#volunteering time and energy seems like the right response until I develop emotions that stop me from doing so

[deskuvro]

I’ve seen people kindly asking where they can donate to help the victims of the attack on the Run for Their Lives group in Boulder.

You can donate here:

It’s a general security fund they’ve put together which will go directly to the victims and help pay for security.

Despite it all, we’re still having the annual Jewish Festival this Sunday, right on the same street where the attack was. So you all stay strong, too.

[kireiwoo]

[12:37am] # choi jongho.

“have you ever been surfing before?” you shake your head dumbly at the attractively muscular surf instructor’s question, drool accumulating under your tongue as he pushes his silky, dampened blonde hair back with the help of his veiny hand for the nth time today. your eyes are trained solely on the way his multicoloured wetsuit clings to the curve of his waist, a towel sinched attentively on the dip of his hip as he leans from one foot to another restlessly. choi jongho, you recall his name is; an awfully teasing and unbelievably strong surf instructor, but a damned good one at that. you’d seen him countless times before, teaching from children to relatively elder people the art of surfing—but you’d never personally interacted.

“well, i’ll have to show you the basics then, y/n.” your name sounded heavenly rolling off his tongue, and in spite of the awkward atmosphere, you smile for a split second before returning to your awestruck phase. he seemed pleased with his ability to render you silent with just a few words, his domineering prance to the countless lined surfboards making you meekly cower behind him. he hands you pink and yellow hibiscus-designed board, winking before retrieving his own one, and it feels like your soul has been practically revitalized from its cavern of hopeless romantic despair.

one thing that drastically separates him from the other lanky surfers is the buffed mass built on his body; his biceps are sculpted perfectly and abs poking through the thinness of his black wetsuit, and he stands tall as he waits for you to girlishly stumble over, cheeks burning and eyes dizzy from both the summer heat and his own blazing warmth. you offer a blanched smile, raising a hand to tenderly wipe the sweat drenching your forehead before attentively listening to his brisk instructions. his voice is endearingly high, like a grotesque rendition of a part-time schoolboy, but the smoothness of his curt instructive procedures calms the rapid beating of your heart; just listening to how he drones about his past experience and what to look out for.

it’s only when he stops speaking, gazing at you awkwardly that you realize you’d zoned out for the practical majority of his speech. something about how sea turtles were bizarrely frequent was the last sentence you’d coherently understood, but there was no remembrance to the actual information he supplied; and not wanting to make a fool out of yourself, you stiffly nod, pretending as if this prelude to your impending embarrassment was nonexistent.

and similarly to how you’d predicted, you ended up flunking and snubbing yourself vastly when attempting to surf. the ten-minute educational video about surfing you’d priorly researched was the basis of your attempts, and solid try after try, you failed in succeeding. noticing your perpetual struggle, jongho approaches you with a flurry of adorable bounces in his step; and whether it be the clustered shine from the water or the sheer determination bubbling in him, you could tell he was eager to help.

“you’re holding the board wrong—are you alright?” you gulp at his question, not physically responding but squeaking at his abrupt presence, “the preface of my entire instructional was about how to properly handle a board.” he chuckles as you pale considerably.

“i know it’s nerve-wracking; there’s so many circumstances in which this could end up negatively but y’know what, i believe in you! just keep trying!” his encouragement strikes a cord in you, making you feel unprecedented guilt for genuinely not paying your full respect to his teachings. receiving empathy was the last thing you deserved right now and you intended on informing him of your misleading mistakes. as he raves on more about how to hold the board, you clear your throat; his cheeks darken a tint and you wonder if he feels dismayed for bombarding you with loads of questionably useful statistics. clearly, he has a lot of knowledge and little space to exude it.

“i—um... sorry, this is probably extremely unprofessional, but i kind of zoned out earlier on account of...” you mumble the continuation shortly, squeezing the fabric of your swim gear impulsively. the action is shy enough to alert him that whatever you said might’ve been sensitive or out of anxiety, and although jongho hates to force you out of your comfort zone, his curiosity is insatiable.

