Yoongi. You’re poggers, as the kids like to say,” Seokjin pipes up.

“I wouldn’t put it like that, but he’s right. A lot of people like your music and think you’re a great performer,” you assure him. “And I like your music, too,” you add shyly.

Yoongi’s hand drops from his mouth, eyes glittering with disbelief. He looks like he wants to disagree with you, but eventually decides to just smile in gratitude. “I didn’t know you listened to my music,” he says quietly.

Before you can reply, Seokjin chooses to interrupt with his migraine-inducing cackle and ruin the moment (as he is prone to do.) “Oh bitch! If you only knew how much this girl loves your music. She even buys your physical CDs AND collects your photocards.”

“I do not!” You scream, flinging a piece of bread at his head. You refuse to peek at Yoongi.

“Don’t worry, Y/N! I collect his photocards too. Wanna trade sometime? I’m missing the one when he still had mint hair,” Hoseok giggles.

“Will the two of you stop? God, it’s like you both had been planning to embarrass us as much as possible,” Yoongi exclaims, incensed.

When neither of them responds, you and Yoongi whip your heads towards them only to find two self-satisfied, smirking shitheads.

“Why watch reality shows when you can make your own?” Seokjin says in lieu of an answer, pointing finger guns. He blows you a kiss with a wink.

You clutch your chest, pretending to wince in pain. “Augh! Poison damage!”

Seokjin scoffs. “Swagever, man. You’re just mad because you’re angry,” he retorts, sticking out his tongue.

While you were occupied bickering with Seokjin, you had not seen that one of your old schoolmates had invited herself to your table. She sandwiches herself in the space between you and Yoongi, bumping you roughly enough to topple you out of your chair.

“What the fuck?” you yelp in surprise, holding onto the table to balance yourself. After straightening back into your seat, you find that your view of the world has become obscured by asscheeks the size of beachballs.

“Hi Yoongi,” she purrs seductively. Or at least, what she thinks is seductive. To you, her voice sounds like nails grating on a chalkboard.

“Hello?” Yoongi says, but it comes out sounding more like a question. It’s clear that he doesn’t remember her name, as he searches your eyes for help. You shrug unhelpfully; you deleted almost all the names of everyone that you had gone to school with right after graduation. Besides, her horrendous plastic surgery makes it even twice as hard to discern her identity.

“Hi Hyejin,” Hoseok speaks up, answering your unspoken question. Oh, right. The name does ring a bell, somewhat. You don’t recall her looking like a cartoon character before, but you suppose beauty standards are meant to be subjective. Maybe she wanted to look like a One Piece character.

Hyejin purses her lips into a tight smile but doesn’t return his greeting. She turns back to Yoongi, bending forward until her boobs are practically smooshed against his face. You wonder idly if stabbing her chest with your chopsticks would cause them to burst like a balloon, or perhaps drain like a puss-filled pimple. Both, you surmise, would be very entertaining to watch.

“It’s been a while since we’ve last seen each other, hm? I heard you’ve been very busy ever since we graduated from high school,” she says, batting her eyelashes.

“Uh, yeah? Some of us have jobs,” he says, passively dissing her. You let out a strangled laugh, causing Hyejin to aim a glare back at you. You bring your (his) cup of water to your lips, feigning innocence.

Hyejin rolls her eyes. “Right. But I meant that you’ve become a real star back in Seoul! I didn’t know you were such a musical prodigy!”

“I’m really not. I just work hard,” he shrugs. He’s visibly uncomfortable, especially since Hyejin was pretty much breathing the same air as him. Every time he leans away from her, she takes it as an invitation to come closer. He is nearly lying horizontally at this point, his back parallel with the floor.

“Humble as well as handsome? My, my. I didn’t think you’d be such a charmer,” she laughs, saccharine sweet. She twirls her dyed brown hair with her perfectly manicured acrylic nails. You rub at the goosebumps forming on your arms, cringing at the phantom sensation of her nails digging into your skin.

“Just spit it out. What the hell do you want so you can leave,” Seokjin interjects. Everything about his demeanor says calm and collected, but the way he presses his lips into a thin line says otherwise. You can sense the air dropping in temperature, despite the embers burning behind his eyes.

