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taestefully-in-luv · 3 years ago

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The Island | KTH (Eight)

Summary: You’re just two strangers waking up in a room on a lonely island where a company in the business of love has placed you. They believe that thanks to their in depth research you two are destined soulmates. What happens when your ‘soulmate’ and you want nothing to do with each other but falling in love is the only way to leave?

Pairing: Taehyung x Female reader

Genre: strangers to lovers, very slight enemies to lovers, soulmates au, roommate au, slow burn, fluff, smut, angst, slight crack, and drama.

Word Count: 10.7k

Warnings: swearing, sexual tension (?) mentions of sex, someone gets punched by someone,

Notes: Enjoy this chapter guys:) Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist, or send an ask if just want to chat about the stories!:)

Taglist: @ggukkieland @707sblog @peacedreamer14 @dopedreamfireparty @everythingnamjoon @taebae19 @typicalgenzworld @mooniyooni @helenazbmrskai @justinetingball @jpeachytaev @marplest @calling-dips-on-j-hope @lecavivien @fancycollectormoon @mawwnsterr

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The room you are in is as cold and empty as you feel. The one single table with 3 chairs, 2 on one side and the one you are currently occupying across from them. The room feels chilling like ghosts haunt it. Maybe they do, you think. The silence is truly deafening and the wait for these 2 other chairs to be filled makes you anxious. It’s been a few months since you have been back here and it makes you uncomfortable each time but you know little by little you are receiving answers.

Finally, after a long wait the heavy door to the room screeches open. And in comes a man and woman in professional clothing—he in a suit and the woman in a dress suit. They smile at you awkwardly like they feel pity. They both pull out their chair and take a seat.

“Have you found it yet? The island?” you’re quick to blurt out and they nervously look at one another before frowning.

“It isn’t that easy unfortunately Miss y/l/n. We’ve been in search of this company for over 50 years.” The woman taps her fingers on the table. “We have yet to find them or this island you speak of.”

You can’t help the scoff that escapes you as you roll your eyes to the side.

“What kind of intel agency is this? You can’t even find some lame ass fucking love company.” You spit out.

The man hardens his eyes at you as he takes a long, deep breath. Obviously trying to gather his patience.

“Here’s what we do know.” He begins. “They tapped your home, your cell, all of your accounts and spied on you for over a year. Doing their…” he pauses, biting his lip. “Research…”

“And drugged you and your parents the night of the kidnapping.” The woman picks up where he left off, “And then they drugged you again to return you home and also your parents…assuming so it wasn’t to wake them while they were in your home…” she gulps…she understands how invasive this all is.

“You didn’t think to set up cameras around my parent’s house? For when they would return me? You didn’t think to keep an eye—”

“We did.” The man clears his throat, “But they….” He drags his hand down his tired face, “This company is smart. They obviously know what they are doing. The night of your return the cameras we had set up miraculously stopped working.”

You can’t help the laughter that erupts from your body. You begin shaking your head in disbelief, your laughter dying when you realize how serious this is.

“This is fucking bullshit.” You say with a tight lip smile. “Anyway…do you…do you guys…did you look into what I asked of you?” your eyes slide to the side as you nervously pull at the ends of your hair.

“The man you were with? Kim Taehyung…yes, we looked into it. We have been working with Korea’s intel in hopes to solve this case. He has been working together with them. I cannot release any personal information though.” The woman eyes her partner and her frown deepens. “Miss y/l/n…I know this is difficult and you two have been through a lot together. But I am sure you can find a way to reach out—”

“I just wanted to know how he is doing is all.” You cut her off, “It’s fine.”

~~~~~

You stare at the letter in your hands, it’s an off white color and the font in quite fancy. Your parents let you see it a few weeks after you returned home but every night you take it in your hands and stare at it. Not knowing how to take it. The company sent it to them the day you disappeared…explaining the company’s goals. They sent photos of you and Taehyung every week to prove you were alive and well. Your parents said this is what kept them sane…trusting you were okay because they couldn’t—wouldn’t accept any other reality.

Your heart aches thinking of what your parents must have been through but not just them…your sister found out through your mom and dad about the situation and she grew so worried without you. When she found out you were returned home she immediately came to you, sobbing in your arms and hasn’t left you since.

You set the letter down and pick up the pile of photos on your night stand…it’s a thick stack. You begin shuffling through them and you feel like someone has stabbed you in the chest with a dull knife and they begin to carve your heart out. It’s slow and painful…they finally take your slow beating heart and squeeze it in their hands, blood spilling and spilling. Killing you.

Some photos are just of you but majority you are accompanied by Taehyung and seeing his smiling face makes you relieve the experience of getting your heart carved out of your chest.

You glance up at your ceiling as tears begin building in your eyes, you try to blink them back, your eyes opening and closing repeatedly. But it’s no use, not when you feel this lost and hopeless. Suddenly, there is knocking on your bedroom door and your father is walking in.

“Ready sweetie? Got the rest of your things?” He steps into the room, a worried expression on his face but he tries to hide it behind a forced smile. “We should get going.”

You quickly sniffle and nod your head, shoving the stack of photos and letter into your backpack before you’re swinging it over your shoulders.

“Yup, ready.”

It’s moving day. Thankfully you found another job in your old town that you lived in, you found a new, better apartment that is close to where you use to live, you finally are getting out of your parents hair.

“Alright let’s get this show on the road!” your dad pats you on the back as you walk past him. He’s got the truck loaded and ready to go for the couple hour drive. Back to the city!

“This place is so much nicer than your last!” Your sister sets a box down on your new kitchen counter, “You actually have a decent sized kitchen! Not that you really cook.” She laughs.

“Hey!” you whine, “I told you I learned quite a bit of cooking while on the island.”

“You also told me that your boyfriend cooked a lot too…so I’ll just assume he did all the work.” She teases and your face falls.

“He isn’t my boyfriend.” Your lips curls so far down that it’s almost comical but alas, it is not because you feel your eyes sting.

“Sorry…” your sister walks to the living room, joining you. She reaches for the box in your arms and sets it down on the floor. “y/n…just message him.”

“…I can’t.” you feel your chest start to burn, “The way things got left…I don’t know how to speak to him.” you admit. “and it’s been so long. If he hasn’t already moved on then he at least hates my guts.”

“Yeah I probably would too.” Your sister nods her head and you swat her arm.

“Thanks Ellie.” You deadpan. “Anyway, I just can’t.”

“He is probably waiting for you…he loves you.”

“You don’t know him?” you laugh quietly, “So how would you know?”

“I’ve seen the pictures of you two, in the moment pictures, and dude, he looks so taken with you in every single one.”

You can’t help the way your heart drops to your stomach. You told him you thought your feeling may not be real…those are some of your last words to him and that kills you. Without a doubt he has had to have moved on from you…why would he torture himself?

Later that night you are snuggled up in your bed with your sister snoozing beside you. You have your phone (Damn you missed this device) and are scrolling through Taehyung’s Instagram. You notice he posted a new group photo just 4 hours ago. You look at all the tags and see all his friends…Namjoon, Jin, Yoongi, Hobi, Jimin and Jungkook. But there are also a few girls in the photo. You notice the tag for Hana. You hate that your heart completely stops beating in your chest then suddenly starts racing. Hana. He’s hanging out with Hana? Wait, why are you surprised? You take a deep breath and click her name to view her page and then that’s when your heart really stops. Her most recent photo is of her and Taehyung, their faces smooshed together with wide smiles on their faces with the caption “Missed you.” With pink hearts.

She’s pretty. Really fucking pretty. No wonder Taehyung liked her. Liked? Or likes? Are they together now? They look awfully close. You feel your eyes sting for the millionth time this day and they begin to bubble with tears. This is your fault. You pushed him away, so far away, into another woman’s arms. You start to feel lost and hopeless again…you decide stalking Taehyung through social media probably isn’t the healthiest thing for you or your heart. You continue scrolling on Hana’s page…she has lots of photos with friends, pretty Korean scenery, selfies and more. She looks lively and beautiful, oh so fucking beautiful.

You exit the app and click your phone off. You squeeze your eyes shut and a few pathetic tears that you do not deserve slide out and down your face. You really need to move on, you really need to focus on you. But how can you when a huge part of you feels like it’s been ripped from you? Taehyung was a part of you and you think he still is. You feel crushed, fucking crushed. He is probably with Hana now and you absolutely cannot blame him.

Taehyung is doing fine. Just fine. With or without you. And that reality is setting in and it hurts. It fucking hurts. But you have no one to blame but yourself.

“Why are you doing this, huh? Things were so perfect.” He stops in front of you and pulls you up by the arms. Your chests almost touch from how close you are. “Unless…” he looks down at his feet, “You’re saying all of this because that’s how you feel. You’re the one unsure of your feelings. You’re the one who only likes me—loves me—because there’s no one else.” He looks into your eyes, searching for an answer.

“Maybe.” You finally say. And you wish you didn’t because Taehyung releases a shaky breath and his brows crease together as he forms the saddest smile you have ever seen. The canvas of his life is full of beautiful bright colors but you continue to splatter blue and grey paint all over it. The paint mixes together and drips down, a gloomy mess.

“Oh.” He steps back. “I see.” He takes another step back, carding his fingers through his hair. He looks into your eyes as his gloss over, “I’ll leave you alone then.” And he turns around and walks out of the room, leaving you behind.

Why does this scene replay in your mind every single day. Every single night. His sad, sad expression leaving an ever lasting imprint in your mind. You feel broken, but you also feel angry. How dare the company send you back when you and Taehyung have so much to resolve? What is the purpose? What are their intentions? You ball the sheets in your hands as you release breath after frustrated breath. What was the point of all this? Somewhere deep in your gut you feel like this isn’t over. You feel like the company still has some ties to you…you can’t explain it…just a gut feeling.

To say you hate yourself is an understatement. You truly can’t stand to even look yourself in the mirror. You ruined the best thing that has ever happened to you—Taehyung. But you should be happy, right? He’s doing well. He has his friends, his family, Hana. He is absolutely 100% doing just fine and you have to accept that.

~~~~~

“You can’t live like this dude.” Namjoon throws a trash bag on to Taehyung’s bed, signaling him to use it.

“Yeah…Joon is right.” Jimin starts picking up some trash off the floor…mostly empty food containers. “This is getting out of hand. I know things haven’t been easy—”

Jimin is cut off with Taehyung groaning loudly and dramatically. He lifts his head off his pillow, his face evident with sleep as he eyes his two friends in his apartment.

“Get up.” Namjoon lightly kicks the bed with his foot, “And open a damn window or something.”

“And maybe take a shower. You reek of this hangover I am sure you have…” Jimin sits down on the edge of the bed, his hand going to Taehyung’s back, rubbing it soothingly. “She isn’t coming around Tae.” Jimin says as softly as possible, “She isn’t—”

“We don’t know that.” Taehyung cuts him off, grumbling. “She could.”

“You said it yourself, she isn’t sure of her feelings…why aren’t you letting it go?” Namjoon sits down on the bed as well.

“I know her.” Taehyung begins to sit up from his place in bed, his hand flying up to his pounding head. “Fuck. I’m hungover.” He complains.

“You went too hard last night.” Jimin frowns, “Again.”

“So what? You think she lied to you? That she does love you?”

“She was just scared.” Taehyung whispers. “Trust me, I know her.” He repeats again.

Jimin and Namjoon share a look of pity mixed with concern. Jimin stands from the bed, taking the trash bag with him, he opens it up and starts filling it with the garbage around the apartment. Taehyung just watches Jimin clean up and he starts to feel a sense of guilt. Maybe he has been a handful the last few months.

Taehyung is trying his best though.

The unfamiliar bed along with the unfamiliar room was indication enough that Taehyung was in a place without you. It only took him halves of seconds to realize he was in his parents’ home in their spare room. A place he didn’t frequent very often. But he understood his situation right away. The island returned him home to Korea but suddenly this place feels like the last place like home.

When he made his existence known to his mother and father they cried over and over for their son. His father going on about his regrets, how he wishes he would have supported Taehyung more in following his own dreams and so on. His mother wishing she had cooked his favorite meal more often. They basically took his disappearance on the island as his death. At least that’s how Taehyung sees it.

His parents’ received the letter as well, even the photographs. They know all about you. They know that Taehyung is in love, they know Taehyung heart aches. They know everything. They were honestly rooting for you two…they could see how much love went on between the two of you even through pictures.

But as the days went on, as the weeks went on and as the months went on, Taehyung started to feel like he is withering away with every day that passed that you did not reach out to him. Did your time on the island with him mean nothing to you? Even if you ‘maybe’ weren’t in love with him like you claimed you were still friends for god’s sake. You still without a doubt had a powerful connection.

Things have been hard. Really fucking hard. But nothing is harder than the day when the Korean intel agency notified him that you were good, that you were okay. That you were home. But they could not release any personal information. You were home…you were okay…but you still have not reached out? He’s relieved you’re well but that also comes with the disappointment that you are choosing to stay to yourself.

“Yoongi wants to work on that new song tonight, what do you say?” Namjoon stands from the bed as well and makes his way into the small kitchen for a glass of water.

“Not in the mood.” Taehyung mumbles underneath his breath.

“Listen Taehyung…” Namjoon walks back into the room, his hands crossed over his chest as he looks at Taehyung with narrowed eyes.

“If you’re serious about this, being with her, that is. Then fucking do something about it.” Namjoon continues to stare down at him while Jimin keeps cleaning.

“I don’t have her number, I can’t find her anywhere on the internet and I barely know where she lives. What the fuck can I do?” Taehyung grits out, raising his voice just the slightest as he talks.

“….There has to be something.” Jimin speaks up. “A clue.”

“A fucking clue? What are we? Fucking detectives?” Taehyung throws his hands up, frustrated.

“Jimin’s right.” Namjoon uncrosses his arms and runs a hand through his hair, “She must have mentioned something, anything. You have to think.”

“You think I have the mental capability to think right now?” Taehyung questions with a bitter chuckle. “She doesn’t do much. She never mentioned some grand event she goes to every year, she didn’t mention what school she went to, she didn’t mention what company she worked for, she didn’t fucking mention anything. She stays to herself.” Then Taehyung’s eyes go wide.

“You know I use to go to this coffee place almost every single day. I miss it. That routine. It’s called ------------…a small, family owned shop. Only one of its kind. I would read, write, journal. Just relax. Every day.” You breathe out, missing your comfort spot.

Taehyung rushes to stand from the bed, he is quick to scoop Jimin up in his arms and place a dramatic kiss to his cheek.

“Jimin you fucking genius!” Taehyung suddenly remembered the night you had a panic attack. When you calmed down enough to speak you told him all the things you missed about your real life. Including some coffee place you would frequent on the regular. But he cannot remember the name of it for the life of him.

“What? What?” Jimin starts giggling, “Why?”

“A coffee shop! She used to go to a coffee shop!” Taehyung basically yells in excitement.

“Okay, what’s it called?” Namjoon smiles and immediately Taehyung expression turns sour.

“I…I don’t remember. But it was family owned, only one of its kind.”

Namjoon can’t help the frown that decorates his face but then he tries to smile.

“Better start doing your research lover boy.”

“Cozy Coffee. It’s in (Your city).” Taehyung slams a sheet of paper onto the bar top in front of Namjoon. “I found it.”

“What’d you find?” Jin asks from besides him, “Wait that place y/n goes to?”

Taehyung nods his head quickly with a wide ass smile adoring his face.

“Yup.”

“Now what, kid?” Yoongi brings his beer to his lips as he takes a generous sip. “You going to call that place and ask for her?” he laughs a little.

“No.” Taehyung straightens his back as he speaks. “I’m going there.”

“You’re…” Hobi begins but stops when he sees how serious Taehyung is.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Jungkook starts shaking his head. “This girl—”

“y/n.” Taehyung snaps.

“Right…” Jungkook gulps. “y/n…she ignores you these last 6 months and you are still trying to be with her?”

All of the boys share looks with one another, frowns on everyone’s faces.

“Jungkook is right—”

“Tae told her he would do whatever it takes…he also believes in her feelings. So let’s believe in him.” Jimin cuts in, his hand going to Taehyung’s shoulder and giving him a smile.

“Jimin is right…” Namjoon breathes out, “Let’s trust in our Taehyungie.”

“But don’t forget what she did to you Taehyung.” Jungkook whispers seriously. “You weren’t okay…”

Another day passes and still, nothing from you. Taehyung brings yet another bottle of soju to his mouth as he starts downing it. He feels his world collapsing around him. He feels how everything around him is cracking and breaking apart. But the most cracked, broken thing is him. He looks at himself in the mirror and stares into his empty eyes, these same eyes that used to gaze at you. These same eyes that saw your smile, laugh, cry. These same eyes that undressed you. These same eyes that saw you coming undone over and over. These same eyes.