“on account of what?” he echoes, a perplexed brow raising. his confusion makes you flustered as you recognize that you have to repeat the rather petulant phrasing you’d used earlier; but this was an invitation for honesty, and you’d use it wisely. “on account of my... uh—i guess you could say it’s a crush?—on you.” flabbergasted in silence, you frivolously panic over his lack of response—lack of movement; hell, he’d practically frozen, appearance glacial and destitute of emotion. perhaps you’d gotten a tad too zealous, using this opportunity too freely without conscience of filtering your words. maybe he was creeped out? of course, he’d only prospectively met you an hour ago, exchanging handshakes with the promise of professionalism and pledges to do your best.

although jongho would never confess or admit to it, he’s noticed you quite a few times as well. the consistency in your cutely obvious stares arose some sort of blushy lustre on his countenance, and he oftentimes found himself victim to stuttering whenever he felt that same admirable gaze boring interestedly into the back of his head. he’d taken notice to how you scheduled your time at the beach specifically to his shifts, and contrary to popular opinion, whereas people would find this dedication obsessive or unlawfully desperate, he found some sort of zeal in your commitment. that perhaps you didn’t just view him as some temporary piece of eye-candy to come and go, only to find purpose in staring at a random other beefy hunk. perhaps it was because he was deprived of his own romanticism, but he’d developed a slight crush on you as well. and while he had his suspicions of your feelings, there were lingering inklings of doubt shovelled somewhere in his brain—hearing this confession just made everything so... bright.

colours popped and the water was suddenly warm; the skies were perfect and the clouds appearing fluffy as wool. jongho felt a spark of electricity surge through him followed by a dull buzzing that lit his lower stomach. his face was vacant of emotion but the energy bulldozing through him was comparable to lightening. the water swished against your surf board, creating a satisfying sound effect as you gradually felt the anticipation eat away until you were left disappointed. but before you could squabble away, jongho had already wrapped his hand around your wrist, securing the grip with a gentle, complacent squeeze.

“you’re right—this is probably one of the most unprofessional things in the book, but... i, me—i kind of have a... tiny crush on you too.” he looked away after the exposition, teeth impulsively biting his lip even though you’d already confirmed your own feelings. your heart stuttered momentarily and in a fit of joy, you’d tackled jongho straight into the pearlescent water, eyes pure with happiness and smile contagious.

choi jongho is a part-time surf instructor; he works mondays to fridays and generously shows up for work on volunteered, non-paid shifts simply because he loves his job. he enjoys recanting stories of past bizarre experiences and he loves the ocean above all—however, he wouldn’t mind bending a few expectations and rules simply to appease his infatuation, and although it was completely unprofessional, maybe he could teach you how to surf outside of work? or catch dinner by the bay? maybe even watch those darned sea turtles toddle up to the shore to greet the locals, but whenever and whatever it was, he knew he would have a partner in crime now—and you knew that you’d have a talkative yet awkward sweetheart to lug around with you; perhaps, things really did work out in the end.

[need-a-fugue]

We Grow Together - Chapter 1

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC

Summary: Relationships can be tough, especially when one person is a recovering-from-being-brainwashed-and-tortured former assassin and the other is an overworked mutant scientist. But hey, every couple has their struggles. Right? 

Warning(s): some angst, some emotional and mental turmoil… some bad language words... much fluff

Author’s Note: It’s Christmas in July! This is the second in the Supernova Series -- an AU wherein Bucky Barnes gets the girl, and a chance at a new life after finding Steve post-Winter Soldier. -- and it all begins with their first Christmas together.

“Yeah, I know,” he hears her say, voice muffled behind the door. Then, “I know. I didn’t forget,” after a long pause. She must be on the phone, he realizes when no other voice sounds in response. He knocks lightly before letting himself in.

“I will,” she says in an exasperated tone as she turns to face him, showing him a one minute finger. “I promise.”

He sets the grocery bags down on the counter and starts to unpack them while she finishes her call.

“Yes. I love you too,” she intones with a slight laugh. “Okay. Merry Christmas.” And she hangs up the phone. “What is all this?” she says with forced cheer as she turns back to face him.

“I’m making you dinner,” he mumbles, as he twists around, looking for somewhere on the cluttered countertops to set things down. “This place is a disaster.”

She pulls up a stool at the breakfast bar, rests her chin on her hand, and watches him work. His brow furrows in either confusion or disgust, or maybe both, as he shifts piles of papers and empty cans and bottles to make room.

He looks up at her and notices a melancholy, far off look in her eyes as she follows his movements. “Who do you love?” he asks simply.

She startles a bit. “What?”

“On the phone,” he states, pulling out a garbage bag from the cabinet. “You said, I love you too.”

He starts to toss the bottles and cans into the bag. “I’m recycling those,” she says, pointing to the trash in his hands. “Don’t throw them in with the trash.”

“Recycling,” he utters under his breath. It’s still a new concept to him. Of course so is all of the plastic people use nowadays. “You shouldn’t drink this crap anyway,” he says, holding up a few empty energy drink cans. “It’s poison.”