“I came over here to ask if Yoongi could give me his autograph, that’s all. I am his biggest fan, after all,” she sulks. She winks at him for extra measure. “And maybe his number too? I’d love to discuss your music with you sometime!”

“Oh, um. That’s—” he cuts off, hesitant to answer. He tugs at his ears nervously, exchanging subtly alarmed glances with you.

You remember that signal very distinctly; it’s a distress call that he would do whenever he needed a way out. He used to do it a lot when you were at social gatherings, especially when people would trap him in boring or awkward conversations. He never did like socializing with people outside his circle, but he was often dragged to parties by his more extroverted friends.

He might be hot as hell with his stylish clothes and jaw-dropping undercut, but he’s still awkward as hell around strangers. When the universe created him, they made sure to keep everything in balance. If they hadn’t been fair, you certainly would’ve died much earlier.

“Yoongi, don’t you have spare CDs of your music?” you quip, dragging Hyejin’s attention onto you. Her eyes narrow imperceptibly, suspicious.

“I do?” He stares at you blankly.

You resist hitting your forehead in exasperation. “Yes, Yoongi. Remember? You left a couple of them in my car.”

Yoongi’s eyes light up in understanding. “Oh, right! I left my CDs. In your car. That we drove here. Together. We came here. Together. Yes, correct.”

From your periphery, you can sense Hoseok barely holding onto his sanity after witnessing that pitiful display. Who can blame him when Yoongi’s infamously terrible acting skills are having their first appearance in over ten years? How he managed to pass Drama class is still a mystery to this day.

“Yup,” you say, popping your p.  You give Hyejin a winsome smile, your hands folded neatly on your lap. You can almost see the steam blowing out of her ears. It fills you with delicious satisfaction. “Why don’t Yoongi and I go get them so he can sign one?”

If her eyes had been made of lasers, you’d be a cauterized mess jumble of organs by now. Can’t say you would regret it either way.

“How kind of you.” She sneers. “Also, I wasn’t aware that you two were still a thing.”

“I wasn’t aware that we were required to inform you of anything,” you retort placidly. You plaster on your fakest grin. “Now, if you can please move your fat ass—I mean, if you can please move out of the way so I can go to my car...” you trail off, gesturing for her to leave.

After a few more indignant sputters on her end, she eventually makes her exit. She throws a couple of poisonous glares, but they go largely ignored by you and your friends. With her gone, you feel as though you can finally breathe fresh air again.

“Great stuff, Y/N! Congrats on winning your first bitch-off,” Seokjin chirps, back to his usual self. You roll your eyes at his antics but smile nonetheless.

“Thanks. I learned from the best.”

Yoongi clears his throat. “So, are we still gonna go?” He looks back and forth from her to you. “Just so we can pretend you actually have my albums in your car?”

“Trust me, Yoongi-chi. She does have your albums in her car.” Seokjin titters. “I wasn’t kidding about the photocard collection.”

“Ignore him. And yes, I do have your albums. I listen to them in my car from time to time,” you say, attempting nonchalance. “I’d hate to give them away to that bitch, but if it keeps her away...”

Away from you is left unsaid, but it’s heavily implied.

(No, you aren’t jealous. You’re above jealousy. It’s not like that bitch would ever have a chance with him anyway, unlike you—!

Woah there, cowgirl. Let’s stay on the right path. Don’t want your heart getting chewed up and spat back out all over again, do you?)

“I’ll just mail you a new one. Signed, if you want. You can probably sell it on eBay or whatever.” He tries to say it like a joke, but his brow is too furrowed to be convincing. (You want to kiss him there and make it go away.)

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so all you do is nod mutely. You stand up and Yoongi follows suit.

“We’ll be right back. If she comes back before then, tell her to scram,” you tell Hoseok and Seokjin. They salute you in response (well, Hoseok does. Seokjin does a very rude gesture with his fingers that is supposed to mimic something explicit. Feel free to use your imagination.)

The walk to the parking lot is a quiet one. The two of you stay side by side, his strides naturally matching your own. Unlike before, you don’t feel the need to fill the silence for once, content to just be in each other’s presence.

The hotel that your reunion is being held at is unusually unpopulated. The lobby consists of a handful of employees milling about, a few of whom look ready to fall asleep on their feet. You nod politely at the bellboy who opens the main doors for you, declining his offer to call the valet service to fetch your car.