Taehyung chugs back his drink, his eyes never leaving his reflection as he finishes the bottle. He made a mistake tonight, a drunken mistake but a mistake nonetheless. He slept with Hana. Taehyung, the boys and Hana and her girlfriends were all at the bar tonight and he just doesn’t see her that way. Yet, he was inside her just an hour ago. He slowly closes his eyes, regret and guilt filling his entire being. What the fuck did he do?

His life is all over the place, a mess, if you will. A big, fat messy mess. He got a new apartment, leaving his parents’ house and he doesn’t think he has cleaned it even once since moving in. He drowns in alcohol, he drowns in unfinished songs, he drowns in his friends concerns and mostly? He drowns in you.

He stares at your photographs an unhealthy amount. He has cried over your photos countless times, he has touched himself to them too. Somehow that is more satisfying than the sex he just shared with Hana. The empty fuck he just gave her haunts him in this very mirror. Did he betray you? Have you also fucked someone new? Have you moved on?

Taehyung stares at himself, hating what he sees. You’re doing this to him. He went from being miserably depressed to angry. He’s beginning to blame you for everything with rage. But as much as he wants to hate you—he does want to—he just can’t. He can’t gather that type of energy in your direction. He just can’t.

Hana looks very pretty tonight…she’s been trying extra hard lately, Taehyung thinks. She is always casually got a hand on his arm, she always finds a way to be standing next to him, talking to him, leaning into him. Taehyung isn’t stupid. She wants him still. She apparently dated during the 8 months he was gone but nothing serious came from it. And now here she is, sleeping on his bed as he drinks by himself in his bathroom mirror.

So many different thoughts have gone through Taehyung’s head. Is he hard to love? That’s the main question that came out of all of this. You spent every day with him for 8 months and you weren’t even sure of your feelings. Shouldn’t a person know by then? He’s trying to be understanding…he is trying so fucking hard to understand but how can he? When he is balls deep in love with you and he doesn’t have to question it at all.

He is spiraling, he is being sucked into a darkness that he can’t crawl out of. He looks at himself in the mirror again, his eyes narrowing at his own reflection—disgusted with what he sees. He grips the empty bottle of soju as he feels his eyes wet with tears. He grips on to the bottle harder and harder, tears now leaving his big brown eyes. He growls out, groaning in frustration as he lifts the bottle up and throws it at his mirror. Glass shattering everywhere.

Startled, Hana jumps from the bed and rushes to the loud sound, finding Taehyung just standing lifeless, continuing to eye himself in the broken mirror. He likes what he sees much better. The cracked glass making for a better reflection, a more accurate representation of what he truly sees when he views himself.

“What the fuck?!” Hana yells out, rushing to Taehyungs side. “Are you okay???”

Taehyung walks closer to the mirror and lightly slides his hand down the cracked mirror, his fingers careful not to get cut.

“No.” he answers honestly and quietly. “I’m not.”

“I’m fine, Jungkook.” Taehyung assures him, “At least I will be…when I see her.”

“What if she doesn’t want to see you?” Yoongi says quietly, worried for his friend. He brings his beer to the bar top and stares at the liquid.