She rolls her eyes. “You sound like Natasha.”

He ties up the now full trash bag and stops everything else to gaze at her. She looks down, has for days. The holidays can have that effect on people, he’s no stranger to it himself. But he misses her smile. “So, who do you love?” he asks again, an impish quality to his voice.

“Just a friend,” she singsongs. “No need to worry.”

“I wasn’t worried. I just thought you might be talking to your family.”

She sighs, long and drawn out. “Yep. My family.”

“Or is it just a friend?”

“Same thing, I guess,” she says before propping herself up on the stool and leaning over the bar to look at the food he’s unpacked. “What are you making me?” she asks, clearly eager to change the subject.

“Christmas dinner,” he says with a nod. He turns around to flip on the oven and begins rummaging through the cabinets of the small galley kitchen. He comes up with a couple of small pots and a large roasting pan that she honestly didn’t know were even in there. Pepper had made sure that everyone’s apartment was fully stocked before they moved in. But she’d been here for more than two years now and had never come across those items before. Of course, she didn’t often go looking for cooking utensils. What would be the point in that when there was a perfectly good cafeteria downstairs and a common area upstairs that was always stocked with food?

“Christmas is tomorrow. And I think Tony’s expecting everyone in the grand hall,” she says, referring to the small ballroom just below the penthouse where their parties were typically held.

“Well,” he says turning to face her, leaning his hip against the oven, “tonight is our Christmas.” He shoots her a sly but genuine smile and she can’t help but return the expression.

“And you can do that?” she asks, leaning so far over the bar that she’s practically crawled on top of it. She’s looking through the piles of fresh vegetables and herbs that he’s laid out on the counter beneath the bar. “You know how to cook all of this?”

He walks over and lightly slaps her hands away. “Yeah, Tess. I can cook carrots and potatoes.” He side-eyes her as he gathers the produce and takes it to the sink. “You really have no idea how to cook anything, do you?”

She shrugs. “Never really came up.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I never really had to learn.”

She never talked about her family or where she came from or how she grew up. And other than a few questions here and there – because he was genuinely curious – he never pushed. It was obvious that her past was a bit of a sore subject, and no one understood that concept better than him.

She leaves her perch and comes to stand beside him at the sink. “You wanna wash these?” he asks, handing her some carrots. She takes them and runs them under the water. “You know how to peel?” he inquires, holding a potato in front of her.

“I can probably figure it out.”

He sets her up at the sink with a vegetable peeler – which she’d never seen either, oddly enough – and moves to the opposite corner to start prepping the chicken.

“Your mom taught you how to cook?” she asks quietly.

He nods, “She did. She said that she’d feed me ‘til I was 18, then I was on my own. And since she didn’t expect that I’d find a good woman to take care of me for a long time, I’d better learn how to fend for myself.”

Tessa laughed lightly. “Sounds like she knew you well.”

Bucky smiles to himself as he thinks back, remembering his mother’s words, her coy, crooked smile as she said them. “Yeah, she did.”

“I never knew my mom,” she says so softly, he almost doesn’t hear her. “Or at least I don’t remember her.”

Bucky looks over his shoulder at her and sees that she’s still bent over her potatoes, hyperfocused on peeling them just so. She makes no move to look at him, and he’s pretty sure that’s by design. It’s almost a test – seem too eager to know more and she’ll shut down completely, say nothing at all and she might never bring up her family again. He plays this game himself sometimes, not on purpose of course, but he’s noticed himself doing it just the same. Over the last year, since being brought into the fold here, he’s become more aware of how his struggles with his past affect those around him.

“Who raised you?” he asks, turning back to the chicken. It seemed safer to ask something like his than to push her on what happened to her mother.

“My grandfather for a while. Then Scott and Alex took us in.”

“Us?” he asks. He hears the peeler hit the side of the sink as soon as he says it, and he shuts his eyes, mentally kicking himself. She was talking and now he’s gone and ruined it. Is this how people feel around me? he wonders briefly.

She’s silent for a long moment as she retrieves the peeler and rinses it off. “Me and my sister,” she says finally, the words clipped short.

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Maybe we come back to that later, he thinks to himself before asking, “Who are Scott and Alex?”