“Just hand me my keys. I’ll look for my car in the parking lot.” It wouldn’t be hard to find, anyway. Your beat-up Toyota Corolla looks as though it’s been through three wars and then some.

It isn’t long until you find it parked close to the entrance. You unlock your car from the passenger seat, shimmying the glove compartment open to reveal your collection of CDs.

“Wow, you weren’t lying when you said you listened to my music,” Yoongi says, voice loud amidst the tranquil night. It startles you, and you accidentally knock over some of the albums onto your car floor. On top of the pile lies Yoongi’s most recent album, the one you recall he had released a couple of months ago.

Strange, how just hours ago you were listening to his music on the way to the reunion, only for the boy on the cover of the album to be just inches away from you.

“Yeah, well. You’re a pretty good artist,” you say.

“Only pretty good?” he repeats, amused.

“Don’t push it,” you snort. You grab the album on top, waving it in front of him. “This should be good enough, right?”

He plucks it from your grasp, an unreadable expression clouding his eyes. He chuckles, but there’s an edge of sadness in his tone. “Good enough,” he agrees solemnly.

His sudden quietness is different from the peaceful one before. It’s sorrowful, maybe regretful. He looks like a man stuck in grief.

“Did you know that I didn’t finish this album before releasing it?”

The question seems a little out of the blue, but you answer regardless. “No, I didn’t. They don’t sound unfinished to me.”

“The songs themselves aren’t unfinished,” he explains. He turns the album over, his finger running down the back where the tracklist is printed. “One of my songs never made it in.”

“Couldn’t you have delayed the album launch so you could complete it?”

He shakes his head. “It was actually the first song I finished out of all of them.”

“Then..?”

“It didn’t matter, at the time. I wrote it for someone specifically, but I didn’t want to put it on the album if she—they didn’t listen to it. It wouldn’t matter if the whole world heard that song because only they would understand it.”

“But now? What changed?” Fear and hope run down your spine in tandem when the question tumbles out of you. You hold your breath, and the world shifts from its axis.

But he doesn’t elaborate further.

x x x x x

You return to the hotel after acquiring both an album and some more tension. The album feels heavy in your hands, weighed down by secrets you are still too afraid to uncover. Not that Yoongi would ever willingly divulge them to you—because revealing them would make them real, and making them real would mean you would have to accept them, and accepting them would cause you to—

“They’re gone,” Yoongi announces when you reenter the ballroom. You can’t spot your table from the entranceway, but the certainty in Yoongi’s tone makes you believe him.

“No fucking way. Did those two little shits ditch us to exchange body fluids or something?”

Yoongi grimaces. “Please don’t say it like that. It’s bad enough that I was sitting close enough to Hoseok a while ago that I got accidentally footsie’d by Seokjin hyung.”

You wince, placing a pitying hand on his shoulder. “God didn’t make us his strongest soldiers.”

Yoongi tries dialing Hoseok a few times, but none of the calls connect. “Just my rotten luck,” he groans. He types angrily into his phone, worry creasing his forehead. “He was supposed to be my ride back to his place.”

“Seokjin isn’t answering his phone either,” you say apologetically. “How much do you wanna bet this is part of their evil scheme to leave us together?”

“I don’t doubt it in the slightest,” he deadpans. He sighs tiredly, rubbing his temples. “I suppose I can take a taxi there, but I also don’t know if he’ll be home to open the door for me.”

“Then why don’t you just stay with me?”

You don’t know what you’re doing.

In your head, the offer makes sense. He’s just a friend, you remind yourself. Nothing is stopping you from rekindling a friendship with him. You have purely platonic intentions. Friends help each other out.

Never mind the fact that your heart hasn’t stopped fluttering the entire night. Never mind the fact that you’ve caught yourself staring at him just as many times as you’ve caught him staring at you. Never mind the fact that you don’t want the night to end, not now not ever.

(Never mind the fact that you’ve never quite stopped loving him.)

So when he accepts, you convince yourself that offering had been the right thing to do.

(Maybe. Hopefully. You just wish your heart doesn’t end up as collateral damage.)

The drive home is short, thanks to the late hour. You had asked him if he had wanted to stay until the end of the reunion, but he had declined. “Nothing else left for me there,” he says.

You feel as though he’s hinting at something. Your grip on the steering wheel tightens. “At least I get to keep my album.”