“I’ll get to that when I get to that.” Taehyung sighs out…”I can’t let go of this until I know for sure.”

~~~~~~

Settling into your new job has been smooth, thankfully. It’s only been a few weeks but you can say you really like it. Your boss is an older woman, your coworkers seem nice and the work isn’t too taxing. Your apartment is starting to come together as well, only a few more boxes left to unpack. On the outside things are honestly going well…your life looks normal and put together. But on the inside you continue to fall apart.

“Come on!” Ellie whines, “Just give me one little, tiny, juicy detail.”

“Ew, no!” you laugh, “I have nothing to share!”

“Oh, bullshit.” Ellie takes a drag of her cigarette, blowing the smoke the other direction.

You two are sitting on your balcony, watching the evening sun set.

“You are trying to tell me you two didn’t fuck? Not even once?” Ellie gives you a knowing smile and you can’t help but laugh.

“Okay maybe once.”

“I call bullshit again.” Ellie starts to laugh, thrusting her hips forward theatrically, “I bet you two couldn’t keep your hands off each other.”

“Something like that.” You admit shyly.

“I don’t blame you. He looks so hot.” Ellie takes another puff of her cigarette. “What was he like in bed?”

“Ugh, Ellie.” You groan, “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Afraid of getting horny thinking about it?” She chuckles and you roll your eyes.

“Fine, I’ll tell you one thing.” You hold one finger up, giving her a look that says you are serious. Ellie giggles, nodding her head in agreement.

“He’s…big.” You basically whisper.

“He’s what?”

“Shut up, you heard me.” You laugh, “First time I saw it he wasn’t even fully hard and I was impressed.” You smirk, feeling proud of Taehyung’s gorgeous dick.

“Damn girl. Nice.” Ellie nods in approval, “Did he know how to use it?”

“Ugh….yes.” you roll your eyes back, remembering the feel of his cock. “He did. Aaaannnd he is probably using it on his new girlfriend.” You sigh, feeling your heart break piece by piece in your chest.

“What? What do you mean???” Ellie puts her cigarette out in the ash tray, “New girlfriend?”

“Yeah.” You keep it short and simple. “Anyway, I really do not want to talk about him anymore.”

“…Yeah, okay. Sorry.”

You give your sister a sad, small smile and she returns it. You feel your phone buzz in your lap and you go to pick it up, you quite literally feel all the color drain from your face. Your heart stops completely. What the actual fuck? Why is he texting you? Him of all people?

Finally gathering the courage to buy his plane ticket, Taehyung begins packing for his trip. He got a roundtrip flight for one week. He has one week to find you. He’s starting to get nervous, really fucking nervous. He had all this confidence to do this but honestly? Over the last 6-7 months he has become quite insecure. You left him in shambles. He grew weak without you, he grew pathetic in his eyes.

“Make sure you bring plenty of underwear.” Jimin teases, helping Taehyung pack. “You never pack enough and somehow end up going commando.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Taehyung is too nervous to even joke around, he is too nervous to even look at Jimin—his best friend—for more than a second because he is afraid he is going to see right through him.

“You’re nervous.” Jimin blurts out and Taehyung opens his mouth in shock. But should he be? Jimin is his best friend, he can read him like a book.

“Yeah…”

“I think you have every right to be.” Jimin pats him on the shoulder, “You have been through a lot…and so much is unknown.”

“Yeah….” Taehyung agrees, “I feel like I’m walking into this blind.”

“You kind of are.” Jimin admits quietly. “You kind of are.”

“Do you think…I’m making a mistake?” Taehyung sits down on his bed, messing with the blanket between his fingers.

“No.” Jimin answers honestly. “I am probably the one who has heard about y/n the most. I almost feel like I know her.” Jimin laughs, “And I think you’re right. She was scared. This company…fuck that company by the way, this company set you two up and tried to force love on you. Of course that’s going to fuck her up. Of course she is going to have her doubts…you can’t blame her Tae. Yeah, it’s fucked up she hasn’t reached out at all but dude…it’s a tricky situation.”

“I know…” Taehyung’s head falls into his hands, “Fuck…I know.”

“And…” Jimin sits down next to him, “I don’t want you to regret not looking for her, it sucks that it’s you doing everything, I can admit that. I wish she would grow some fucking balls and talk to you but looks like you got to do all the work buddy.”

“Yeah.”

Taehyung checks into some dingy hotel downtown in the city you live, the place is dark, gritty even. But it’s just one of the first places that was affordable that popped up when he was googling places to stay. He doesn’t totally mind, he doubts he will be spending much time in here. He receives his key from the girl at the front desk, she eyes him up and down, obviously liking what she sees.

Taehyung walks down a dark hallway to reach his room—he’s starting to feel like the main character in a horror movie. He reaches his door and unlocks it, opening it and shuffling inside with his luggage. The room smells dusty, the bed is small and the blanket thin. The room is loud with the AC unit blowing freezing air and the dark curtains don’t let in any light whatsoever.

He sets his luggage down on the carpet and sits on the bed…he takes his phone out and sends a text to his group chat that he made it alive.

Namjoon 4:02pm

Good luck man, we’re rooting for you.

Jungkook 4:02pm

Fingers crossed homie

Jin 4:03pm

Bring her back to Korea

Yoongi 4:03pm

He can’t just bring her back Jin

Hobi 4:03pm

I also vote he brings her back with him

Jimin 4:04pm

I agree, I want to meet the infamous y/n

Taehyung 4:04pm

Am I also allowed to vote that I want to bring her back with me?

Taehyung quietly laughs to himself as he clicks his phone off. He lays back on the bed and groans when he feels how hard the mattress is. But it doesn’t matter because he is here on a mission, a mission to find you and he wants to waste no time.

Day 1:

Taehyung wakes up early to grab a bite to eat at the diner next to the hotel, this place doesn’t even offer complimentary breakfast! The audacity. He orders pancakes but they definitely aren’t as good as yours.

Waking up and breathing the same city air you’re breathing makes Taehyung for the first time in 6 months—feel alive. Like being in the same place as you is slowly helping him regain some of his self back. He knows you are here. You live here. You walk these streets, you eat these foods, you breathe this air. The same fucking air he is breathing.

Nothing excites him and makes him more nauseas. He misses you. He wants to see you. But he is afraid at the same time. He’s so fucking terrified. How will you react? Are you okay? Do you really not love him? Have you moved on? Seeing someone new? His mind races as he cuts into these pancakes.

Taehyung pulls out his phone and checks the time…almost 7 am. He needs to hurry to the coffee place…because what if you stop by there on your way to work? Or maybe you don’t work right now and you go there just to chill? He doesn’t know but he knows he won’t miss a chance to see you.

Taehyung finishes up his plate of food and pays. He leaves the diner and starts walking towards Cozy Coffee, only a 15 minute walk. He inhales deeply, hoping to somehow get a whiff of you, he looks at all the flowers on the side of the sidewalks and thinks of you. Would you be interested in a bouquet of flowers? He recalls on your first unofficial first date he gave you a handful of flowers from the island and you liked it. Ugh, what is he thinking? All he needs to be worried about right now is fucking finding you.

Finally, Taehyung makes his way inside Cozy Coffee. It’s a pretty small place but big enough for a handful of people to be occupying the many tables. His eyes scan the area but they don’t come across you. He sighs and heads towards the counter to order a tea and take a seat at a table in the back near the restrooms.

He spends hours here in this spot. The entire day actually. No sign of you. And the owner has to literally escort him out when it is closing time. He walks back to the hotel with his head hanging low, he guesses today wasn’t a day for reading or writing.

Day 2:

These pancakes aren’t bad actually, not the second time around. Yours are still better, of course but he’s getting use to them. Maybe tomorrow he should try something different.

Taehyung walks leisurely towards the coffee shop, he somehow has this idea he might run into you on the street or something. But he doesn’t.

The coffee shop is a little less busy today, Taehyung goes inside, orders his tea and occupies the same table as yesterday. He pulls his backpack to his lap and brings out a notebook and pen, he decides he will work on song lyrics today.

Hours and hours pass, tea after tea is drank and still, no sign of you. Closing time approaches and he is once again, asked to leave. Taehyung nods in understanding, gathers his belongings and walks back to the hotel. Slowly of course, because deep down he thinks he just might run into you.

Day 3:

French toast today…not as good as the pancakes but still, pretty good. He wonders if you can make French toast? You never mentioned it. Taehyung realizes there is still so much he does not know about you. The thought kind of drives him crazy. He wants to know you. Know all of you. Know you better than anyone else.

The walk to the coffee shop is slow and enjoyable. The scenery is pretty as he strolls on the sidewalk, the flowers poking through the cement bring him a small level of joy for the day. Once he enters the shop, the owner gives him a smile. He orders his tea and makes his way to the back table, pulls out his notebook and starts writing his song lyrics.

On my pillow. Can’t get me tired. Sharing my fragile truth. That I hope the door is still open. Cause the window. Opened one time with you and me. Now my forever is falling down. Wondering if you’d want me now.

Taehyung sets his pen down taking a break from writing, he reaches for his tea and takes a few sips. The liquid has gone cold. He sighs out and lets the hours pass him by. Closing time approaches like it does every night and he is asked to leave.

Day 4:

He’s back to getting pancakes. He likes to pretend they are yours, that you made them for him. He likes to imagine a life where you make breakfast for him again. He likes to imagine a life where you’re just here again. It’s almost 7 am, he needs to head to the coffee shop. He strolls casually, wondering what you are up to on this Thursday morning. Are you finally going to make an appearance at Cozy Coffee? Are you running late for work? Are you in early today?

Taehyung enters the shop and the owner gives him a sweet smile and begins working on his tea. Taehyung feels grateful that it’s being made without him even ordering it yet, a smile adorning his face. He pays for the tea and makes his way to the his table, pulls out his notebook and continues working on his song.

I’m wondering are you my best friend? Feels like a river’s rushing through my mind. I wanna ask you if this is all just in my head. My heart is pounding tonight, I wonder if you are too good to be true. And would it be alright if I pulled you closer.

Taehyung lets hours and hours pass, his pen busy on his notebook paper. The lyrics coming to him so easily for the first time in months. He can’t help the sad smile that grows on his face as he reads and rereads his song lyrics.

Just like every day when the bell of the front door jingles his head shoots up to see who it is. Now is no different. A woman comes in and his heart almost stops because she looks like you at first glance. Taehyung groans at the disappointment. Because it’s not you.

Day 5:

Okay, he is back to French toast. It’s starting to grow on him, he definitely wants to ask you to make this for him. His imagination begins to run wild with dreams of making food with you again, kissing the side of your neck as he wraps his arms around your waist from behind you. Like the many times he has done it.

“Taehyung…” you whine as he nips your neck with his teeth. “I’m trying to concentrate on this recipe.”

“I’m trying to concentrate too.” Taehyung smirks against your soft skin, “On you.”

You can’t help the blush that begins spreading across your cheeks, his fingers dig into your hips and you moan out.

“Taehyung…”

“What is it baby?” he starts kissing your neck. “Want me to fuck you? Right here?” he digs his fingers deeper into your hips and you start grinding against him.

“Couch.” You breathe out. “I want to ride you.”

“Oh? You want to be in control? Maybe I will allow it this once.” He teases, his tongue licking a strip up to your ear, then he nibbles on the lobe.

Taehyung finds his pants getting tight as he recalls his memories with you. He misses kissing you, he misses touching you, he misses your scent, he misses your skin, your eyes, your lips.

Shit, it’s past 7. He needs to hurry to Cozy’s.

He’s seated in his spot with his tea and notebook out, he swears he is almost finished with this song…the chorus needs some work but he thinks he’s got it. Something about being ships in the night, but somehow he doesn’t have the courage to finish he song, he doesn’t want that to be his relationship with you.

Night time comes and still no sign of you. Tomorrow is his last day and he is starting to freak out. Where are you? He thought you came here all the time? Why aren’t you coming? Are you okay? He is asked to leave once again and he does.

Day 6:

Back to pancakes. Back to strolling on the side walk. Back to Cozy’s. Back to his tea. Back to his spot.

Taehyung feels the nerves in his body multiplying with every shaky breath he takes. Today is the last night, his flight is in the morning and he has made no progress on finding you. This place being his only hint.

“Excuse me…” Taehyung walks up to the counter and greets the owner.

“What can I do for you young man? Another tea?” he softly smiles at Taehyung but Taehyung shakes his head.

“I have a question…” he begins. “Do you know y/n y/l/n?”

“y/n???” the old man begins to smile after expressing his confusion, “Of course I do, that girl has been coming here for years.” He starts wiping down the counter with a rag. “Why? You looking for her? You aren’t some creepy ex-boyfriend are you?”

“No, no.” Taehyung laughs. “But I am looking for her…she usually comes here right?” he nervously chuckles.

“Usually. But she started a new job recently that has kept her a little busy…” the old man continues to wipe down the counter. “But she was in just last week! And It’s Saturday!” he cheers, “She always comes to write on weekends.”

Taehyung lights up at that. “Really??” he shows the old man a wide, boxy grin. He feels like he hasn’t smiled like that in what seems like forever. All because there is finally a chance he might see you.

“Oh…” The old man stops wiping to get a good look at Taehyung. “You look like a man in love.”

Taehyung’s eyes widen just a bit before he smiles, “Do I?”

The shop is busy today. Taehyung sits in his usual spot, writing and doodling in his notebook, his head lifting up quickly every time the door jingles. It’s never you though. It is already 6pm and there is still no sign on you and Taehyung hates that he is starting to lose hope. Are you not coming? He doesn’t have much time left.

Taehyung sits here, his pen between his lips as he thinks about you. He thinks about the first time he saw you…he really thought you were some girl he might have drunkenly hooked up with…he remembers your expression, how shocked, how scared, how overwhelmed you were. He wishes now he could go back in time and hug you. Tell you he’s with you, together. That you aren’t alone. Taehyung wishes he could kiss your temple, bring you in close and make you feel okay. He recalls the first time you two really interacted.

“We need to find out what’s going on.” Taehyung takes a deep breath, lifting his head up. He locks his eyes with yours again but you break contact to look at your feet.

“We don’t know anything…would if it’s not safe?” you quietly try to reason.

“Exactly, we don’t know anything and that’s a problem. You don’t expect us to stay in this room forever, do you?”

He has a point and you know it. You want to follow him out of this room but your feet seem to be glued to the floor.

“Well, no. But—”

“Didn’t think so.” He turns away from you, his body shuffling towards the bedrooms door but before he can become out of reach your hand flies to his shirt sleeve, tugging it softly.

“Wait! Just hold on—” Your voice wavers and Taehyung rolls his eyes. Rolls his fucking eyes at you!

“Listen, come. Or don’t. I don’t really care.” Taehyung releases your hold on his shirt, unsticking your fingers and throwing your hand towards your body. “Decide.” He states before swiftly turning around to head towards the door.

Oh. So this guy is a fucking asshole. Noted.

You end up following him because although he was rude about it, feeling someone’s touch when you feel so scared was slightly comforting and yes, you are aware of how fucking pathetic that is.

Taehyung stands in front of the door, his hand reaching for the knob when he turns his head to say, “Just trust me.”

And now you are the one rolling your eyes. Trust him? You just met the dude! 10 minutes ago his name was Future Murderer. How could you possibly trust this asshole?

“How can I trust you? I literally just met you.” The scowl on your face deepens when he smirks.

“Are you always such a fucking baby?”

“Are you always such a fucking baby?” you mock, eyes rolling so far into the back of your head.

Taehyung can’t help but chuckle. God, you were such a brat. It’s almost 7 now…still no sign of you.

“Maybe if you weren’t always following me, they would have sent us home by now.” Taehyung states bitterly as he puts his slice of bread on top of his now made sandwich.

“I’m not following you.” You roll your eyes, “I have to eat too.”

“You can’t wait until I’m done?”

“You look pretty done to me…” You point at his sandwich and he scoffs.

“I still have to eat it.”

“Eat in your room for all I care.”

You and Taehyung are getting along just fine…maybe not swimmingly but like, fine. It’s been a couple weeks and you have mostly stayed out of one another’s way but it’s moments like this that you end up interacting.

“I think I’ll eat at the table, thanks.” He grabs his sandwich and makes his way to the dining room table, sitting down with a thump. He aggressively picks up his sandwich and takes a bite while showing you a smart ass smile.

“Fantastic,” you state, “Me too.” You finish pouring milk into your cereal bowl and set it back inside the fridge. You dramatically make your way over to the table as well, giving him a wide grin as you sit down in front of him. You slightly slam your bowl down on the table, some milk dribbling over the edge of the bowl and Taehyung snarls.

“Great, you’re making a fucking mess.”

“If you went up and ate in you room you would have no idea about this mess.”

“But you still would have made this mess?”

“Ignorance is bliss, Taehyung.”

“You’re such a…” he stops, setting his lips into a firm line and you lean your head forward, clearly curious about what you are.

“Such a…?” you blink at him repeatedly and his lips curve upward into a charming smile.

“A fucking brat.” Taehyung grabs his sandwich again and takes an obnoxious bite while grinning and you give him your best annoyed eye roll.

Taehyung continues to chuckles as he goes down memory lane…he does regret being mean to you at first but god, you truly were a fucking brat. But he laughs about it now, loving every single memory he shares with you.

The door jingles and he shoots his head up, hoping it is you. But still, just like every other fucking time—it’s not.

Taehyung groans into his notebook, feeling lost and frustrated. What’s he going to do if you don’t show? He’s trying here. Is the universe really that cruel? And suddenly the door jingles again, but he doesn’t look up, he knows it isn’t you.

“Hi Mister Jones!”

Oh. Oh. That voice. That voice belongs to you. Taehyung whips his head up and there you are. You are standing at the doors entrance with a nervous smile on your face, why are you nervous? You are wearing jeans and a oversized t shirt, a casual but cute look. And Taehyung is falling in love with you. Seeing you in the real world for the first time has him frozen in place.

“The usual?”

“Yeah.” You reply calmly, glancing at the empty table at the front of the shop. You pull a chair out and take a seat, your back to Taehyung. He is still frozen. He all of the sudden feels unprepared for this. He all of the sudden feels sick. He clenches his jaw as he watches your back. You are here, living your life without even think of him aren’t you? Taehyung swallows down his anger now. He has to. Anger won’t do him any good.

He takes long breath after long breath trying to compose himself and find his confidence to go up to you and confront you. He blinks back his growing tears of frustration and stands from his table, the chair screeching against the wooden floors.

He stands here, frozen again. What if you really do not want to see him? That this was all intentional? He starts to feel sick again. He squeezes his eyes shut as he tries to get rid of the feeling of nausea.

“Taehyung…” you whisper his name, “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You think having feelings for me means that’s it? That it’s the end? Baby, it would only be the beginning.” Taehyung leans down again as he caresses your face. “I know you’re scared. I know you have trauma that you’re still getting through. I know your ex fucked you up. But I’m not him. I’m Taehyung. I’m…fuck, I don’t know. y/n, please just open your heart to me.” Taehyung looks at you with so much compassion that it physically hurts.

“I know,” your voice shakes, “I know you aren’t him, Tae.” You take his hand in yours, “I do like you.” You finally admit, shutting your eyes.

“Look at me.” Taehyung commands, “Look at me babe.”

You slowly open your eyes again, gazing into his dark ones and you feel yourself grow warmer and warmer.

“I’m only looking at you.”

Taehyung quickly opens his eyes as he finds his resolve. You love him. He knows it. He feels it. You wanted him, just like how he wanted you—wants you.