“My brothers,” she volunteers, this information coming out a little easier. “Well, adoptive. Sort of. After my grandfather died… no one wanted us. We didn’t have any other family. And no one would adopt a mutant.” She stops for a moment and he thinks that she might be done talking altogether. He’s just about to ask something else, anything else, just to keep her going, when she starts up again. “Most mutants don’t see their powers develop until puberty. I was four when it started. My grandfather never told anyone. But… I don’t know… I was just a kid… I don’t know how people found out. But Scott found us, or we found him. We met in a children’s home outside of Chicago. He was an orphan too. And Alex.” Bucky turns around to see her, watch her as she slowly, carefully peels each potato while talking about her brothers. “Scott was 15 at the time and he was just trying to find Alex, who’d aged out of the system.” She sets the peeler down and looks up at the cabinet in front of her, clearly gazing at nothing as she recalls, “He took care of us. He became our big brother. And when Alex found him and said he was taking him away to some school in upstate New York, Scott said that we needed to go with them.” She braces herself on the counter and shakes her head at the memory. “It was more… complicated than that, of course. But eventually Alex was able to become our legal guardian – after the Professor pulled a ton of strings. And then… well, I grew up at that school.” She turns around to face him, not at all surprised to see him watching her from across the small kitchen. “Hence not knowing how to cook.”

“So it was like a boarding school?” She nods. “I always thought you’d have to be crazy to go somewhere like that. I always figured they were like the Army, like basic training, only with more books and tests.”

She laughs a bit and leans back on the counter before saying, “Sometimes, maybe.” Then, shaking her head slightly, “It was a good place. With good people.”

He considers only briefly whether or not to ask the question begging to be asked. “So why are you here then? At Christmas… why aren’t you with your family?”

She looks at him long and hard before saying in a measured tone, “Same reason you aren’t with your family. They’re all dead.”

He sees the pain in her eyes when she says it, but he can also see the resolute tilt of her chin, the firm line of her lips. She’s doing all she can to make it seem okay, to fight off the sadness. That’s a trick he knows all too well. He looks away, knowing he can’t do anything to take away her pain breaks his heart. “I’m sorry,” he says simply.

She merely nods in response. “So,” she breathes out after a moment, “am I supposed to cut these up now or something?” She indicates the peeled potatoes on the counter.

He pushes off of the counter and goes to fill a large pot with water. “Nope,” he says, placing the pot on the stove and holding his hand out for them. “Now we boil them.”

She wrinkles her nose while handing over the potatoes. “Boil them?” she asks with a face. “That sounds gross. Are you sure we aren’t supposed to fry them or something?”

He chuckles. “Don’t you know how mashed potatoes are made?”

She thinks for a moment, making a totally new, completely adorable face. “From a box?”

“You’ve got a lot to learn, doll,” he laughs, shaking his head.

She scoots a bit closer to him and leans her head on his shoulder. “So you boil them and then you mash them?”

“Basically. Add butter and cream,” he replies, leaning his head onto hers.

“We’re not boiling the chicken, are we?”

He smiles wide. “No room in the pot.”

She steps back suddenly, cocking her head at him in an assessing way. “This isn’t my Christmas present, is it? A sarcastic cooking lesson?”

“You were expecting a present?” he asks, unable to hide the coy smirk on his face.

She rolls her eyes at him rather dramatically and he steps away from the stove to stand directly in front of her. His hands fall to her hips as he presses his forehead into hers. “Presents are for later,” he says softly. “It isn’t Christmas yet, remember?” He pulls back a bit and places a kiss on her crown. “And I’m not giving you a lesson. I’m making dinner.” He gives her a little shove with his left hand as he turns her toward the kitchen doorway. “You are going to take a bath,” he says, all but forcing her out of the room.

“Why? Do I stink?” she tosses over her shoulder with a wink.

“I don’t trust you in here. Go relax.”

She leans back over the breakfast bar on her way to the bathroom and says, “It’s been a long day. You might want to check on me to make sure I don’t fall asleep in there.”

He glances back at her and notices just how tired she looks. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says before throwing his chin in the direction of the bathroom in a shooing manner.

                                                          000

An hour later, she’s back in the kitchen, this time cutting up apples for a pie. “Can’t you buy this stuff in a can?” she asks before letting out a long drawn-out yawn.

“That’s disgusting.” He absently scoots a little closer to her, unconsciously drawn to the clean honeysuckle scent clinging to her damp hair. “I don’t ever want to hear you say that again.”

She snorts out a laugh. “Just because it’s harder doesn’t mean it’s better. I’ve eaten ready-made pie filling before. And it was delicious.”

He stops pressing the dough into the pan and turns to face her, a look of utter horror on his face. “You ate pie filling?” he asks. She nods without glancing up. “As in, just the filling?”