Yoongi laughs, short and sweet.

As much as you try to fight it, sitting in the car with him brings up a lot of memories.

The two of you in the backseat as his older brother drives you to his house for dinner, backpacks filled with crumpled notes and loose pens, a promise of an intense study session for your upcoming exams ready to be broken. You remember how the sky would turn orange in the afternoon, the warm light streaming through the car window and washing Yoongi’s skin with a soft glow.

His cheeks had looked inviting, his lips even more. And you would lean over, kissing him like it was easy. Because it was easy, and you never had to think twice about it.

Your trip down memory lane doesn’t end in the car. As you walk up the steps to your childhood home, you hesitate by the door, your keys frozen over the lock. You can hear Yoongi’s soft breathing behind you, but his presence doesn’t feel as stifling as you thought it would be.

You’re far from being at ease, but you aren’t frightened either. Mostly, you’re just filled with anticipation. Of what? You aren’t sure.

“Excuse the mess. Jungkook is in the middle of moving out so there’s just stuff everywhere,” you say just as you open the door. You toe off your shoes by the entrance, kicking them off haphazardly into the pile of sneakers and boots.

You hear Yoongi huff out a laugh behind you. “Aish, that kid. Still hasn’t let go of his Timbs, huh?”

“He has also been really into chunky sneakers these days. I think he’s finalizing his transformation into Thumper,” you joke. “He’s staying at his new apartment for the weekend with my parents, so you won’t be seeing them. They’re helping him settle in.”

“Really? He didn’t mention moving when we spoke. Where is he moving to?”

“Busan. He and his best friend from college are going to start a restaurant in his hometown. Which is funny, since neither of them are the best chefs.”

Yoongi whistles. “Still, that’s impressive. I can’t remove the image from my head of when he was a kid. He was so scared of anything. He wouldn’t let go of your mom’s leg even if his life depended on it.”

He steps deeper into the house, his gaze jumping from end to end as he surveys your childhood home. You watch him, noting how right he looks standing there in the middle of your living room, like a chipped painting that has been restored.

It’s scary, how easily you’ve accepted him back into this place.

He stays rooted to the spot, the moonlight filtering through the kitchen windows and illuminating his frame. The air pulses with something magical, something dream-like, and it muddles your vision. It’s the only explanation you have for why your chest tightens when he turns to face you, with a gaze filled with sadness, mourning, yearning.

“Jungkook’s height chart is still here,” he murmurs. The small nicks on the kitchen door frame are hard to see, and other people have mistaken them for signs of wear and tear. But he knows what they are because he was there when your mother had etched the first scratch.

He looks at your ancient dining table, his hand brushing over the surface. “This too,” he says, rubbing at a large burn mark on the wood.

“Mom made sure to use placemats after that. I didn’t think a sizzling plate would burn through the table like that,” you say, giggling as you reminisce. “You know, we still use your mom’s galbi jjim recipe. We haven’t found a better one.”

“I’m sure she would love to hear that,” Yoongi smiles, but it fades just as quickly. “It’s so… strange. Being here again and seeing that nothing really changed.”

But things did change. Upstairs, in your bedroom. That night, ten years ago.

You still remember what you had said to him, when you had said it to him, how you had said it to him.

It was a sunny afternoon, the time of day when you’d be on your way home from school. The two of you had stood in your room, neither of you wanting to sit because sitting meant staying, and staying only made this harder.

There hadn’t been many tears in that moment; those were shed only after the realization had sunk in, when you’d fully understood what had happened. At the time, the decision had been as easy as breathing.

Except you had both been drowning. The clock was ticking down to the end of high school, and the inevitable wasn’t slowing down.

Yoongi wanted to chase his dreams in Seoul. You wanted to stay closer to home, with your friends and family.

You weren’t going to be the one to hold him down. You weren’t going to be that person, not when he’s destined for greater things than his hometown could offer—not even a girl who loved him would be worth staying for.

He had suggested it, first. He had been prepared for you to cry, or maybe scream, but you did none of that. Instead, you pulled him close, hugging him tighter than you ever had before. You wanted to make it last, imprint the sensation onto your brain so that his warmth might stay with you, even after he’s little more than a distant memory. You trembled, terribly so, even though the beginnings of summer crept on your skin like a brand.