He nods his head, trying to pump himself up, about to gain the courage to walk to you when the door jingles again and a man walks in. A man that immediately looks at you and smiles.

This man takes a seat across from you at the small table and Taehyung feels his heart halting in his chest. He feels himself grow warm, he feels himself grow the company of something evil, something green. He feels himself grow incredibly fucking jealous. So you do have someone. You moved on. You have someone, someone that is not him. Taehyung slowly plops back down in his chair, his mouth slightly open as he watches this man talk and smile at you.

But suddenly, Taehyung notices how tense you become. How you grip on to your purse harder and harder with every word this man speaks. He can sense you from here…something is wrong. Who is this man? Why is he making you so uncomfortable? Is this not a date? Taehyung isn’t sure what to do. He could be reading this all wrong, he could be imagining this for his own sake. He could be creating this world where you don’t love anyone but him.

But then you stand from your chair abruptly and storm out of the shop, this man desperately tries to grab for you and quickly follows after you. Taehyung stands from his chair as well, already racing towards the shops door, in search of you. He didn’t even think about it, he just acted on instinct.

“y/n!” the man calls out after you but you continue to speed walk away until you feel a hand grab at your arm. You are quick to turn around, ready to give him an earful when your face goes completely pale.

“T-Taehyung…?” you stutter out, the shock riding in waves throughout your entire body.

“I said wait baby!” The man jogs up to you and Taehyung, Taehyung releases his hold on your arm and looks between you and this man.

“Baby?” Taehyung whispers out, already feeling his heart crack inside his chest. Maybe this is just a lovers quarrel. He continues looking between you and this man and you can see the hurt plastered all over Taehyung’s face.

“No—”

“Who is this?” The man stands between you and Taehyung. “Who are you?”

“Ben, you can leave. I think I have heard enough.” You spit out and Taehyung’s eyes widen before they are narrowing at you.

“Ben…?” he asks, not even sparing Ben a glance, only focusing on you. “Why are you with him y/n?” Taehyung’s voice goes dangerously low. “I asked, why are you with him?”

“He was just—”

“I was just talking with my girl. Is that a problem?”

“Your girl?” You and Taehyung ask in unison.

“You’re fucking kidding, right y/n?” Taehyung’s face is taken over with a scowl. “There’s no fucking way you are seeing this asshole again.”

“It’s not—”

“Asshole?” Ben scoffs, “Who the fuck are you?”

Taehyung doesn’t even look Bens way as he eyes you, he stuffs his hands into his front pockets and stares at you with his hard expression.

“Answer me.” He commands. “Now.”

“Listen buddy—” Ben begins but Taehyung just a holds a hand up in front of Bens face and tilts his head at you.

“I said, now.” Taehyung finally lowers his hand, then he is feeling his body being shove backward.

“I said who the fuck are you?” Ben pushes Taehyung, his hands still on his chest at the collar of his shirt. “How do you know my girl? y/n…you been fucking other men?”

“I’m not your fucking girl Ben.” You finally snap out of your daze, “I said leave.”

Ben lets go of Taehyung shirt to face you, he walks closer and closer until his feet are practically touching your own.

“Sweetheart I said I was sorry…” Ben tries to caress your face but you smack his hand away.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” You spit out, “Ever.”

Taehyung eyes the both of you with curiosity. What’s going on here? Are you with him or aren’t you? You notice Taehyung’s confused expression and move towards him to begin explaining.

“Ben is just here to explain why he did what he did…I don’t know why I agreed…but—”

“I’ve heard enough.” Taehyung stops you, he walks closer to you. “He’s bothering you?”

“I ain’t bothering anyone you fucking dick. And you never answered my question—who the fuck are—”

Your eyes are as wide as saucers and you watch the collision of Taehyung’s fist to Ben’s face. You swear you are witnessing it in slow motion, the way his fist crashes into the side of Bens jaw. The way Ben stumbles back and falls to the pavement. The way Taehyung grits his teeth as he brings his fist back to his own body. Did Taehyung just fucking punch your ex-boyfriend in the fucking face?

“She said to fucking leave.” Taehyung growls, “Now.”

“Taehyung!” you rush to his side, immediately reaching for his fist and inspecting it for any damage. You are hit with something massive…like the grandest bolt of electricity the moment your hand touches his. You try your hardest to ignore it, to ignore the fire that caught light, the raging fire that burns so wildly in your chest.

“Come. Come with me.” You say in panic, ignoring the fact that Ben lays on the concrete, probably knocked the fuck out. You hold on to Taehyung’s hand tightly as you lead him to the parking lot until you’re at your car. You hurry to let go of his hand, feeling so fucking nervous. What the hell is happening? Everything with Ben happened so fast that you haven’t even processed the fact that Taehyung is here. Here with you. In your city. In this parking lot. At your car.

“Tae—”

You stop before you can even finish his name. He looks at you with something you have never seen before. He goes to open his mouth but he stops himself, not knowing what the right thing to say is.

“I don’t know what to say anymore now that I am with you.” Taehyung finally says after a long while, his eyes are wet and his expression is troubled.

“I thought I would get here and I would tell you I am ready to make this work, that I missed you, that I love you. But now…seeing you. Really seeing you, I don’t know anymore.” He admits. “I think I am angry with you.” He says softly. “Really fucking angry.”

“Tae—”

“No.” he moves his head to the side, his eyes down at his shoes. “Let me speak. I have prepared a whole speech for you…but now, I don’t think I would mean any of the words.” He shuts his eyes, a tear escaping. “Did you go too far? Too far in hurting me?” he whispers. “Did you ruin me?”

You start breathing heavily, not knowing how to take his words. Why is he here?

“I had to fucking search for you. But did you even want to be found?” he questions you softly.

“Taehyung.” You say firmly. “I—”

“Am I a fool?” He chokes out, “A fool for doing this? Coming all the way here…sitting at this coffee place every single day waiting for you like the pathetic man that I am.” Another tear slips.

“Can I talk now?” you whisper. “Please?”

Taehyung gulps down his spit, anticipating what you might say. He gestures for you to speak and you take a deep breath.

“I’m sorry I didn’t reach out…” you begin, your chest getting tighter and tighter. “Every day that passed it got harder and harder to do it. If I’m being honest I stalked your account…” you admit with a bitter laugh, “You seemed happy. I wasn’t even sure you wanted me to reach out. Then Hana…”

“Hana?” Taehyung scrunches his brows together, “What’s Hana got to do with this?”

“You two are together aren’t you? I know, Taehyung.” You swallow hard.

Taehyung shakes his head in confusion, how do you know about Hana? You know he slept with her or?

“It was only one time.” Taehyung admits quietly…”but how do you know about that?”

“She posted you on her Instagram. I just assumed.” You say dryly, feeling a pang in your chest as you look at him. So he did get with her. You fucking knew it.

“Why are you here Taehyung?”

“I was here to tell you I love you. I want to make this work.” He says bluntly.

“Was?” you whisper and he nods.

“Now that I am here and I see you, I know I fucking love you still. But I think I’m lost and confused right now.” He admits between bated breaths. “I was so nervous to see you and to be honest looking at you now…I still feel nervous. Like, I could throw up.”

“I feel that way too.” You admit.

“You hurt me, y/n.” he steps closer to you, his gaze is dark and unwavering. “Can I forgive you?” he whispers and you choke back a sob. “Do you even love me back?...That’s also a main problem here.”

“I don’t know what to say.” You breathe out roughly, “I’m sorry for our last conversation on the island.”

“Are you?” he takes another step. “Are you really?”

“Yes, Tae…I …I…”

“You? You?” Another step.

“I was so scared, I was so confused.” You take a step back, but he continues walking towards you. “ But I was wrong.”

“Wrong about what?” he steps closer. “About that ‘maybe’ hmm?” he steps even closer until he is breathing the same zone of air as you. He reaches for your jaw with his hand and tilts your head up towards him. “I could have fucking told you that.”

“Taehyung…” you don’t mean to whimper, but you do. You fucking do. “I’m sorry. It just got so hard to talk to you but I have thought about you every second of every day.”

“Every second?” he scoffs, “Even as you were having coffee with fucking Ben?”

“It seriously isn’t what it looks like…” you rush to say, “He wouldn’t stop pestering me.”

“Tell me how you feel y/n. Right fucking now.” He roughly commands, his fingers still on your jaw.

“I—”

“I want everything, every detail. I want to know exactly what’s going on in this brain of yours.” Taehyung looks at you with hard eyes. “I want the truth.”

You scrunch your face up as you try not to cry, you feel so many overwhelming feelings all at once. You don’t know what to say. You love him. But is it that simple? “I…” You gulp.

“You?” his eyes soften just the slightest, “Just talk to me babe.” His voice loses all its edge as you begin to silently cry. His thumb wipes away your falling tears. “Just talk to me.”

“I miss you so fucking much.” Is the first thing that slips out of your mouth, “You have no idea…” you sob.

“If anyone has an idea, it’s me.” He chuckles bitterly.

“I let time pass me by Tae, I regret it so much. But as the seconds ticked by I knew I was losing my window of opportunity. And before I knew it 6 months had passed.” You choke, “I am so, so sorry.” You stare into his dark eyes. “The company did me a favor.” You laugh, “They gave me you. I fell in love with you, Taehyung. I just…I’m so sorry I doubted myself, doubted you.”

Taehyung’s features soften as he listens to you, he feels himself grow weak. Especially with his fingers touching your skin. He pulls back from you and leans against your car.

“Are you still in love with me?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes.” You sniffle, wiping your face of your tears. “I think I always will be, even if you decide you hate me.”

“I wish I could hate you.” Taehyung throws his head back, “It would make this easier, I wouldn’t even be here.”

“Make what easier?”

“Leaving you behind.” He says quietly, “Leaving us behind.”

Your body begins to shake as more tears escape you, you feel the heavy weight of his words fucking crush you. He wants nothing to do with you. He doesn’t want you anymore. You fucked up too badly. Taehyung watches as you sob for several minutes, his eyes never leaving your flushed face. He clicks his tongue and puts a hand on your shoulder and rubs it.

“That’s what I think I should do.” He says, “But I can’t.”

Wait, what?

“You c-can’t?”

“I love you too much. And I all my friends voted I bring you back to Korea.” He says with a small smirk.

“But you?” you cry, “You said you are leaving me?”

“I was thinking aloud. And to be honest I wanted you to suffer a bit.” He says with his dark gaze. “I wanted to punish you just a little.”

Your wide eyes narrow at him and you can’t help but cry harder. “You fucking sadist.”

“Maybe a little.” He admits with a growing sly smile. “We have a lot to talk about.” He says after a moment. “Do you want to make this work with me or not?”

“Are you serious? Even after all of this you still want to be with me?”

“We’re soulmates, baby. Or did you forget?”

“You fucking smartass.” You wipe at your face, wiping your snots on the collar of your t shirt. “But yes…I want to make this work.”

“Spend a couple weeks with me in Korea. I want to start over with you. Take things slow. I am still angry. But I fucking love you.”

“A couple weeks in Korea?” you shake your head, “I can’t take off work that long.”

“I am not going to beg you.” Taehyung warns, “But please.”

A couple weeks in Korea? With Taehyung? Meeting his family? His friends? Starting over? Going slow? Can you two really do this?

#bts #bts fanfic #bts fluff #bts smut #bts angst #kim taehyung #taehyung x reader #taehyung smut #taehyung fluff #taehyung angst #the island chapter 8

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jovialyouthmusic · 4 years ago

Text

Who Wants to Rule the World?

A Lovelink fanfic

Okay, so you never choose who makes your heart beat faster or your knees go weak, and very unexpectedly, yet another fictional character has given me the wobbles. Dr Vile from Ludia’s Lovelink App is the virtual man in question, and I had had a TON of fun writing this. As always, this is an adult blog, so it will get hot and steamy and it is NOT SUITABLE FOR UNDER 18s

Word Count 2350

A/N Please note that Dr Vile, whom I have given the first name James, has no henchmen. Instead he has an army of drones to do his every bidding. Dr Vile is not my creation, he belongs to Ludia.

I have an almost non existent tag list here, so if you like, reblog or comment I will add you.

1 Secret Base

Dr Vile’s face drifts into view, blurred and wavering but most definitely there as he stands over you. You blink in an attempt to clear your eyes. You’re lying on a firm surface, and the room is dimly lit. You hear the hum of a drone.

‘Hello Lucy’ You know his voice – he tries to sound intimidating but you detect a hint of warmth – a little doubt perhaps, as if he’s unsure of himself. Impossible. Unless – does he really have feelings for you?

‘How – how did I get here?’ your voice is weak. You try to sit up, but your head hurts and something stops you. Your wrists are secured by your sides, your ankles also immovable.

‘I rescued you’ You look around, and recognise your surroundings. His base – the one he brought you to only a week ago.

‘Rescued? From what?’

‘From whom…’

‘Oh’ a memory tickles the back of your mind. ‘It was F’

‘It was. They were questioning you, trying to get information on my base’ He chuckles ‘They walked right into my trap’

‘Your trap?’

‘I planted a device on you when we last met. You led me right to their den’ You try to move again.

‘This is your interrogation table’ As always, his face is half in shadow.

‘It is, Lucy. I have to be sure.’

‘Sure of what? That I’m loyal to you? How could you doubt me?’ He draws a deep breath and squares his jaw.

‘Tell me what you remember, Lucy’

‘Do you have to do it like this – on the table? My head hurts’ He looks away.

‘If you answer my questions correctly I’ll let you go. It’s base protocol. The drones demand it.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘The drones will take care of you. They’re programmed to neutralise threats. I have to protect my interests.’

‘I’m not a threat – James, please’ you struggle against your bonds, then gasp. ‘They – you’ve lined the restraints in silk, haven’t you? Stainless steel lined with silk’ He squares his jaw.

‘It’s the least I can do’ You relax against the cuffs and close your eyes, trying to remember. He cares. Just a little, but he cares about your comfort. Even if his drones will most probably dispose of you if you don’t tell him what he - or they – need to hear. You take a deep breath past the pain in your head and gather your thoughts.

‘It’s all fuzzy. They – I wanted to tell them I wouldn’t betray you. We met at a bar. We had a drink, they said they quite understood and that there were no hard feelings. Then I felt dizzy. I passed out’

‘They drugged you.’ Vile says. ‘My drones found traces in your blood. They drugged you and took you to their den, and interrogated you. Or they tried to. Tell me more’

‘I don’t know. Was it a dream? I can’t remember’ He leans over you as a drone hums just out of sight, keeping watch. You know those drones are efficient and ruthless, no matter what Dr Vile may feel.

‘I need more details, Lucy, or the drones will take action’ Tears spring to your eyes as you struggle to recall what happened.

‘I – I think I woke up. I couldn’t move, and they asked me – they asked me where your base was. I don’t know exactly where it is, of course, you saw to that, so I couldn’t tell them, even if I wanted. But I didn’t’

‘Did you give them any clues?’

‘No’ you screw up your eyes ‘I told them – I told them…’ it comes to you at last ‘I told them I would never betray you, because I love you’ He leans on the table, his head dropping. The drone next to him whisks away and the cuffs snap open, freeing you at last. You struggle to get up, but Vile scoops you into his arms and lifts you bodily off the table as if you were light as a feather. You steady yourself by grasping his arm as he puts you on your feet beside the table.

‘That was the right answer’ he says softly. You test the strength of your legs, which just support you, but you lean back on the table. You cross your arms and wait for him to speak, holding your breath in anticipation.

‘I’m not sure I know what love is’ he says ‘But I think – I love you too, Lucy’ You step toward him, encircle his waist with your arms and turn your cheek to his shoulder against his armour. His body is solid against you, his arms warm and reassuring as he returns the embrace, hesitantly and softly as if you might break. You feel so safe. How could you not? He’s so powerful, so self assured and confident. It’s like an aphrodisiac.

‘What happened to F?’ you ask. He laughs, and you feel it in his broad chest.

‘They won’t be troubling us again’ You gasp as you pull away from him.

‘Are they – dead?’ After all, he is a super villain and wouldn’t scruple to kill, surely.

‘No, but they have a terminal case of amnesia, they’ve forgotten all about me – and you’

‘How..?’

‘I have a very nifty little device that wipes memory like wiping a hard drive. The drones would have applied it to you if you’d failed my interrogation.’

‘Oh – I thought you might have..’

‘Killed you?’ he laughs sardonically ‘That would have been a waste. I may want to rule the world, but I’m not totally evil. The safety protocols on the drones are very strict.’ You realise you still feel groggy, presumably from the drugs and most probably from dehydration. You slump in his arms and he supports you without hesitation.

‘I’m sorry, you’ve been through a taxing ordeal.’ You nod weakly, and he leads you to a padded recliner. Unfortunately its obvious purpose is torture, not comfort, and your eyes widen in alarm. He tuts in irritation. ‘How stupid of me.’ he berates himself, and scoops you up in his arms again. Once more you feel safe. You fight a wave of dizziness and close your eyes, aware that he’s taking you somewhere else but too sick to register your route. After a while you feel him lower you down, and you open your eyes.

You recline in a full length padded leather seat, the décor around you strongly masculine but designed for comfort rather than torture or world domination. It rather resembles the lounge of a gentleman’s club, panelled wood and brass and leather everywhere. He snaps an instruction.

‘Base, change command protocols. Upgrade Lucy to level two. Confirm’

‘Confirmed. Lucy Valois upgraded to level two.’ the calm dispassionate voice chimes. ‘Base and drone records amended’ He turns to you, eyes glittering in the half shadow of his handsome features.

‘Choose a gesture that the drones will recognise’ he says ‘Some movement you wouldn’t normally make.’ You grope through the fog in your brain, and raise your hand, bending your wrist and pressing your thumb to your fingers like a glove puppet, opening and closing them three times. He grins ‘Excellent. Again, to my prompt’ He straightens and addresses the computer again.

‘Computer, record Lucy’s command prompt’ he nods to you, and you make the gesture.

‘Prompt recorded’ He pulls up a stool and sits close to you.

‘Try it out. Ask for something’ Once again I make the gesture, and a drone that had been waiting discretely in the corner of the room scoots over and hovers in front of me, red light blinking under the rotors.

‘Water’ The red light blinks.

‘You need to be more specific’

‘Bring me a glass of water. Cold mineral water, still’ The light blinks green then steadies and the drone whisks off. Within seconds it comes back with three other drones carrying a tray with a glass and a sealed bottle. Dr Vile gestures to the table next to me and they put it down.

‘Allow me’ He picks up the bottle, opens and pours, handing it over to me. I take it, but he puts his hand to mine as I raise it to my lips ‘Just sip. Slowly’ he advises ‘I’d have put you on a drip, but I thought you would find these surroundings more comfortable.’ I sip and sigh with satisfaction, my dry throat soothed.

‘I thought you didn’t do down time. Too busy with your projects’ I continue to take small mouthfuls, feeling it soaking into my parched mouth and tongue, lubricating my throat.

‘I had this made when you so rightly pointed out that I’m a workaholic. I sometimes sit in here and contemplate my plans.’

‘I’m impressed’ A faint smile plays across his lips.

‘So, what would you like to do now? Are you hungry?’

‘A little, but I’m more tired than anything else – but can I ask you something?’

‘Of course, Lucy. You should know by now that your happiness is important to me’

‘Can I stay with you? Just for a little while. I feel a bit shaken up after all that. What if the Organization comes after me?’ He reaches across and runs his gloved fingertip along your jaw. A delicious shiver runs down your spine.

‘You’re safe here, Lucy. You can stay for as long as you want, my dear.’

‘Really?’

‘You can rule the world by my side’ His smile is triumphant.

‘Figuratively speaking’ He nods and inclines his head

‘You’ll have to wait and see. You know I have objectives.’ You smile back at him.

‘I believe in you, James’ you feel a wave of weariness sweep through you, and you lie back, closing your eyes. ‘I just need to rest’ are the last words that leave your lips before you drift off into an exhausted sleep.