“It was college. I was poor. Those cans were cheap.” She tosses the last pieces of apple into the bowl between and them and cocks her head in his direction. “I had a can opener. I had a spoon. And I have to tell you, that shit is de-licious.”

He shakes his head as though he might be able to fling the thought of her eating that crap out of a can like a deranged homeless person right out of his head. “We’re never speaking of this again.”

They work in silence as she tosses the apples with the melted butter and sugar he set out and he checks the potatoes. It’s nice. He can’t remember the last time he cooked a big meal like this. And while he and Steve sometimes have to dodge each other in their kitchen while putting together meals, he hasn’t really cooked with anyone in a long, long time. Actually, this whole evening reminds him of cooking with his sister. Being so much younger, she was always at a bit of a loss for what to do. Like Tessa, she turned her nose up at raw chicken, couldn’t fathom how myriad ingredients came together to make food, and spent a good deal of time pilfering anything mixed with sugar.

“If you keep eating them, there won’t be anything to fill the pie with,” he says softly, looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

She holds her hands up in mock surrender and takes a step back from the counter. He hears the apple crunch in her full mouth and can’t help but snicker as she attempts to choke down the evidence. “I’m hungry,” she whines then. “I can smell the food, but I can’t eat the food. It’s terrible.”

He dumps the apples into the pie pan before she can go back for more, sets the pie aside and washes his hands. “It’s almost ready,” he says, reaching for her. “You’re being very patient.”

She snuggles into his chest as his arms wrap around her. “Thank you for noticing,” she says with a smirk.

It’s actually more than hour before they can eat, but that isn’t entirely his fault. Yeah, the chicken took a little longer than he thought, but she’s the one who got a call and ducked out for “just a second” to check on something happening in the lab.

“Helluva second,” he says to her as she stomps back into the apartment almost an hour late. He has the table set and is sitting there with a beer in his hand and a smug smile on his face.

“I’m starving,” she drawls out, dragging herself dramatically over to the table.

“Why is anyone even up there?” he asks, referring to the research lab upstairs. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

She slumps into the seat across from him, rests her elbows on the table and drops her head into her hands. “It’s Stark Industries. Places like this are built on people who work holidays. Well, people who work all days, really. Every. Single. Day.”

“I remember having Christmas dinner with Howard,” he says, a far-off look gleaming in his eye for just a moment as he grasps at the old memory. “I think.” The memory is fuzzy, like so many others. But he’s sure that Howard was there, sure that he bought in turkey and roast potatoes and red wine – damn the rationing. He’s sure that he stood and gave a speech that lasted at least 10 minutes, even if he can’t recall a word that was said.

“Are these my plates?” she asks, pulling him from his reverie.

He looks up to find her examining the china closely, confused look on her face. He reaches over and plucks the plate from her hands. “They were in the top cupboard,” he says. “You’re probably too short to ever been able to find them.” He picks up his dish too and goes into the kitchen to prepare their plates. When she makes a move to get up to follow him, he turns and throws up his left hand in a stop gesture, waggling his index finger as a directive for her to sit back down.

“I’m not short,” she mumbles, resuming her head-in-hands position at the table. “I’m above average height for a woman.”

“Well then maybe you were too busy eating out of cans like a hobo to notice that you had fine china,” he intones from the kitchen.

“No one says hobo anymore.” She’s raises her head to look at the table in front of her, see if the silverware is at least the same that she normally uses. It is. The wine glass in front of her is a utensil she is more than familiar with. She perks up a bit, noticing the light liquid inside. “What’s this?” she asks, picking up the glass and taking a large inhale. Oaky. And… peachy?

“I don’t know,” he replies, returning and setting a full plate in front of her. “But the lady at the store said it was good.”

“It is,” she declares, as the just-dry-enough chardonnay slips down her throat.

The corner of Bucky’s mouth turns up in a small, crooked smile as he takes his seat across from her. “Good.” He looks over at her and watches her eyes close as she takes another sip. He can tell that she’s enjoying the wine, and he’s pleased about that, but he can also see the exhaustion on her face, the dark circles under her eyes, the puffiness of her lids. “Eat,” he directs, more than a little upset with himself for telling her it was fine to go check in at the lab.

She sets down her wine glass and picks up her fork with an excited, almost beaming expression on her face. They eat in silence for several minutes, Bucky eating like a normal person and Tessa shoveling mashed potatoes into her mouth like a starving toddler.

“You’re gonna choke,” he says finally, laughing.