It’s time to let him go, Time whispered. You refused to listen, just for another moment.

Let me have this last moment, you beg. But Time refused to listen.

“Do you know?” Yoongi had spoken into your neck, had hoped his words would stain there. “Do you know how much I love you?”

Love, not loved. “I did,” you say. You think better of it. “I do.”

When you separated, for good this time, it had left an ache deeper than you could have ever imagined.

But you were young. Young love was supposed to hurt, but it wasn’t supposed to last. “You’ll find others,” your mother had said, brushing a soothing hand through your hair as you sobbed.

Then why? Then why has it lasted this long?

It has been a question you’ve asked yourself, and you’re starting to think that the answer has always been right in front of you.

The answer is standing in front of you: real, alive, close.

“Why didn’t you ever date again?” you ask. You ask even though you know he can lie, if he wants. He can tell you anything and you would believe him.

But he wouldn’t; you know he wouldn’t.

“I was afraid of closing a door that I never meant to close in the first place,” he says. His voice crackles like static, but that might be the blood rushing to your head. He moves toward you but keeps a hand’s width away. Still too far.

He continues. “After that day, when I left,” he swallows, “after I left, I think… I think I left a piece of me with you. A-and I don’t think I ever stopped…” he cuts off, exhaling shakily.

“Stopped what?” you breathe.

“You know.” He waves his hands around helplessly. They fall heavily back down to his sides, defeated. “You know?” he repeats.

You do. Because you are the same. The old wound had never healed; it burns and it bleeds like new.

Your skull feels like it’s stuffed with cotton when you close the distance between the two of you. He circles his arms around your waist, tentative, but he relaxes when you wind your arms around his neck. Your vision is warped, so you choose to close them. You wait, with bated breath, as his warmth inched closer and closer.

The sensation of his lips on yours jolts you back to your senses. His kiss reminds you of your youth, of a love that had made you excited to start your day. Even now, your body remembers, and it rejoices.

The tenderness does not last long before it turns fervent, tongue and teeth crashing like waves against the shore. If his kisses could speak, they would tell you stories of how much he missed you, of how much he mourned the time you had both lost. They would tell you of the days when he’d almost pressed your number onto his phone, of the nights when he’d stare at the polaroids he had kept of you.

They would ask if you still love him like he still loves you.

He tastes of desperation, and you are likely to be the same. It is a desperation you haven’t tasted in years—but it doesn’t feel scary like it used to. Time no longer feels like it’s racing against you, like you had something to prove before the hour was over. This reckless abandon feels like home against your skin—it is an ache being soothed after having ripped your scabs over and over again.

It’s Yoongi.

And when he pulls you to your room, he doesn’t even need his eyes to find his way as his feet still memorize the floorboards. He struggles with the doorknob, forgetting that it always jammed, but it’s okay because you can always teach him again. You can teach him everything again.

The bed creaks under your weights and even the mattress sounds like it is sighing in relief. That sigh echoes from your lips when his hand slips under your clothes, his palm stopping over your heart.

“I won’t break it, this time,” he says. He promises. “If you let me.”

You wonder if he can feel your heart soaring, pounding against your ribs. “I think the line has long been crossed to ask for my permission.” You place your hand over where his is laid. You squeeze tight.

This time, you don’t let him go.

[letsasoiaftogether]

Imagine Tormund Giantsbane...

Word Count: 1,100

Warnings: None

Pairing: Tormund Giantsbane x FTM!reader

IMAGINE...YOU’RE A MEMBER OF THE NIGHT’S WATCH AND GET CAPTURED BY THE FREE FOLK NORTH OF THE WALL

(I wrote this for self indulgence and then decided why not share it lol)

Your whole life you had been different. Your thoughts, your dreams, even your body was different. You were born with a girl’s body; a softness and curviness to it that a man shouldn’t have. You had the parts of a girl. From a pair of round breasts, not too large and not too small, and an ass that had gotten you plenty of compliments in your life. But it wasn’t you. That’s not what you were meant to be.

You were born with a girl’s body, but deep down you knew that you were meant to be a boy.

Your family fought you and beat you; they prayed to the gods to save your soul, to take away whatever darkness possessed you to believe such things. Eventually, you stopped fighting with them and tried to make yourself believe as they did. It didn’t work.