You wake with a start. Your surroundings are different. The light is dim, the room about you in shadow. You feel cool cotton sheets draping your body, a firm mattress beneath you. You hear the whirr of a drone whisking away, the swish of a door straight from a science fiction film opening and closing. You struggle to sit up, your belly rumbling and your mouth dry again. You look to the bedside table, where a glass of water sits waiting for you, so you take it and sip. You remember what happened to you the day before and gasp as you realise you are naked beneath the sheets. The door swishes open again and the light levels slowly increase as Dr Vile enters.

The room is dominated by the huge bed you lie on. The décor is monochrome with red accents and chrome or steel fittings. The bed linen is a crisp white and the coverlet a pale grey, the carpet a darker shade. You look up to see a mirror mounted above the bed, a bar at the opposite side of the room. Somehow you had expected a picture window, but there is none, the lighting soft but artificial. As Dr Vile approaches you clutch the sheets to you, your face flushing.

‘Don’t be afraid my dear, nothing improper happened’ he assures you, standing by the bedside. He no longer wears body armour, but the soft fabrics he wears resemble his usual garb, minus the cloak. You get the impression of cashmere and silk, expensive and well fitted to flatter his figure. ‘You were very tired and I brought you where you’d be more comfortable’ He gestures around the room ‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s – very masculine’ you remark, and he sits beside you on the bed.

‘It is my usual night refuge. You may choose another if you wish, or have one designed to your own specification’ You stomach rumbles, and he smiles ‘Breakfast in bed?’ he offers. You hold the sheet to you.

‘I – did you undress me?’

‘I would not pass such a delicate task onto my drones, so yes.’ His eyes glitter ‘It was done with the utmost respect, I promise you’ He gets up and disappears behind a sliding door for a moment, returning with a dressing gown. He hands it to you - it is soft and silky to the touch, and you shrug your way into it, instantly feeling more modest and comfortable. You turn to readjust the pillows.

‘Allow me, Lucy’ with a few gestures the pillows are perfect to lean up against. ‘What would you like to eat? He asks ‘Name it. Unless it’s very exotic I most likely have it although as you know I have only myself to please.’ You think for a moment, and remembering, you make the command gesture and wait for a drone to whip to your side, waiting.

‘Eggs benedict on a wholemeal roll and black coffee’ The lights blink green and it leaves the room. Dr Vile smiles and nods.

‘Well remembered, Lucy. Making commands suits you. And a good choice, it won’t take long.’ There is silence, but he breaks it before it becomes awkward. ‘I believe you had a fantasy about the interrogation table. I hope I didn’t spoil it by using it as it was intended’ He cocks an eyebrow at you. You sigh.

‘I’ve been drugged, kidnapped, rescued and interrogated twice - all in one day. I think need to gather my strength before I try anything like that’ You look up at his rugged half shaded profile; if you weren’t hungry and dying for a shower and a bath you’d drag him into bed with you right now.

‘Whatever you wish, Lucy. The drones will serve you too now, though I am still their master’ You shiver again.

‘Are you my master?’

‘If you want me to be, my dear’ He puts his hand on your thigh, which sends shocks of electricity to your core. ‘But I may consider other roleplays, as you suggested’

‘You’re seriously testing my resolve’ you murmur.

‘I have an excellent walk in shower with power jets’

‘Is it big enough for two?’

‘After you’ve eaten, I’ll show you’

@zodiacsign1

#dr vile #dr vile lovelink #lovelink #mock dating app

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skarsgard-daydreams · 4 years ago

Text

Son of Perdition

Description: Henry insists that he is an ordinary man, at least until his mind starts to unravel.

Warnings: angst, false imprisonment, religious abuse, physical and psychological torture, mild blood, threats of gun violence, mild physical violence, kidnapping, brainwashing, smoking

Notes: This story assumes that The Kid is telling the truth about his past in a parallel universe and deals with his imprisonment. It’s dark, and it has a lot of religious themes. Please mind the warnings.

Everything had unraveled so fast. He had tried to seize the threads of his life as it came apart, but they had cracked out of his grasp like a whip and stung him in the process. When the man asked him who he was, a name floated to the surface of his mind. It was limp and lifeless—a corpse bobbing face down in the water after a shipwreck. He slouched against the corner of the cage and watched the man ash a cigarette into an empty coffee tin. The smoke danced in the light of the halogen lamp illuminating the curved walls of the cistern that had been converted into a prison. The man repeated the question.

“Who are you?”

“H-Henry,” the prisoner answered. His throat felt like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together when he swallowed. He lowered his gaze to the metal tray at the man’s feet. The light glinted off the surface of a tin cup, and Henry swore he could smell the water in the air, something crisp and sweet mixed in with the acrid scent wafting off the cigarette. It was close enough he thought he could reach it if he flattened himself to the floor and stretched out his arm, but his vision blurred every time he moved and his limbs felt like they had turned to stone.

The man heaved a sigh and dropped his cigarette butt into the glass of water. “A false witness will not go unpunished,” he said, rising to his feet. He shifted the tray further from the cage with the toe of his boot. “And he who breathes out lies will not escape.”

Henry rested his forehead against the bars and winced as the metal tray scraped across the floor. “Proverbs,” he mumbled. “Chapter nineteen.” The dull recitation spilled from his lips without conscious thought. He let his eyelids slide shut as his jailor switched off the light and climbed up the ladder. The hatch overhead closed and the locking mechanism groaned and creaked, plunging the room back into pitch darkness.

In the long stretches of time when he was alone, Henry tried to put his memories in order. It seemed essential for him to maintain a timeline, though he could no longer explain why. He started with his name, which would remind him of his father, and from there a universe of memories would expand in his mind while a shrill silence filled his ears, occasionally punctuated by water dripping somewhere out of reach.

He remembered his father’s house—the lingering scent of decay as he treaded the floorboards and flicked on a light. He remembered a thrill fluttering in his stomach when his wife said she was late. He remembered how soft her hair always felt, how her skin smelled like apricots and cream. He remembered wondering if their child would be a girl or a boy. He hoped it was a boy. And then he remembered a boy in a cage, and his stomach turning sour when he heard his father’s voice crackle to life again on the cassette player, reciting the revelations of a madman.

The steady drip of water eroded his stream of thought and Henry found himself laying flat on the floor as the room seemed to spin in the darkness. Something told him this was a symptom, that he needed to find a diagnosis and a treatment. He was supposed to be good at that. He reached for his left hand and searched for his radial pulse with his right, but he could barely feel it under his skin. Every time he tried to count the beats, the sound of dripping water crashed again and made him flinch. He realized after several attempts that he would need a watch to take an accurate measurement, anyway. He couldn’t remember what had happened to it.

Time was a problem. He had tried to measure its passage from the cage, scraping tally marks into the floor with his fingernails each time the man brought him food. If he could keep track of things, maybe he could stay rational. If he could stay rational, maybe he could find a way back. Henry reasoned that two tally marks were equal to one day, except for Sundays, when the man didn’t come at all. On those days, he fasted from food, water, and any belief that he might live to see sunlight again, until he heard the scrape of metal above him and thanked fucking Christ that his jailor had returned. He guessed he had made it two and a half weeks before the man started turning off the lights when he left, leaving Henry in the dark for hours on end.

It was the kind of darkness that existed at the center of a black hole, something that consumed the whole spectrum of color and left him in a vacuum. Soon his mind became unmoored. He groped for the edges of the cage, feeling the cold metal under his hands to remind himself that there was matter around him—that he existed somewhere in this iteration of time and space. He touched his face and his body to make sure that he was still solid. He couldn’t hold onto both thoughts at the same time. When he grasped the metal walls that surrounded him, he felt himself blinking out of existence. By the time the man returned the next day, he had forgotten there ever was a tally.

Henry took a few shallow breaths and tried to ignore the dripping sound nearby. It felt like the water was hammering into his brain each time it fell. The damp, musty aroma in the air was green in color, he thought, but even as the idea formed in his head, he knew it made no sense. He had to find some way to stop his mind from slipping—to keep track of things. He had always been notoriously bad at that. His wife set up apps and reminders on his phone all the time. Didn’t she install an app that counted cycles and days? He slipped his hand into his pocket and dug around for his cell phone, but it wasn’t there, and soon he wasn’t there, falling through a rush of sound and color, into another place and time.

The phone had stopped working, anyway. He was wandering in the woods with blood still on his hands, his dark trousers dragging in the deep snow. He accidentally smeared blood on the touchscreen when he tried to get the device to turn back on, but it didn’t respond. It had been rendered useless as a brick when he’d slipped through to this other place—this other Castle Rock, where it was still 1991 and everything seemed tilted and off balance, like he might lose his footing and start floating in the air. He trudged through the snow, doubling back over his own tracks again and again as he tried to find a way to trigger the strange portal he had come through before.

It was in those woods that he first met the man. Henry was straining to hear the sound his father always spoke of, but he heard the click of a gun at his back instead. Cold fear dropped all the way down to his balls as he went into cardiac arrhythmia. The only reason he imagined someone would hold him at gunpoint was that they had noticed the well-dressed stranger wandering in and out of town and decided to rob him.

“Don’t shoot,” he said, holding his hands up. “Y-you can have my wallet, okay? And my watch.”

“Get on your knees,” the man said.

Adrenaline raced through his veins as his sympathetic nervous system kicked in to a heightened state, but Henry felt frozen. He would be dead before he could run, and he didn’t know how to fight a man with a gun. Hell, he barely knew how to throw a punch. As he lowered himself to his knees, he felt the gun travel up his spine and press against his scalp over the parietal bone. He thought of how his father had claimed to have heard the voice of God in the barrel of a gun, but he heard nothing now except his own ragged breathing and the cawing of crows overhead.

“Please, just take my money,” Henry begged. “My wife might be pregnant,” he added quickly. “She needs me.”

“I don’t want your money,” the man said.

He heard rustling and then the man gripped one of his wrists and twisted his arm behind him. Cold metal circled his wrist. Henry jerked his other arm away from the man and felt the butt of the gun crack against his skull. He fell face down in the white powder and heard a ringing in his ears as the man caught his other wrist and cuffed it behind his back. His heart began to beat even faster, thrumming wildly.

“What the fuck do you want?” he sputtered. A dark shadow bloomed at the edges of his vision as the man grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled his head back to force a piece of cloth between his teeth. The man said nothing, tying the cloth behind his head and gagging him tightly. He grabbed the collar of Henry’s coat and hauled him to his feet. Henry stood four inches taller, but the man was stocky, with a gruff demeanor that suggested he was accustomed to pushing people around. He kept a firm grip on Henry’s arm, propelling him through the snow.

Everything that followed seemed to blur together into one white hot streak of panic. Stumbling through the woods became nosing carpet fibers as he was shoved into a trunk, and then he was kicking and screaming until he heard a siren and then felt the car begin to slow. Relief flooded Henry’s system. Thank God, he thought. He was saved. He shouted as loud as he could and thumped against the roof of the trunk until someone popped it open. Both men peered down at him, and he grew quiet.

As the man talked to the cop, a cold feeling settled in Henry’s stomach. The man spoke of bloodthirsty and evil men, of the son of destruction, of Satan disguising himself as an angel of light. He said he acted in the service of God, that he intended to cast the Devil into a bottomless pit as it is written in Revelation. The cop shined a flashlight in Henry’s eyes and leaned in close to his face, staring at him. He stared back, his words muffled by the gag as he tried to plead for help.

“I’ve never seen a pair of eyes like that,” the cop said. He clicked the flashlight off and slammed the trunk shut. The rest of their conversation was casual, as if there hadn’t been anyone stuffed in the trunk of the car after all, and soon the car was moving again.

The segment of time between the car and the cistern blistered like film melting in a projector. Henry had a vague sense of being in a prison when the man freed him from the handcuffs and told him to climb down the ladder. When he didn’t move except to rub the red marks on his wrists, the pistol came out again. He didn’t know why he obeyed; the gunshot would have been the better alternative. But fear streaked like lightning in his system, and Henry climbed down into the dimly lit reservoir. He followed the man’s instructions, shrugging off his coat and unwinding the scarf from his neck. He kicked off his shoes and handed over his belt, then emptied his pockets of his phone, wallet, and keys. The man gestured for him to step into the sturdy cage against the wall. Henry swallowed.

“I’m not the Devil,” he said.

“You will not deceive me.” The man cocked the gun and leveled it at Henry, staring him down until he backed slowly into the cage. His bare foot collided with the back wall. He wanted to argue that the man was being deceived—that whatever he thought he heard wasn’t the voice of God. It was the voice of his own delusions driving him to do things that were morally reprehensible to any sane person regardless of their creed. But he wasn’t dealing with a sane person. He was dealing with his father.

The cage door creaked as the man closed it and fitted a heavy padlock into the latch. When he was done, he got down on his knees in front of a wooden stool and prayed that God would make him righteous and steadfast as he executed His instructions. Henry wrapped his hands around the bars and tested the strength of the cage, hoping that a man as crazy at this one might have made a mistake. It had no give whatsoever. The man was too caught up in his prayer to hear the metal rattling.

“For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places,” the man said, quoting the Apostle Paul’s letter to the Ephesians. Henry knew the verse well. He had often been expected to recite long passages of scripture from memory when he was a child, and even though he hadn’t set foot in a church in years, the words were still carved indelibly into his memory.

After he finished his prayer, the man sat down on the stool and considered his handiwork as he lit a cigarette and took a pensive drag. He examined Henry’s cell phone with a furrowed brow, then flipped open the wallet and took out his ID, and his business card, which listed him as Associate Professor of Neurology at Johns Hopkins University. The man turned each one over in his hands as he studied them. When he took out the photo of his wife, Henry’s grip on the bars tightened and his heart leapt to his throat.

“Please,” he said, rattling the door to the cage to get the man’s attention. “Let me keep that.”

The man’s gaze flickered back toward Henry. He sniffed the air and took a zippo lighter out of his pocket, lighting the corner of the photo on fire and dropping it into a coffee can on the floor once the flame approached his hand. Henry sank to his knees and watched the only memento he had of his wife in this fucked-up version of reality smolder and disintegrate. His hands were shaking as he pressed his palms against the floor.

“He told me you would use pity as a weapon,” the man said, lighting another cigarette and watching him coolly.

A rush of noise filled Henry’s ears and suddenly he was on his back again in the dark, trying to fill his lungs with short, shallow breaths that never seemed to satisfy him. Another symptom, possibly a dangerous one. He wondered how long it had been since he had a drink of water. Time had become nonlinear. He couldn’t keep track of it anymore. The man would visit, tempting him with food and drink like Satan in the garden of Gethsemane, and ask him who he was. Henry never gave the right answer. If he mumbled “Lucifer” or “The Antichrist,” the man would hear the lack of conviction in Henry’s voice and call him a liar. If he said his own name, he was also a liar. The man seemed determined to turn Henry into a man of honest faith in his twisted beliefs through sheer deprivation or kill him in the process. The latter felt like a very real possibility.

The hatch groaned and a moment later, it was outlined in a dim halo of light cast by the lantern the man carried. Shapes appeared in Henry’s vision, blurring so much they were almost formless as his eyes adjusted. He rolled onto his side and heard his joints cracking as he pushed himself into a sitting position and slumped against the wall of the cage, panting from the effort. The man climbed down into the cistern and turned on the halogen light, blinding Henry with its brightness. He squeezed his eyes shut and saw a riot of color behind his eyelids while he listened to the stool scrape across the floor and the Bible flop open in the man’s hand.

“And I saw an angel coming down out of heaven, having the key to the Abyss and holding in his hand a great chain,” the man read aloud. Without his sight, the voice sounded like his father to Henry. He imagined he was a boy sitting in one of the hard wooden pews, listening to him preach, restless and uncomfortable in his Sunday best. “He seized the dragon, that ancient serpent, who is the devil, or Satan, and bound him for a thousand years,” the man continued. “He threw him into the Abyss, and locked and sealed it over him, to keep him from deceiving the nations anymore until the thousand years were ended.”

“Revelation,” Henry mumbled. “Chapter twenty.”

“Who are you?” the man asked.

Henry licked his chapped lips and searched his mind for the right answer. “The Son of Perdition,” he said, and it felt true for once. If his own father had thought an innocent child was the Devil and locked him in a cage for twenty-seven years, maybe he was the son of hell.

His vision came into focus. He rested his forehead against the bars and stared at the man with resignation, willing to do or say anything his righteous zeal demanded if it meant he could have something to drink. The man stared back for what felt like years. He leaned down and picked up the metal cup, dumping water and ashes onto the floor. Then he reached into his bag and took out a thermos, unscrewing the lid.

The scent of the water was cold and sweet and ice blue as the man poured it into the cup. Henry grasped the bars of the cage and stared at the cup of water like he was watching a man perform a magic trick and trying to figure out how it worked. The man set the cup down and slid the tray across the floor. As it inched toward him, Henry fought the urge to reach out and grab it. He knew this man was another version of his father, just as there was another version of himself in this reality. If Henry wanted to survive, he would have to demonstrate piety and respect. He looked at the man when the tray reached the edge of the cage, and waited for him to say grace.

The man let him have water again, but he still shuttered Henry in the dark in between every other visit, perhaps to simulate the cycle of day and night in this place where the sun couldn’t reach. On Sundays, the lights never came on. Those were the worst days. By the time the man returned, Henry would be flat on the ground, his fingers laced through to bars to keep himself from spinning free of the earth's gravity well and hurtling through outer space.

He thought he could feel the dark energy of the universe calling to him from out there, a low frequency that sometimes transformed into a growl. The metal bars that surrounded him hummed with its vibrations from time to time. Everything did. He felt the man's energy radiating from him like a tremor. It was a sickly green color, with flashes of red that flared around him when he was feeling particularly cruel, or flecks of blue that mixed with the green when he was inclined to think of Henry as his son.

Henry learned to say nothing, or risk his words being interpreted as the whispered lies of the Deceiver. He leaned against the bars and became the man's confessor, listening to him read scripture, or talk about the challenges of running a prison, or the problems in his marriage. Henry parted his lips, trying to arrange the words into the right configuration one day when the man mentioned being married.

"I have a wife," he whispered slowly, as if surprised by his own revelation.

After that, he didn't taste food again for days. When Sunday came, it seemed to stretch on and on, until he felt the measure of eternity in his stomach. He tried to place events on a timeline in his mind, but he never could get further than his name before the dripping of water drilled into his ear and erased the markers he tried to use to find his way home. Still, he was certain he had a wife. He could feel her in his matter, as though particles of her clung to him and reverberated on a quantum level. But he couldn't remember the color of her eyes or the shape of her face anymore.