Her mouth is full when she replies. “No.” Then, following the massive gulp, “I didn’t know this was what mashed potatoes were,” she says with a big, dumb smile. “And the chicken too…” He looks down as the food in front of him, averting his eyes as an unwelcome blush takes over his face. “It’s soooo good.”

“It’s really not that hard,” he says, shyly shuffling the vegetables on his plate with his fork.

He feels the top of her bare foot slowly creep up his leg as she says, “I’ve never had a guy make dinner for me before.”

“Really?” he asks incredulously. Her foot continues to slowly stroke his calf, which only adds to the redness in his cheeks.

“Well, Steve made me pizza once. And chicken soup. Oh and we experimented with sushi one night,” she recalls, waving her fork in the air. “But I guess that doesn’t really count.”

He looks up at her pointedly. “It better not.”

“Does that mean that pizza and sushi don’t count as dinner or that Steve doesn’t count as a guy?”

“Yes,” he says simply, feeling his cheeks cool as the sound of her laughter fills his ears.

Her foot has made the move from his calf to his inner thigh, and while the blush of embarrassment may no longer be on him, another awkward-for-dinner-time feeling is starting to take over. “You have no idea,” she starts in a low, seductive voice, “how much I’m looking forward to filling my mouth,” she continues, leaning forward, her toes creeping along the inseam of his pants, “with that apple pie.”

Her foot drops suddenly as she leans back in her chair, popping another bite of chicken into her mouth with a smug, satisfied smirk. He rolls his eyes as a deep chuckle emits from his chest. “You are…”

“Amazing?” she tries, mouth still full. He shakes his head and purses his lips like he’s trying to come up with the right word. “Perfect?” she asks with a swallow.

“Definitely not.”

“Beautiful?”

“Not quite what I was thinking.”

She sighs long and deep. “Brilliant? Sexy? Smart? Loyal? Coquettish?”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“Honestly, I just keep coming back to amazing,” she says with a shake of the head.

He gazes at her from across the table, crooked smile slowly widening as she takes another bite and lets out a tiny blissful moan. “I was going to say a real jerk. But I like amazing,” he says with a nod. “It fits.”

“Yeah, it does,” she says with a smirk.

They finish the meal without words, just enjoying the food and enjoying knowing that the other is sitting right across the table. As soon as Bucky leans back in his chair, plate clean in front of him, Tessa gets up to collect the dishes. His hand comes up and takes hold of her wrist when she reaches in front of him. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t mind,” she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder and easily slipping his grasp. “Need another beer?” she asks, grabbing the empty bottle along with the plate. He nods happily and settles back in his chair.

His gaze drifts towards the window as she heads into the kitchen. “It’s snowing,” he says, almost to himself. He hears the clatter of dishes hitting the sink and cringes. “You okay in there?”

She appears suddenly around the corner, beer in hand, bright smile on her face. “It isn’t Christmas without snow,” she says, completely ignoring his question. She offers him the bottle and he grabs her wrist instead and pulls her into his lap.

“So what was Christmas like at mutant military school?” he asks as she settles herself in.

“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “Quiet. Quieter anyway. A lot of the kids would go home for the holidays.” She takes a quick swig of his beer and lays her head on his shoulder. “I don’t know,” she repeats before going silent.

He brings up his right hand up to her head and runs his fingers through her hair. “I remember snowball fights,” he says. “And my mom yelling at me about catching pneumonia after coming home with wet mittens.” He chuckles a bit at the memory, but feels a surge of sadness at the same time. Because it’s one of just a handful of memories he still has of his mother, and of his childhood in general.

“Will you cook me Christmas dinner every year?” she asks softly.

He can hear the hesitation in her voice and it makes his chest constrict a bit. They don’t talk about the future. He’s still not entirely sure that someone like him can even really have a future. And sometimes he thinks she feels the same way about herself. But there’s not a doubt in his mind that if he gets a real chance at a future at all, she’ll be in it. “Every year,” he says, placing a gentle kiss on her head.

She turns in his lap to face him. “We could go have a snowball fight, if you want,” she says with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Work up an appetite for pie?”

He laughs heartily and she takes that as a yes, jumping up from his lap and running into the bedroom to find her boots. “It just started snowing,” he calls after her.

“I don’t care,” she yells back. Then, stumbling out of the bedroom as she struggles to get her boots on, “We can just take a walk until it builds up.”

He stands up and moves over to her, wraps his arms around her middle and pulls her in close. She hugs him tightly back, burying her face in his neck. He breathes in the honeysuckle scent of her shampoo, feels her fingertips grasp his shoulder. “I love you,” he says into her hair.