You ran away from home when you were sixteen and never looked back; with no money to get across the narrow sea, you went to the only place you hoped you could be who you knew yourself to be and it not be discovered what you were hiding.

And it worked. It worked for years, in fact.

You took your vows and became a brother of the Night’s Watch. You went ranging beyond the wall with the likes of Benjen Stark and spoke well into the night with Maester Aemon about his life and whatever mysteries of the world he knew.

And then you went ranging and your party was captured by a dozen or so Free Folk.

*

“You’re a little too pretty to be a crow.” The red headed Wildling accused from across the fire, sharpening his axe as he stared at you – making it impossible to think he was talking to anyone else.

“Yeah?” was all you bothered to ask in return, tired and cold and paranoid – just waiting for them to get tired of you as they had the other five brothers you had rode out with. In the wildlings defense, it had been Tucker who had instigated the assault – it would have been too easy to go around the Free Folk as you had suggested, he just had to pick a fight as always.

His body was now ashes in the fire.

The giant of a man muttered an “aye” and moved to sit beside you, his axe back on his hip. He took a seat beside you in the snow and reached out to grab your chin. “Pretty and short…and your voice…”

You stiffened; your voice was the one thing you found the easiest to mask. You had always had a more neutral sounding tone.

“…ahh, your parents must not have fed you enough as a boy!” the man burst out into loud laughter prompting the other wildlings to do the same

“Not enough ale.” You tried to tease in return with a small grimace

You didn’t have an issue with the Free Folk; they were simply people born on the wrong side of the wall. It was only when they attacked you and your brothers without reason that gave you a cause to be angry.

“Not enough….” The man laughed even harder at that and slapped a hand against your shoulder, knocking you forward slightly.

You managed to catch yourself, which was a trick since your hands were tied a little too tightly in front of you, and pushed yourself back into a seated position in time for the man to grab the back of your neck and lean as close as humanly possible to your face.

“You know…we have people like you back in the village.” The red-head hummed into your ear, “I’ve lain with a few of them, even. But…how is it that you have been allowed to be a part of the Night’s Watch? I thought only men with cocks could join them.”

You paled and your heart stopped.

He did know.

He knew and he wasn’t...he wasn’t judging. He was only curious about it? About you?

You felt tears prickling in your eyes and quickly looked away from him so he wouldn’t see; just what you needed for him to see, your less than manly reaction to his words. To his…niceness?

“They don’t know actually.” You didn’t bother to wince at the softness of your voice as you let out a shaky breath and looked back at him, “My brothers…they don’t know. I’ve kept it a secret from them for…for years. Since I joined. The Night’s Watch was the safest place for me.” And that is saying something since…if the others found out about my body…quite a few of them would hurt me in…unimaginable ways.

The man seemed to have similar thoughts before his eyes narrowed and he said, “You southern pricks…all your rules about life and how you’re supposed to live.” He turned his head and spit on the ground, “Fuck them. Fuck you crows, fuck you southern shits…”

You laughed, “A shared sentiment, friend.”

He laughed along with you and released your neck, “You can stay with us! We could always use a capable fighter such as yourself.”

“I…I can’t…” you shook your head immediately, “I…I can’t just leave the Night’s Watch.”

“Then you’ll be kept as our prisoner.” The man hissed, grabbing the rope binding your hands, “You’ll be kept as our prisoner for the rest of your days.” It wasn’t ruthless. He wasn’t being cruel.

It was…it was his way of giving you a way out, and your heart broke at the thought of this stranger – a wildling no less – showing you more kindness in ten minutes than anyone else had in your entire life.

“Castle Black is my home,”

“A home that doesn’t accept you for who you really are.”

Whatever you were going to say next stuck in your throat. He wasn’t wrong. You had a few friends back on the Wall, but for the most part, you were left alone day in and day out. People knew you were hiding things and so they mistrusted you. Lord Commander Mormont, Maester Aemon, Benjen…they were the only ones who would speak to you without expecting you to show off your whole life story. Perhaps it was because they came from noble families who had their own secrets to keep.

“What is your name, boy?”

I’m not a boy! I…I’m a man! Your brain argued and you barely stopped yourself from saying so. You had, after all, seen over twenty years!

“Y/n, my name is Y/n.”

The red-head smirked and slapped you on the back, “Tormund Giantsbane, welcome to the family.”