He was never more pliable than after the fasts imposed on him by his jailor. He would listen to the man's teachings as though he was his sole disciple and the man offered the Bread of Life. When the man asked him who he was, Henry looked at him with bloodshot eyes.

"Tell me," he whispered.

The man told him the story of his life in this world. He told him of every calamity that had ever happened in Castle Rock—how each of them could be traced through invisible spiritual markers back to Henry, how he left an imprint wherever he went in time and space, some kind of radiation or heat signature that made fruit rot on the vine. He told him he still caught Henry leaving his mark on the world, and that he knew he sometimes slipped through the bars of his prison and wandered through time, leaving chaos and pain wherever he went. Henry wanted to know more about how he could slip out of his prison and wander freely, but he remained silent.

"That is why you must be punished," the man said. Henry heard his father speaking. He remembered the verse about sparing the rod, and nodded in agreement. His father’s reasoning was sound.

"I must be punished," he repeated.

Henry sometimes imagined he was one of the anchorites who had allowed themselves to be bricked into the walls of churches during the Middle Ages, leaving only a small hole where they could pass food and excrement back and forth and tell pilgrims the messages they received from God. But he never received any divine revelations, or if he did, they weren't in a language he understood. In the darkness he could hear a sound like a raging fire at the center of the universe, something primal that crackled with life. It was always expanding, and he knew that someday it would consume them all.

There was no way of knowing how much time had passed between his incarceration and the day that the jailor reached inside the cage, tipping Henry’s chin up to better see his face. Henry remained still, staring the man as he studied him and wondering what he saw. His touch was hard and comforting at the same time. It reminded Henry that he was real.

"You haven't aged a day," the man remarked with wonder. He released Henry's face and sat down on the stool, lighting a cigarette. The skin on the man’s face seemed to sag and his hair had a few streaks of grey. Henry wanted to ask how long it had been, but the words stuck in his throat. He couldn’t remember if the man had always looked like this or not. As the man took a drag, something new emanated from him. There had often been moments when Henry tasted the man’s doubt while they sat together in his cell. He tasted it in the air now—something bitter and stale and sour, like a conviction that had gone bad.

“Someday,” the man said to him. “I will have to end this.”

Henry curled his fingers around the bars and peered out at the man. He remembered the verse that came after the one the man liked to cite so often. “When the thousand years are ended,” he said, his voice weak from lack of use. “Satan will be released from his prison.”

The man stared at him in surprise, letting the ash of his cigarette grow long. “Revelation,” he said. “Chapter twenty.”

Henry inclined his head in a slight nod as he listened to the sound of the universe howling in the distance. He spoke in a halting voice, but one which had conviction.

“I know how it will end.”

@scxrsgxrd @skrsgardspam @loomiz @sunshineandskarsgards

(Also thank you @girlinthecorner for taking an early peek at this for me. I appreciate it.)

#Castle Rock #Henry Deaver #The Kid #Castle Rock fanfiction #Henry Deaver fanfiction #The Kid fanfiction #also #just want to say #this is not what I think all religion is like #this is a fucked up character #citing religious justifications #where there shouldn't be any #gotta make sure that's clear #this is my 666th post #lmao

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alia15 · 4 years ago

Text

Turning Over a New Leaf

My house is cleaner.

I’m more relaxed.

More productive.

More active.

Dare I say...happier?

Happy? In this climate?? How does one go about finding this happiness I speak of?

Well, for me, it was simple. Set an alarm.

I know, I know: what a concept. But something happened to me about a month ago and I realized that I had a lot of problems, stressors and time management issues in my life....

And I was to blame.

The thing is, I didn’t know I was to blame. I blamed my Microsoft Outlook Calendar which is jam-packed every single weekday with meetings and calls. I blamed the steady stream of emails that flowed into my inbox every minute. I blamed chiropractor visits twice a week that I had to work into my busy schedule. I blamed weekend plans and obligations and errands and everyone...but myself. Because while all the things I listed are very real, there was one person getting in the way of finding free time and well, “me” time, and that person was me.

So, I decided to make some changes. I don’t know about you, but when I make changes, I really MAKE them. They have to be well thought-out and documented. I started thinking about all the factors that were causing me grief and stress over the last few months, and tried to address them:

That’s some set of rules.

I put my money where my mouth is and instead of just making a list of goals on my iPhone’s Notes app, I actually...did the things. I set my alarm for 7am every day. I don’t have to start working until about 9ish, so that was going to give me some extra time to do... WHATEVER. Anything. Even if it was spacing out and having coffee while watching Saved by the Bell reruns, it was better than what I *had* been doing, which is laying in bed until about 9:00 (er, 9:15 some days) and then scrambling like a mad woman to start my day. Frantic. Aggravated. Rushing.

And, for what? I work from home now, and likely will be for a while. Why was I torturing myself? How many days could I get out of bed late and then turn on my computer only to realize I had a meeting in 15 minutes? How many days could I spend sitting at my desk working, and ONLY working all day, realizing when I signed off later that I never really moved much, never went outside, never took a real break?

It was unhealthy, and it made me unhappy.

I also started to wonder why I was getting out of bed so late, ESPECIALLY since my body clock typically wakes me up around 7:30 or 8:00am. If I was up, why didn’t I...ya know, get up? Physically?

I knew why.

The damn phone. We all do it. We wake up, and before anything else we grab that little device that connects us to the world with the touch of a button. What news alerts do I have; what happened overnight since I went to bed? What’s going on in Twitter World? What’s trending? Let me check Facebook and see whose birthday it is! Let’s scroll through Instagram and Tik Tok and Snapchat AND OH MY GOD IT’S 9:20???? How the hell did an HOUR AND A HALF go by??

Nope. No more. I made a ‘rule’ that I’d set an alarm, and even if I needed a few minutes (or hell, 30 minutes) to lay in bed before getting up, the one thing I could NOT do is scroll through my phone. And guess what? It helps. IT HELPS A LOT. Let me tell you all the things I did this morning: Wednesday, October 14:

dusted & cleaned some windows

rode the stationary bike for 30 minutes

threw in a load of laundry

had breakfast (hard boiled eggs & some turkey bacon) and coffee

caught up on the morning news

got ready for the day: makeup, outfit, hair

started this blog post

And I did this all before 9am.

The catalyst for making these changes happened one weekend in September when my parents were here helping me out with some outdoor cleanup and gardening. They were so helpful in undoing some of the damage Leo and I had done over the summer: we had overgrown plants, weeds, a messy/sandy deck, and we needed some serious ASSISTANCE. And while I appreciated the help, I also felt guilty. Why hadn’t I taken care of this myself? Why did I keep hearing the same phrase come out of my mouth multiple times that day while my parents were over?

“I don’t have the time.”

That was my response when I was asked why I don’t go to Home Depot to get some new outdoor fall stuff. That was my response when asked about watering plants or plucking weeds out of the ground. I DON’T HAVE THE TIME, OKAY?! I AM A VERY BUSY WOMAN!!!

And, I am. We’re all busy to some extent. And sometimes, it IS hard to find the time for things: house things, chores things, exercise things. But you CAN make the time. You can better USE your time. Since I’ve been getting up earlier each weekday, I’ve used those hours in the mornings for productivity quite often. On weekends, we’ve taken the free time we DO have (before or after plans we might have) to do the things we don’t get to during the week. Just this past weekend, before going to my sister-in-laws house to celebrate our birthdays, Leo and I went to a local preserve in our town to get a walk in. On a recent Sunday when Leo was watching the Jets, I did a LONG OVERDUE closet organization. For me, personally, spending my limited and precious free time on my phone or watching TV makes me feel shitty. Sometimes it’s okay, but I’m generally a happier person when I feel like I’ve gotten things done.

Oh yeah, and I’m happier the more I MOVE. This isn’t about weight loss or some unhealthy diet culture; this is about overall physical and mental health. Look at how little I moved in August and September. I felt it.

Let’s be real: this year has been TOUGH. We’ve had to make so many adjustments to all the curveballs tossed our way, and we’ve had to navigate the countless changes. But, despite how long we’ve been doing this whole corona dance, it’s never too late to pivot and turn things around. Since March, I’ve been trying to find ways to better myself and find ways to improve my daily life all while working around a challenging work-from-home sitch, a bad back, and a bunch of other obstacles.

This isn’t a one-size-fits-all approach, and I know everyone is different, but if you’re anything like me and think you can benefit from some inspo, great. I wrote this post in hopes that I’d potentially motivate someone to make a change that could help make them happier. The few times I’ve shared this with people -- in person or on social media -- I usually get a response along the lines of “I need to start doing this.” Or, similarly, a coworker/friend recently DID take my advice, and wrote me to tell me:

...am I a self-help guru???

Bottom line, take care of yourself. I know it’s hard, and sometimes it takes some effort. But it’s important: especially in a year like this one.

Stay safe & healthy!

-Ali

#self help #motivation #inspiration #health #wellness #mental health #happiness #productivity #organization #2020 #pandemic

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rosepetals-flyingbirds · 5 years ago

Text

Tortured Souls. (4)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader.

Note: I truly appreciate comments guys, once I read that ‘coments are the only payment fanfiction writers receive’ and it’s completely true! I’m ain’t gonna lie and say that the likes don’t make me happy, but comments would make it all worth it.

(🐰Gifs go to their rightful owners. 🐰)

Warnings: Language, angst, fluff.

Word Count: 5,150.

The moment you and Steve got alone in his apartment, you could feel his curiosity crawling on your skin.

He, being the gentleman he was he kept quiet and respected your space.

The truth was that you were scared to tell him about the footages, the idea of him ending up believing it.

Sooner or later the information would come to public's eyes and your face would get stamped on the journals and every news program around the whole world.

But you needed a few hours to think about what to do, even if you haven't idea what that should be.

Your personal things made the place in Steve’s and you slink off to his couch and tried to sleep. You would solve this in the next day.

When the reality settled in and the sun rose you texted Tony and all your other friends and asked to meet in Steve's apartment.

Thor and Clint were in town so it would be more enlightening with all of them together.

Who would believe you? And who would turn their back on you?

“Your coffee is ready.” Steve touched your shoulder and you almost jumped off of the couch in pure fright. “Sorry, you are very distant. I know I said I would wait for you to feel comfortable enough to tell me what is going on, but Y/N I’m really worried about you. I had never seen you so scared and shaky before.” He said matter-factly and sat on the couch beside you holding his own cup of coffee. “This and that anklet on you, I know what these are for.”

“Thanks for the coffee and I’ll explain everything today. I texted everybody and asked to join us here, I’ll tell you guys and,” You looked down and placed your shaking hand on his knee. “And I truly want you to believe me, Steve.” Your voice was quiet and soft.

Steve nodded and you two drank your coffee’s in comfortable silence.

Tony was the first one to arrive and when you asked if he got the footage he chuckled and said ‘please’. Of course, the genius himself would be able to hack a federal system and steal a few “evidence”.

The others arrived a couple hours later.

And when everyone was there you took a deep breath and prepared for what would come.

Tension coiling in your belly like a venom snake fitting to strike. “Hmm, I know what you guys will see now will be…” You left a pftt and tried to find the right word. “Arduous to watch and even harder to believe me afterward. But I need you guys to remember who I am and what I mean for every single of you, and if any of you could believe that I could be able to do something like that... I will be very upset.” You sat on the windows bench and let them watch the informations, you couldn’t bear to look at them, you did a few glances here and there but that was the maximum.

Natasha started to say something but Tony shushed her.

When both videos came to an end all of them looked at you waiting for an explanation. “Will you say something or we will stand here waiting for some sort of movie's explanation?” Sam broke the silence.

You nodded and rubbed your face. “I think it doesn’t matter what I say you guys might already have an assumption about me and these videos.” You rose to your feet and walked towards the front of the television.

Steve's apartment wasn’t big but everyone found a spot to watch the footage making the small place crowded with superheroes. “In all honesty, I can affirm this ain’t me and someone it’s trying to incriminate me. I don’t know who but I will figure it out very soon! Fury doesn’t believe me and that is why I’m using this,” You glanced at your foot and lifted it showing all of them the anklet. “Fury doesn’t believe I’m innocent so he made me residential confinement until I confess. The feds and SHIELD want me in jail for the murders and apparently for leaking private information.”

“Why you did this?” Steve looked at you and crossed his arms, his face showed pure disproven.

You let a sad chuckle and your eyes started to water, you blinked a few times to spare the shame. “I thought you were the one that would believe me.”

“Do you all don’t think this is really well made to be fake?” Sam said and shook his head. Bruce rubbed his face and stared at you, somehow trying to decipher if you were against them doing all this circus, or if you were being a victim of the situation.

“And you think if I was guilty I would be here showing all of this mess to you guys!? Don’t you think I would rather be very far away with HYDRA or anyone related to this shit?!“ You took a deep breath trying to calm down your nerves. How could Sam say that? “I guess it wouldn’t change what I might or might not say, but I promise this ain’t me."

“Sort hard to believe don’t you think.” Natasha said.

Tony smiled at her with a sneer. “You would be an expert right, counting all the double espionage you had made in your life.” She argued back and then everyone started to argue.

On one side was Rhodey with Sam, the other Tony with Natasha, Steve and Bucky.

You couldn’t have it. You walked out of the apartment and got up to the rooftop.

You took deep breaths and wanted nothing more than ripping the fucking anklet out of you.

You heard the door opening and shut behind you. It was Bruce. “I believe you.”

You dried the tears you hadn’t noticed it had fallen. “Do you?”

“Yeah,” He played with his sweater's sleeves. “When I get angry I become a huge green guy. Steve and Bucky have a hundred years old. Thor is a god himself. So I guess it wouldn’t be impossible for someone to mess with you at that level of cinema production.” You laughed.

He walked closer and hugged you. “It gonna be okay.” He assured.

The hug didn’t last long, but it was enough to make you feel better.

A couple of minutes passed and he nodded at you silently saying ‘we need to face this’, you inhaled and exhaled calmly walking back to Steve’s apartment.

When you walked through the door everything got silent. You gazed at Tony and he lowered his head. Bruce cleared his throat and held his hand up. “I believe she is innocent. Who does too, raise your hand.”

Tony raised his hand, Steve looked at you and at the television fighting his thoughts of what he should believe, Rhodey raised his, Thor and Wanda did too.

All of them kept quiet. You felt your heart breaking seeing how the people you most care about couldn’t believe you.

Bucky raised his and gave you a small side smirk, the only recognition of your existence since the last time you two argued.

Sam crossed his arms and stared at the floor, Natasha got up and walked out of the apartment passing by your side to reach the door.

Vision lowered his head and apologized to Wanda.

Clint raised his hand. “I hope I am not wrong, but I know you, kid. You are not a traitor.” You mouthed a silent thank you and he winked at you.

Steve kept quiet and it broke your heart. He stood up and placed his hands on his pants pockets. You nodded and looked at Bruce who was looking at Steve like he was hoping that the super-soldier would raise his hand as well.

Accepting the defeat you walked to the room where your things were placed to gather them back, with Steve not believing you, you couldn’t stay at his house, totally out of the cogitation. “Y/N.” Steve's deep voice called and you knew he would say something as ‘You need to face it and confess’ , you sniffed and turned around to look at him.

He took one hand out of his pocket and raised it. You felt an effectual feeling of comfort.

Tony broke the silence. “So who don’t believe at her please leave and I will ask to not say anything about what may or may not happen in the next weeks. Who does believe keep in mind that we may need all the possible help, which can be against Fury’s or Everett’s orders.”

Thor threw you his bright smiled. “I don’t intend to follow anyone’s orders so I will be more than happy to help Y/N on whatever she might need.” You couldn’t help but walk to his reach and give him a hug. “Actually if you want I would be more than happy to receive you at Asgard. We could fight some intergalactic wars together. I’m sure my friends will love you.”

You left his embrace and touched his forearm. “Thank you. But I can’t run away from this.” He nodded.

Clint excused himself and said it would be better to discuss the plans on the following day.

You agreed and a few of them started to leave. Sam walked out and you lowered your head thinking about how he and Natasha couldn’t believe you. Well, at least the numbers by your side were positive, you were worried that no one would stand by your side, happily, you were wrong.

Tony's breath was ragged and you didn’t understand why, but then you remembered that Bucky was in the same room.

He must have sensed it too since he nodded to Steve and walked out trying to reach Sam.

…

The following day you and Steve went to the Compound on his motorcycle. You didn’t sleep the day before but you were a hundred percent energized and ready to draw up plans.

It wouldn’t be simple, that was obvious. But with genuine people by your side, it was a possible purpose.

In the Compound, you didn’t see Natasha nor Vision. Sam was there but he left after he saw the “conference” that was happening.

Everyone sat and you got a small device out of your pocket and opened a big touchable hologram with a touch on it. “Well, this is Artem, as you guys may already know.” The pictures of the man appeared aside from video footage of the night crime and the video of his interrogation with Fury. “FRIDAY open the video number one and detect my voice on it.” She agreed and the ‘file number one’ opened, it was the video where “you” and Artem were talking on a video call. ‘I didn’t recognize your voice in that file.’ FRIDAY said. "Please search for any mobile app that is able to switch voices and test every option and shows me the result.“ The intelligent system analyzed and it came to a result in mere seconds. ‘My research found a good combination to it, but the voice behind isn’t yours nor anyone I had contact with.’ You nodded and looked at Tony.

“Apparently whoever is making this tried a different voice in real life and maybe used the app to switch it. Or not, who knows.” Tony rose to his feet and prepared his fingers to touch the hologram. You stared at him and he rolled his eyes. It was your hologram.

He took a device just like yours and opened another blue hologram. “FRIDAY show me Artem Melnikov's family.” A file opened and showed a few pictures of Artem with other people, one he was aside by a tall man. “Do you recognize that man?” Tony asked you.

You nodded, the man was his cousin, one of Mikhail’s security guards back in the day. “I think his name is Pavlo. He is Ukrainian too, Mikhail didn’t want to use only Russian people around him so he hired that man too. It was the only Ukrainian close to him.”

Tony nodded. “I made a few research and I sent a guy I know to make his mother a few questions, the lady wasn’t really nice but she said that her son, Artem,” Tony looked at the other people in the room, like he was trying to make sure everyone would follow his line of thought. “Grew up with her nephew Pavlo.” A few pictures appeared, pictures of both men together. “Neither had the money or good education, so when Pavlo was hired by a Russian rich “businessman” to be a bodyguard Artem basically begged to go too. Mikhail didn’t allow and took Pavlo to Russia with him.” Three photos of Pavlo using a suit walking ahead of a man of Mikhail with his hand on his face showed.