Without missing a beat, without even acknowledging that this was something new, something neither of them had ever said before, she grips him a little tighter and utters in return, “I love you too.”

[sasorikigai]

BLOOD TIES - Kamidogu Meta 

In the Red Dragon Temple somewhere in China (near Linxia), Sub-Zero (Kuai Liang) attempts to steal retrieve the Kamidogu Dagger for Lord Raiden. He is interrupted by Kano, as the Curse of the Kamidogu corrupts the cryomancer, giving him the character-defining scar on his right eye. After Kano comments about the nature of the Kamidogu Dagger, that Kuai Liang will be possessed by the Blood Code and for the curse to be broken, he would just have to kill himself - the possessed. Kuai Liang not only throws a frigid haymaker on Kano’s right hand - where his cyberized eye lays - but rips the device out and escapes. At this point, Kuai Liang would have only recently come back from being cyberized as Cyber Sub-Zero (LK-520), but as a Revenant of the Netherrealm alongside Scorpion also. The concept of death and his mortality is a double-edged sword, yet no panic sets in as Sub-Zero escapes, bloodied and corrupted. The agonizing whirlwind of the innocents who had died as their flesh becoming translucent, and being shattered like glass shards continue to haunt him again. 

It also showcases Kuai Liang’s stamina and resilience as a human cryomancer, capable of not only overwhelming Kano, who had been unmarred and having been in such advantageous position over him, but his unsurpassed cryomancy as well. As a hybrid of a Cryomancer and human, Sub-Zero controls the power of ice and cold effortlessly. He can generate cold ice by absorbing the surrounding air and releasing it as cold energy to freeze water vapor. By using his powers and creativity, he can create ice constructs of varying purposes, weapons being an example out of many. 

Meanwhile, as Hanzo Hasashi and Takeda Takahashi pushes on for the Sky Temple, they camp close as Hanzo witnesses the streaking lightning, along with the clouds that get too close. Corrupted Raiden comes crashing down from the skies, knocking Hanzo off his feet and electrocuting him, spilling the doctrines of the Blood Code. When Takeda interrupts and stabs Raiden from the back, Raiden also zaps him. 

In the Himalayas a few weeks ago, Hanzo contradicts what Takeda says as hellfire being not a style, but his curse; hellfire is a burden he has carried since the day everything changed for him. He sites that the last seconds of his life passed like hours, as the massacre of the Shirai Ryu was an outrage, but it was nothing compared to what his eyes held in those final moment. His beautiful family, frozen, as the village blazed around the Hasashi family. Hanzo prayed that ice would thaw, he prayed not to the Gods, but to the fire itself, for Harumi (Kana), his wife and Satoshi (Jubei), his innocent child. He died, but his soul kept praying for fire until Quan Chi answered. Fire did not burn him, and Quan Chi never controlled him, he was never his Revenant, but a volunteer; for his loss had become a fire within, and the dark sorcerer only stroked the flames with promises of justice and vengeance. 

Hellfire consumed my heart, my name, and my conscience. 

An Anti-Villain is the opposite of an Anti-Hero — a character with heroic goals, personality traits, and/or virtues who is ultimately the villain. His desired ends are mostly good, but his means of getting there range from evil to undesirable. Alternatively, his goals may be selfish or have long-term consequences he doesn’t care about, but essentially, Hanzo is a good person who might even team up with the hero if their goals don't conflict. In terms of personality, Hanzo Hasashi is shown to be kind-hearted and can be caring and honorable in nature, even towards their enemies, but it can be possible for them to treat their own allies with rudeness, which by its own accord, is a very unusual trait to possess. Moreover, compared to regular villains that are just simply evil, anti-villains are often neutral - depending on the writers of said characters. Those that are part of the neutral alignments however, aren't exactly benevolent, but they aren't malevolent either. As Scorpion, the Netherrealm’s hellspawn spectre, he would find vengeance, but not justice. The fire remained, and he would keep fighting, even after his life was restored. 

"Long is the way, and hard, that out of Hell leads up to Light."

Hanzo Hasashi is an atoner, who thinks he doesn’t deserve a second chance, after all the murders he’d committed willfully, a suicide in the form of hara-kiri. As in Japanese culture, traditionally suicide can be done to cleanse one's honor, as Hanzo would have struggled with the demons in his mind (Scorpion), swaying his temperaments, which makes him The Wild Card - who is a character so used to swinging between teams that they have no default "good" or "evil" character alignment or even a "home team." He truly is not interested in consistently remaining with either side, and will very often simply want both to leave them alone. He is the sort of person who will stay out of things entirely, until someone else (usually the hero or other sympathetic character) asks him for help (in this case, Raiden and Kenshi, who is ‘a wise man’ in the story, who saw Hanzo’s hellfire for what it was). 