“When Mikhail died, because our dear Y/N wanted to play James Bond female version,” You rolled your eyes at the observation. “Pavlo called his cousin to help find the body. Pavlo’s mother said he was scared that he would lose the best job opportunity he had ever had and that is why Pavlo traveled back to Ukraine searching for Artem.”

“So Artem left Ukraine and went to help Pavlo find the body?” Steve asked.

“Yes, and when they found and saw the really dramatic message,” Tony said sarcastically the last part judging the whole situation you had made. You could feel Tony mad at you because all of that, but at least he was at your side. “He made his life goal to figure out who was behind that, which was the Russian innocent beautiful girl called ‘Yanka Vaughan’.” Everyone narrowed their eyes, it wasn’t you that killed Mikhail? Tony pointed at you in mere seconds with his index finger. “Y/N.”

Rhodey crossed his arms and darted his eyes to every information in the holograms. “It was pretty smart to change your name. But they did saw your face eventually didn’t they?”

“I had dyed my hair in that time and I barely went one day without heavy makeup so they wouldn’t recognize. Also, Mikhail didn’t like pictures and whenever someone took one without his consent he killed the poor photograph, he liked to think he was a Russian version of Vito Corleone.” You looked at Steve’s face. “It’s reference to an old movie called the Godfather.” He didn’t have cut that one out of his list of movies yet.

When all the mess ends, you will definitely make Steve watch the whole saga. Well, if the mess proceeds to an end.

…

Three days later you were in Steve’s apartment watching security cameras around the city trying to find Artem’s whereabouts. Your phone rang with a text.

Tony: 'Meet me at the Compound. Me and Steve came up with a good plan.’

You took a shower, took Steve’s motorcycle and drove to the Compound.

There you saw Steve and Tony bickering as always. “Here I am, tell me about the plan.” You sat on the couch and paid attention to them.

“Listen we know you may not like it but we need you to leave the town,” Steve said.

You got on your feet. “What? I’m not running away, I need to fix this here.”

Tony scoffed. “You don’t get to chose. You did all of this mayhem.”

It had been like that in the previous days, Tony complaining about the whole circumstances. “You know what Tony I don’t need your or anyone’s help.”

“Of course, you do! And we are helping so you should be grateful we are working to clean up your mess.”

You scoffed and stared at him. “How long you’ll be complaining about that? I’m sorry okay, I’m sorry I lied to you, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about all of this.”

He ducked his head. “This impulsive tendency you have always put you in danger.”

Steve moved his body in front of yours. “Hey, nothing of this okay, fighting won’t solve anything.” Steve intervened but received a shut up from Tony.

He knew it was useless so he sat on the couch and allowed the daughter-father fight go on.

“It wasn’t an impulsive decision do you think if it was I would be here now? I guess no, I would be dead! I knew what I was doing okay!” Your words became louder, you were feeling tired of Tony's accusations.

He snorted. “Yes, sure and that is why you are in that mess that I’m putting my head in the middle of the cross-fire because you wanted revenge on something that happened years ago.” He shouted.

You smiled in pure sarcasm. “You know what? You’re right! But you’ve been a hypocritical right now, what had you done after you came back to America in 2008? You flew to Afghanistan and killed Raza and his men. That was revenge!”

“It was different. They were killing innocents.”

“And me killing traffickers didn’t save other innocents lives?” He was too stubborn to admit you had a valid point. “I’m sorry I do things impulsively Tony, I’m sorry I’m not the type that would stay at home waiting for shit happens. I’m sorry for not being the typical rich girl or the daughter material. But I’m not perfect and I’m not your daughter!” You screamed the words but the last tasted bitter on your tongue.

He lost his words, and looked at you darting his eyes to his surrounds, the sadness regarded clearly. Steve looked at Tony and you before lowering his head.

Tony cleared his throat, his eyes starting to tear up. “You’re right. You’re not my daughter but I love just as you are." You looked at the floor feeling ashamed of the outburst. “I never wanted kids but when I first met you I knew I had to protect you, and I’m doing it. I love you with a fatherly love, whatever that shit means,” He murmured the last words, Howard wasn’t really good at love demonstrations with Tony. “But as my best friend too. And I’m trying to protect you right now.” His words were sincere, anyone could see it.

You agreed and rubbed your face in pure dishonor. “I know that. But I feel like everything I do don’t make you happy, I know this is the cliche line but is true. I wish I could do better but it is like I only disappoint you.”

He let a small smile. “You don’t disappoint me, you make me proud. But I hate feeling like I am not protecting you enough.” He said and you shook your head in a silent agreement. “I think it’s how everyone says, the child you fight the most you fight because it’s just like you.”

“I’m not that stubborn.” You murmured the words smirking as well. Tony hugged you and you felt comforted. “Okay enough of the soap opera.” He punched your arm playfully. “What is the plan?” You looked at Steve who clearly was alleviated that the 'fight’ had ended.

Steve explained and the plan was really smart. Being away would only prove that ’you’ aren’t you actually.

So whatever happens in the next days it wouldn’t be you since you would be away, and if someone tried to incriminate you it couldn’t work because you wouldn’t be near the city.

“I thought in your house in Oregon the one in the mountains. No one knows about it and you would be safe there.” Tony said.

Steve agreed but was quick to add an important matter. “But we need to send someone with you. Just for precaution.” He added.

“Okay, but who would that be?” Nor Tony or Steve could go, and neither of your friends for the matter. But it wasn't like Sam or Natasha would care anyway.

Steve opened his mouth but Tony cut his words. “Scott.” Tony answered.

“Tony we already talked about this a hundred times,” Steve said pissed.

“Who is Scott?”

“The insect-man, the one that fought with us once and you broke his nose,” Tony explained.

“Wait I don’t even know that guy Tony. And the house is huge, I wouldn’t feel comfortable with a stranger there.” The intention was real, and not knowing that guy you wouldn’t feel comfortable.

Maybe he was a creep that would do insane things in a minuscule size.

Tony rolled his eyes. “You two can become friends. I’ll send you his number.”

“Tony she won’t go with him. Y/N you’ll go with Bucky.” The cap voice announced.

Tony moved his feet so he was right in front of Steve. “She. Is. Not going with him!” He answered grinding his teeth.

Letting Steve’s words through your mind you actually agreed with the idea. “It makes sense actually.” Leaving the anklet at the Compound or any other place Fury would surely appear one day and don’t find you there, which would accuse all the Avengers of protecting a criminal. But they don’t even know Bucky is back at the Compound, Everett tried to lock him but with the whole Zemo thing Bucky was released and declared innocent.

And since in missions he always works anonymously it would not lead accusations to your friends. “Do you talked to him already?” You asked Steve who nodded.

The guy hasn't talked to you in the last month, would he go to a hidden place with you?

Tony made a loud mocking laugh. “It doesn’t matter you’re not going with him. If you don’t want Scott I can call Peter or hire any bodyguard for you. Happy would love to go there.”

You rubbed your face and looked at Steve supplicating for help, which would be useless with Tony. “Tony, Happy hates to be my bodyguard.” Happy had worked to protect you when you were younger, the teenager phase. Every party or place you would go he would be there.

“He hated being your bodyguard on parties. This will be different.”

“Who do you think would succeed in a fight. Bucky or Happy?” He stared at you, just the mere name gave him bad chills. “Which on the case would be me because let’s be honest, if something bad happens Happy will end up dead trying to defend me.”

Tony kept quiet and you thought you had won the conversation, which wasn’t the case considering he opened his mouth. “This is not the point! I’m not sending you on a trip with that guy. And what are you worried anyway you two haven’t even talked yet, I thought the friendship was over.”

He knew something was happening between you and Bucky since he didn’t see you two together anymore. “Tony, friendships don’t end like that. We are not close now but he is still my friend and he lifted his hand to Bruce’s question so yeah I do think he cares and would protect me.” The words were calm, you tried to put a sense on Tony’s head.

“I’m not allowing that.” He answered. FRIDAY announcement that Rhodey was approaching. “We will discuss this later, I have something to resolve.” He walked out of the room leaving you and Steve.

“Do you think Buck would go? We are not really besties at the moment.”

“I’m sure he would. I’ll talk with him later.” Steve answered. “You took the plan better than I thought, since you’re a lot like me and wouldn’t run away from a fight.” You chuckled at his words.

“Yeah, but this is not running. I’ll prove to Fury and Everett that isn’t me and then with their help it will be easier.”

“It will.” He placed his hand on your shoulder and gave a light squeeze. “We will get out of this.”

“Thank you for believing in me, Stevie.” He smiled and leaned to kiss your forehead.

After some talk, he walked out going to talk with Bucky.

You took off the flannel you were using and placed it around your waistline. You took the stair to the rooftop to watch the Compound's surrounds.

When you opened it you saw Sam there. He looked at you and you turned around leaving the spot. “Hey!” He called and walked to the stairs trying to catch you. “Hey, can we talk?”

You walked to the rooftop and looked around while Sam tried to find the right words to say. “I want to apologize for not believing in you. It is just, I know how this betrayal thing happens and I didn’t want to believe you would be another case of it.”

“Sam if Steve or Tony had said something to you, ignore it. I don’t want you to trust me because someone is forcing you to, I understand if you don’t believe me and that is okay. You are an adult and can have your own opinions.”

“I do, and I believe you. When I saw the video I got shocked, you speaking in a video call with the guy you swore you had never met? And planning against us? Just the thought of it hurts.”

You stared at him, it would be useless but if he at least pays attention to your facial expressions he maybe could sense the truth behind it. “I would never do that.”

“I know that. So,” He elevated his right hand. “I believe you’re innocent and I’ll do the possible and impossible to help you out.” You nodded unsurely.

Sam was Steve’s and Bucky’s friend, he could be doing that because of them and not because of you or your friendship. “Because you’re my friend and I trust you. Sorry that it took longer to have sure of it, I guess I ain’t smart as much as I want to believe.”

You laughed and answered. “You evidently ain’t.” And then you felt better having another friend supporting you.

…

You tried to talk to Tony about Bucky but it was useless at first.

You said all the obvious points but he didn’t appear to care enough to allow.

He even called Happy which consisted of you taking the phone out of his hand and saying it wasn’t a real job which made Happy Hogan an angry man since Tony interrupted his session of Downton Abbey.

Tony understood that you would do what you wanted to do with or without his permission and that you knew Bucky wouldn’t hurt you he kept silent, which in Tony case it was a deal.

…

Steve met you in his apartment and said Bucky agreed and that the two of you would go in the next day to Oregon.

You packed your things and managed to remove the electronic anklet out of you and asked Sam to put inside your old apartment in Queens. The next day you went to the Compound inside a black car Tony sent to get you and Steve -so no one could see your bags-.

There you asked Wanda if she had talked with Natasha, she said yes but it was no use.

She also said the same thing about Vision. You asked her to not let any information of your whereabouts leak, you don’t know if Natasha would be capable to report you to Fury.

Tony said it would be better to go driving to Oregon in case the quinjet’s were being patrolled, but since it would be one 41/44 hour drive you said it was unnecessary, and also withdrew the private jet invitation.

The quinjet would be seen in the yard of your house so Steve agreed to fly it there and when necessary he would fly back it back.

In that way, no plane would be missing and it wouldn’t have a huge plane in the yard of a mountain house.

You met Bucky and Steve at the hangar. You made sure Natasha wasn’t nearby so it would be better to go without the worry that she would report the entire situation to Fury.

You said goodbye to your friends and told them that you would be 24/7 expecting for news, Tony wasn’t there but you two had talked earlier the day.

Steve was in the control of the quinjet and Bucky by your side.

He was silent the whole flight.

Four hours later you reached your destination, Bucky grabbed his bags and yours silently.

You walked out and felt good being at that house again.

Once you and Tony were traveling to visit some factories that were buying his ammo when Tony shut down the weapons manufacturing division of his industry.

He wanted to make sure his orders were regarding seriously, as Obadiah had cheated on him innumerable times he wanted to be certain that no one else was having the same insubordinate behavior.

So one day you were hiking and found three dogs in chains in an abandoned place which made you really angry. Tony found the “owners” and made them go to jail for animals mistreating -among some other things-.

So he bought the place and built a huge house on it saying it would be yours, when you reached the legal age he passed the house to your name.

The place became a safe haven for you and every animal you could rescue.

A humble family nearby was searching for a job so Tony hired them to take care of the house and the animals.

Tony was very generous so he hired the whole family and paid for the children's education.

Steve talked something to Bucky and gave him a hug before coming to your reach doing the same. “I will report everything back to you, this will be temporary.” You nodded and waved when he walked back to the quinjet.

You grabbed the house key and opened it revealing a properly cleaned house, certainly a beautiful place.

You hadn’t been there in the last five years, surely the family took good care of it.

Bucky was looking around, probably making sure it was safe. “You can pick a room upstairs.” He nodded and started to walk. “Buck.”

He turned around and looked at you.

“We will spend our time here avoiding each other?”

“No.” He said sincerely. “We can talk and solve this.” You couldn’t believe he said those words, probably Steve had said something to him.

You shrugged and stared at his tired eyes. “Where do we start?”

…

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader

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kashilascorner · 5 years ago

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@cukibola tagged me to answers these questions, thank you so much. I won’t be tagging anyone this time, though!

1. If days were 25 hours long, would you use the extra one writing?

Nope

2. Do you write in your mother tongue?

I write both in my mother tongue and in English

3. The Fall of the House of Usher or The Shadow over Insmouth (or another option)?

Fall of the House of Usher

4. You are given the possibility to publish your work, but it will go under massive editing changes. Do you accept?

Depends on the story and the changes. I generally like the things I wrote, the way I wrote them because writing is rather personal for me. When you publish, you need to take the audience into account, so I could go through changes.

5. Is there a character you love to torture?

All of them. Most of my characters are rather tragic.

6. Plot-wise or character-wise?

Characters are, in a way, more important than the plot. You can drive your plot by its charcters or drive the characters by the plot. In other words, you characters can be meely a tool to advance and dive into the plot, or your plot can be an excuse to deelop your characters. Depends on what you want to achieve, the genre you’re writing...

7. Descriptions or dialogues?

I don’t think I’m very good at either of them lol. But dialogues. Dialogues all the way. I love them, I love making my characters say all kinds of things and make them comfront ideas with others.

8. Would you ever adapt your work to a movie or a series if you're given the opportunity?

Cinema is possibly my biggest inspiration (I do, in fact, watch much more movies than read books), so definetely yes. I would. I don’t like long series though.

9. Do you have a device to take notes?

Notes on my phone. I also have anotebook. But phone for quick notes (I use the app ColorNote)

10. Have you ever had an incredible idea while you were doing something completely unrelated?

Yes. This is how I get my ideas most times.

#tagged #about me

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linkalearnsjapanese · 5 years ago

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JLPT N2. It’s a monster. A huge gap from N3 stands in the way, with only the rickety bridge of my study habits to cross the gorge. Right now, all schools in Japan are shut down due to the ongoing pandemic. Which is not something I thought I would ever say. Anyway, for reasons mysterious to me, teachers are still being told to go to work. So I’ve been spending a LOT of time at my desk lately. Which means I have plenty of time to study! (cue internal screaming)

Me, upon realizing how much study time I have now

So now I’m going to procrastinate on studying for N2 by writing about studying for N2. Here are some study techniques and materials I’m using in my quest to become 上手af.

Vocab

Resources: Anki, Tanos N2 vocab list

One day, I was flicking through TV channels and found the Japanese version of Are You Smarter than a 5th Grader? on. When the guy won, one of the kids asked him how he knew so much. The guy said that one of the things he did was study 5 new words everyday, so that each year he learned 1,825 words. I thought this was a fantastic idea and decided to do it myself. I found a vocab list from Tanos to work with. Every week, I write down that week’s words in my journal. This helps me to keep track of where I am in the massive list. Then, everyday I add the 5 words into an Anki deck and cumulatively study all the vocab I’ve entered in so far.

Blocking out my 5 words a day in my journal

If you’ve never used Anki as a study tool before, you absolutely should. Basically, Anki is a program that uses a SRS algorithm. SRS (spaced repetition study) is a study technique that spaces out reviews of materials based on how well you know them. For example, if I mark a vocab word as “easy” it may come up to be reviewed 3 days from now, whereas if I mark a word as “hard” I’ll have to review it tomorrow. The cards are very easy to set up, so you can use them for basically any kind of study. Go to AnkiWeb to make an account and get started. There’s also a free app, AnkiDroid, available on Android devices.

I also have a separate Anki vocab deck where I add words I come across in reading practice, or my daily life. This deck is non-JLPT focused, but helps me to keep adding more and more vocab to my repertoire. Plus, it’s always nice to learn vocab that I know is being used around me. And helps me read. Because I’m really bad at reading.

Kanji

Resources: Wanikani

I pretty much exclusively use Wanikani to study kanji. However, this method is very slow and steady wins the race style. Wanikani will start you on verrrrry basic kanji. Since I’ve been using it already since college, I’m at levels that challenge me. This is not something that you can jump into and will be at your level. Still, I highly recommend it. I’ve definitely noticed my kanji recognition ability improve when I’m serious about using Wanikani. It can also help with vocab!

What I like about Wanikani is that it forces you to be able to input both the Japanese readings and the English definitions. This really helps your ability to translate bilaterally and quickly recognize, read, and define the kanji. However, once you get into upper levels, the daily reviews can really pile on and it can get overwhelming. My best suggestion is really try to stay on top of your daily reviews, but also exercise judicious use of the vacation mode feature. If you’re overwhelmed by the amount of reviews, you’ll be less likely to continue to study. Just do your best, and pause things when you need to. All hail the Crabigator!

Reading

Resources: Nihongo So-matome reading book, Japanese.io, personal books

I’m not gonna lie, I’m bad at reading. It takes me a long time to read, and it’s exhausting. Part of this (a large part) is because I’m even worse at grammar, and part of it is just a frustrating lack of vocabulary.

The first resource I use is the Nihongo So-matome textbook series. They separate their books into sets. The reading book has passages to read, then comprehension questions following the reading. The readings are usually brief, but cover a variety of categories – like ads, fliers, and newspaper articles.