Kenshi Takahashi was who saw through Hanzo’s shame, pain, loss that he couldn’t ever lose. And Hanzo still has to relive the moment of his own death when wielding hellfire, and has to risk destroying himself all over again every single time. Hanzo’s recovery would have been ungraceful, and feeling ephemeral, even as his grief and remorse claws at his throat. He wishes he could clam up his emotions and keep them safe, but he tends to wear his emotions on his sleeves as his hot-tempered impulsiveness and always choosing fight over flight when Hanzo’s own survival mechanism, enabling him to react quickly to life-threatening situations with offense, instead of defense. 

Hanzo completely dominates Raiden, even when Raiden is a demigod, obviously canonically proven to be stronger than him. Not only Hanzo blames Raiden for destroying the Second Shirai Ryu and killing Takeda, but the act of giving the Kamidogu Dagger to himself as well. It serves as Hanzo’s berserk button, which is one type of trigger, where the response to a minor or generally insignificant thing is one of extreme anger. That is, engaging the trigger turns an ordinary character into the berserker. The Berserker is a character who throws himself into a fight with such reckless abandon, it seems like he wants to die. It could be over-enthusiasm, overconfidence, unstoppable rage, or the desire to die (in battle). Whatever the cause, it's usually accompanied by a bellowing warcry (Hanzo’s characteristic baritone). Sometimes with total obliviousness to whether he's actually fighting the enemy.

And he never, ever retreats. This is only amplified by his paternal instincts towards Takeda, as agonizing pain and torment of losing too many continues to fuel his feral viciousness towards Raiden. All of this could be accumulated and summarized as love, which breaks the barriers between bodies and perhaps minds, as ouroboros of life and death encircles and becomes a repeated loop. He still manifests himself as a ghost, haunted by his own memory, bound to relive moments as if they are a means of a way out. The one shot at Hanzo’s own freedom and yet, still blinded enough to believe only in his tenacious, unyielding and resilient will that keeps him going all along, as Gods only exist to mess and ruin the course of his life and perhaps fate. 

Hanzo only stops his onslaught and assault when he finds out Takeda’s alive. Hanzo also doesn’t ever hold himself from speaking his mind, saying that Raiden WILL heal Takeda back to health with Jinsei - the Earthrealm’s life force - as Takeda fights for his life. The Kamidogu relates back to Shinnok’s Amulet; for the daggers serve as the keys, and each Kamigodu blade tested the blood of the one being, as its essence dwells within them. Raiden, in tne end, apologizes for not revealing the true nature of daggers’ perilous nature, as the Thunder God did not foresee a demon corrupting the blood magik. Raiden informs Hanzo that all of the other Kamidogu are accounted for, except the one stolen many years ago, which Sub-Zero happens to be in the possession of, as he has been corrupted with the Blood Code. Hanzo makes a promise that he will find Sub-Zero, dead or alive. 

"I knew I couldn’t kill them. More powerful men than me have tried. But if I could get them to kill each other …"

This only draws timeless stigma that has been rampant throughout the Mortal Kombat lore, as when Raiden shows up, people are bound to be dead (as proven with so many kombatants, including Liu Kang, Kung Lao and Hanzo Hasashi throughout the games), as Sub-Zero’s near-death which will come later in the comics, along with Hanzo and Kuai’s bitter rivalry, extended beyond as even with Hanzo’s resurrection, the bitter feud between Scorpion and Sub-Zero extends to their human counterparts, as this event takes way before MKX storyline. Fate had already been unkind to them, as they both turned evil, lest one was a volunteer, and one held at dark sorcery without volition. 

"It's difficult in times like these: ideals, dreams and cherished hopes rise within us, only to be crushed by grim reality. It's a wonder I haven't abandoned all my ideals, they seem so absurd and impractical. Yet I cling to them because I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart."

On the other hand, this continued rivalry may become a precursor that shows the unfurling events of the future, where they would develop a genuine friendship with the hero and perform a heel-face turn somewhere down the line. For Hanzo Hasashi’s morality was never at tabula rasa; for his intrinsic temperaments weren’t evil to begin with, as they both were pawns in Quan Chi’s malignant scheme to pin them forth as mortal rivals with misconstrued understandings.

[rivasanita]

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