The next resource is one that I just found, and am still getting familiar with. Japanese.io is an online reader and chrome extension. The online reader has passages and entire books in Japanese. By clicking on words, you can read their definitions and ad them to words lists. Clicking on grammar items will give you explanations of those structures. The passages are also divided into JLPT levels, so you can select things based on your level. By using the “Feed” feature, you can also look at reading from Japanese news. You an even select your category of interest for what you want to read. Like I said, I haven’t used this site a lot yet, so I’m still learning how to use it. From what I can tell, the program is very well designed and easy to use, and looks like it will be a very valuable tool.

Finally, I occasionally go looking for real books (not structured textbooks) to try to read. I went to the Sumida Hokusai Museum a while ago and picked up a manga biography of Hokusai. I’m working through that now by adding sticky notes to pages with words I don’t know, and adding those words to my vocab Anki deck. Although this is just a kids book, I think it’s valuable to practice reading something not designed for study use. Plus, it gives me a break from the mindset of studying because I enjoy the topic and the art.

Grammar

Resources: Nihongo So-matome grammar book, japanesetest4you, bunpro.jp

God I hate grammar. I hate grammar so much. I really, truly do. But unfortunately to pass N2 and also to not sound like a cavewoman and/or small child, I need to use more complex grammar structures than “This is a sandwich. The weather is miserably humid. I do not like natto.” Sigh.

Ok, so first I have the Nihongo So-matome grammar series book. This is designed to be used everyday and introduces around 4 grammar structures a day. At the end of the week, there will be a mock test page with questions simulating those seen on the JLPT. Each day also comes with a small set of review and test questions. This series is great for giving you a structured way to introduce and study new grammar, and provides great sample sentences and diagrams for how to conjugate. what it’s a bit weak on, is English explanations of what the grammar item means. So, I highly suggest using this book together with japanesetest4you.com. I find that japanesetest4you does tend to have needlessly complicated sample sentences, but useful explanations. So use these two resources together!

I also write down all the grammar items introduced in the textbook, along with sample sentences, and add them to an Anki deck to study. This way, I have a physical copy of all the grammar I should be studying that I can add notes to, and a virtual Anki deck to study from.

The scribblings of a person slowly going insane

Bunpro.jp is a subscription based SRS grammar study site. It has tons of grammar items divided up per JLPT level. Each grammar item has an English explanation, conjugation guide, sample sentences, and linked readings that may help you understand it better. Once the item is added to your reviews, it will come up in your study. When studying, you are presented with a sentence that has something missing. You have to fill in the correct grammar, with correct conjugation. This is HARD. It can sometimes be very frustrating, just for the conjugation bit. But it is very helpful to be forced to input the grammar yourself, instead of selecting from a multiple choice. This makes sure you really know what the grammar is. If you don’t understand what the question is asking for, you can ask for a hint. There are 3 levels of hints, each giving more and more information away.

You can also input your Wanikani API key so that you are only shown furigana for kanji that you shouldn’t know yet. If you’re struggling, you can always click on a word to be shown the furigana. You can also either hide or show English in sample sentences to push you to read in Japanese. I’m not going to lie, using bunpro can be pretty mentally exhausting. It’s a struggle. But it is very valuable practice and really pushes you on your knowledge of the grammar.

Now….to study

That’s about all I’ve got for now. Yes, I know I should be practicing more listening and taking practice exams (check japanesetest4you or JLPTSensei for free practice tests) but there’s only so much studying I can do in one day before my brain fries. My best advice if you’re looking down the barrel of a lot of free time (oh hey quarantines) is don’t do long periods of study. Take it in manageable blocks a few times per day. Trying to do everything at once and pushing yourself for hours will just make you less likely to be able to recall what you worked on. Take 30 minutes to practice reading, then go do something and come back to clear out your Wanikani reviews. Don’t. Panic. This is a message for me just as much as anyone else reading this. Don’t panic, and don’t torture yourself. Study, but also live your life. And remember most of all, that you and your worth are not defined by test scores.

Now, as learning through osmosis and/or telepathy doesn’t seem to be working, I should stop procrastinating by thinking about studying and actually go study.

Pls Luna….put the 日本語 in my tiny human brain

How I’m Studying for JLPT N2 JLPT N2. It's a monster. A huge gap from N3 stands in the way, with only the rickety bridge of my study habits to cross the gorge.

#anki #ankidroid #bunpro.jp #japanese #japanese grammar #japanese language #japanese study #japanese vocabulary #japanese.io #japanesetest4you #japanesetest4you.com #jlpt #jlpt n2 #jlpt study #kanji study #learn japanese #nihongo so-matome #Study #wanikani

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christophermphillips · 5 years ago

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Blatant Electronic Harassment of a gay person by IBM and Anthem Blue Cross Blue Shield of Denver

I Christopher Michael Phillips was an employee of IBM and Anthem Blue Cross Blue Shield of Denver from 09/19/17 until the end of May 2018. During that time, I was being constantly harassed. I a 47-year-old gay male. During this time, I was also being harassed by the apartment above me. I called different law agencies and they would not help me. I resigned from my job end of May 2018 due to the harassment. I witnessed employees doing unscrupulous things with patients because that was the way they were trained by Anthem. After I resigned, I reported them to the EEOC, and strange things started to happen to me after that. Started to think I was going crazy until I talked to a doctor in Sweden. She told me to by a RF detector and where to look for something called a V2K chip. The detector goes off with full red bars and full loud signal on my left rear shoulder area. At least now I know I am not crazy. Every time I try to report this something happens, unable to make calls, lyft rides being blocked, credit cards being blocked. The also told me to go kill myself, tells me I need to break I went to the State Bureau of Investigations in NC on 10/25/19. They suggested I call the Police or try the FBI. They keep saying I need to break. The same day I tried to go to the FBI office, and they prevented me from doing that. They also prevented me from buying food from Walmart its almost like a false imprisonment situation. Computer programs opening and closing by themselves, pass code changed on iPhone so I could not access it. iPhone applications opening and closing by themselves. Worked in Information Technology the last 10 years and I know these thing are not normal. My father broke down in tears because he is tired of the stress this is putting on our family especially with the credit card being constantly declined even after the bank said its not them declining the charge. The chip also communicates to me to do pervert things. I have attached a list of the harassment I went through at IBM and Anthem Blue Cross Blue Shield. Also have an MRI picture I had done after the harassment started. I had a injuring on my neck after the harassment started and I went through the images after the RF detector detected where that shows where the chip on 10/23/19. No human being should be treated like this it is pure torture. If anyone can remove this technology from me you can keep it as long as I get a photo of it. When I try to report this and send emails the chip wakes me up and won’t let me sleep. Its like sleep deprivation.

I Christopher Michael Phillips was an employee of IBM starting 09/19/17 and worked at Anthem Blue Cross Blue Shield of Denver. Anthem contracted IBM for their end user support / field support and server tape backup within the Anthem building at 700 Broadway Denver. The following statements below involved IBM employees and some Anthem employees. I will indicate IBM or Anthem on each statement or action made by either company employees.

IBM-- Greg Newton--- Made statement I should never play the victim then went to the back of the support room near the kitchen with 2 other guys and they kind had a huddle and stared at me and has his arms folded. How would Greg Newton know about inappropriate things that happened to me when I was kid?

IBM—Scott walked passed me and said PFILE be nuts.

IBM—Patrick Beacom – Made comment about my masturbation habit how you he know that I do not know him on a personal level how would he know that?

IBM—Patrick Beacom—Called me when I left my apartment one evening when I called in sick to work wanting to know where I was going? It was from an untraceable VOIP line. This seemed a little strange and too coincidental.

IBM / Anthem—when I called in sick the password on my phone was being changed and locked out. The phone had to be erased and restored so I could access it. This happened on 3 or more occasions. This was my personal phone not company issued iphone.

IBM / Anthem—Was continually asking me to verify my passed employment. I asked other IBM employee was this happening to them and they said no.

Anthem – Michelle Moriarty—Told me she “LIKES A BIG ONE” in the monitor stock room. This is not the appropriate way a Manager should talk to an employee. I could care less about what big ones she likes.

Anthem—AL— Teasing Chris and Shaun are here.

IBM—Patrick Beacom—Trying to get me to remember my past.

IBM—Greg Newton / Anthem a guy named Kyle or Michael not sure of his name but I set up his iphone in the 3rd floor Field Support office and he seems gay to me. I was on the 4th floor setting up a pc and Greg Newton walked away from his desk. After the Anthem employee walked passed me then I head to the elevator to go back down to the 3rd floor field support office. Then this Anthem employee walked to the men’s room which was right beside the elevator and held his butt in the door on purpose.

IBM—My new laptop was always slow after being reimaged several times. I asked other IBM employees were they having this issue and they said no.

IBM—A group of newly hired women came in the same day I resigned to get their laptops set up and one toe tapped me when I went to the imaging table to check a pc I was working on. This also seems strange that there were no men in the group, do they only hire women for this position? Seems like sex discrimination.

IBM—Constructive discharge—They took work away from me when I would call in sick. The harassment they inflicted on me was causing me anxiety and depression.

HACKING OF LAPTOP, PHONE AND LYFT ACCOUNT EVENTS

2017-2018 Personal phone locked and password changed after calling into work sick. This happened about 4 times even after switching from Pixel 2 to a iPhone. Many events similar to ones below happened when I tried to email for help or make reports to the FBI.

10/17 10:00 am Calls being declined when trying to call Lambda Legal after going to Equality North Carolina to report prior employers IBM and Anthem Blue Cross Blue Shield for harassment.

10/24 10:00am Laptop applications opening by them selves.

10/25 12:30 pm Went to SBI in Raleigh NC to report harassment and hacking of devices. When I came home to take care of an errand put FBI address into Lyft so I could make a report to them and accounts were all declined and credit card was declined even after bank and Lyft was called and they did not decline the charges. Father in tears after IBM and Anthem Blue Cross Blue Shield put our family through so much stress with cards being constantly declined and having to get new cards on several occasions. Card declined all weekend and could not buy food or go anywhere. You can say that is a form of falls imprisonment.

10/26 02:51 pm PHONE Adam for Adam application closed by itself and then Walmart app opened by itself

10/27 02:56 am Woke up buy loud squealing in ear.

10/27 03:39 am laptop Gmail would not open

10/27 04:18 am Laptop Music stopping itself

10/27 06:39 am Laptop Email failing and being sent back after trying to email people that can help.

11/09 05:35 pm Changed Spectrum password and still could not login. Roku not letting me watch cable

11/11 08:08 pm Laptop When writing to Lambda Legal computer closes notes and opens other applications. Constantly changing zoom when trying to type new harassment notes on Laptop. After disabling network connections, it stops. I have pictures and documents. Please visit my blog for more information.

12/26 12:45 pm Google and YouTube accounts suspended after making post to defend myself against the perpetrators that invaded my privacy, VIOLATED my Civil Rights, and Fraud.

!!!PLEASE PLEASE HELP ME!!!

Thank you for your time

Christopher Michael Phillips

Raleigh NC 27613

https://www.linkedin.com/in/christopher-m-phillips-b913b830/

https://christophermphillips.blogspot.com/?m=1

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vankoya · 6 years ago

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The Devil Skates on Thin Ice, 2.

Genre | Hockey Player / Figure Skater Rivalry AU.

Pairing | Min Yoongi / Feminine Reader.

Words | 26,491 words.

Conspectus | The number one rule of Korea National Sport University is to never allow their elite figure skater and the captain of the ice hockey team be in the same room. Or in their case, on the same ice rink. They are infamously known for riling each other up in any way possible, and for having a mysterious history that even their closest friends know nothing about.

But when their coaches decide it is finally time to put an end to their five year rivalry, the pair of them certainly have very conflicting views about it.

Warnings | Heavy swearing and insulting. Some good ol’ pining. Alcohol and mentions of drugs. Angst. Uh, mayhaps a smidgen of smexual tension. A tad of misogyny. A very small moment of violence. Apologies to Yugyeom for making his character such a dick.

Parts | One • Two • Three (Finale)

The ‘read more’ function does not work for some mobile app users. We are still waiting on Tumblr to fix this issue, so please message them about it and not me, as I have definitely put a ‘read more’ break beneath this note!

To say you do not remember a single thing about last night is greater than an understatement.

It feels, quite literally, as though a spell of amnesia has been cast over the past multitude of hours, wearing off at about six in the evening when your first Caipiroska was poured by Minah. Everything between then and now rests beneath a thick fog of uncertainty—you could have met the bloody Queen of England, for all you knew. The scattered memories are all the more difficult to grasp as a result of the throbbing headache that pounds fiercely between your temples, encouraging you to keep your eyes tightly closed so as not to allow even a sliver of sunlight through.

A thick film coats your tongue, tasting of stale alcohol and, oh god, probably vomit. When you part your lips, your voice creaks like an old door that has been closed for years. The rusty hinges croak in a groan directed at Past You for not taking Future You, which is now officially Present You, into consideration when the soju bombs were handed out in fives.

“Fuck you, ___,” you grumble into your pillow, shoving your face deeper into the feathery plush as though you can bury your migraine in the fabric. “You insensitive, alcohol-mixing bitch. Never drink vodka and beer in the same hour. How could you forget that? It’s the golden fucking rule. Stupid girl. Silly bloody idiot.”

In the midst of aspersing yourself, there is a raucous clatter from outside of the bedroom, sounding like a lightning strike within the apartment as it shatters through the walls. More so, it is the familiar sound of heavy cutlery clanging against pots and pans within a stainless steel sink, metal-on-metal that slams straight through your skull and pierces the centre-point of your headache with a swift blow. The clanging continues in a cacophonous symphony that appears to be boundless in its protraction.

So, burying yourself into the nest of sheets with a whine, as if the thin cotton can even manage to smother the noise in the slightest, you curl your fingers into the mattress. Bracing yourself against the torture with taut shoulders, and barely withholding a distressed sob while you wallow in your agony.

You wonder what delusional, potentially still drunken state Minah must currently be in to be unleashing such torturous hell on a Saturday morning. Or why she is even awake before midday after a night out, for that matter. On any other occasion, Minah is a corpse until the late afternoon, and only when the sun is nearly perched upon the horizon to make way for the moon is she rising from the dead to inhale two litres of water and a microwave meal before she returns to her grave until practice begins at seven the next morning.

There is a vicious shout of, “Shut the fuck up, would you!” and the disturbance ceases to absolute silence. But the peace remains for the scarcest of moments until another voice is roaring back with hardly suppressed outrage, spitting, “It’s not my fault you haven’t done the fucking dishes in a week, you selfish prick! Some people like to eat, Yoongi!” followed by a punctuating, singular clang. Then, the quiet returns.

The sudden tranquillity is a soothing balm on your raging temples. You release the breath you were holding tight in your lungs while you had braced yourself against the vociferation. The exhalation gently lulls your tired limbs into a state of–

What.

When your eyes snap open, the sunlight is immediately striking; a searing burn on the sensitive film that coats your bloodshot gaze. You hardly need to adjust your focus in order to know the sole fact that settles in a heavy stone of dread within the pit of your stomach.

This is not your room.

The space is minimal, though the floor is filthy; littered with laundry and hockey gear and discarded balls of paper. A broad desk that is surprisingly neat and paired with a sleek, black swivel chair is pushed in the corner opposite to the bed, which is positioned under the window where the blinds are marginally open above you, allowing slats of sunlight to filter through and torment your throbbing headache. Next to the double doors of the closet is a free-standing mirror, and your reflection is unseen from the angle that you lay startled within. The top half is draped in a terribly familiar jersey of red and black.

The number 31 is salient in large, bold white lettering at the centre of the material. Though it is most certainly not as prominent as the MIN that stands out inches above it. The three letters set off screeching alarm bells within your mind, and you bolt upright on the mattress in a state of suffocating panic, cracking your elbow against the sill of the window in the process.

“Shit!” you yelp, cringing from the sharp pain that shoots up your arm, cradling it to your chest as you keel over your knees and dramatically collapse back onto the bed like the world just could not help but dig your hell-hole of a situation all the deeper.

You are in Yoongi’s room. Of all the fucking people it could have been, it had to be him.

Amidst the anguish, a succession of thumping footsteps steadily becomes apparent as they grow louder, nearer, almost as though they are jogging. Then, the door is histrionically thrown open and a wide-eyed, flustered Yoongi comes into view, panting a little like he had ran from the other side of the apartment at the voicing of your distress. Honestly, you surprise yourself by holding back the lurching urge to hurl up the contents of last night at the sheer sight of him.

“Oh, you’re awake,” he impassively states, hand slipping from the doorknob as the veil of concern that thinly manipulated his features is composed into one of nonchalance. “Thought you might’ve died overnight. I was hoping, at least.”

“No, I’m just sleeping with my goddamn eyes open. Of course I’m fucking awake, what does it look like?!” you shrill, squinting at him as the migraine spikes especially acute, fingertips abandoning your bruising elbow and coming to your temples to gingerly massage the thrumming flesh. “And to be frank, death sounds like a much more favourable option than waking up in your room. What am I doing here, Yoongi?”

He merely shrugs, not giving anything away. “I’d like to ask you the same thing.”

“Don’t start,” you mutter bitterly, slowly lifting yourself out of the—admittedly, exceptionally comfortable—bed at a steady pace in order to not throw your pounding head into another death spiral of agony.

As you do so, you notice an unfamiliar weight that sags over your figure. Glancing down at your body, you come to realise that your attire from last night is drowned beneath a thick, maroon sweater, the hem brushing at the middle of your thighs. The aroma that drifts from it is oaky; a damp forest on a misty morning combined with underlying tones of cinnamon. A familiar and refined scent that is so potently Yoongi, making it evident that the clothing is his. An involuntary shiver crawls up your spine.

Though before you can claw Yoongi down to the bone for answers, Minah’s voice reverberates through your hammering skull in a long-lost conversation, filed somewhere in the pages of under a year ago.

A man is no gentleman if he doesn’t let you wear his sweaters after sex! It’s just a part of the common courtesy code!

Desperately, you stifle the urge to screech as a burning sensation climbs your throat, flushing your cheeks with a heat of sheer horror while Yoongi watches on, utterly oblivious.

“We didn’t–” You emphasise with wide eyes and a swaying gesture of your hand– “Uh, you know?”

Yoongi, for a second, looks wholly alarmed by your assumption before he eases into amusement, barking out a sharp laugh. “While you were drunk out of your mind? Hell no. Do I look like some crazy sicko to you?”

The both of you stare one another down in a cursory silence, broken by your voice as you start to wrestle the sweater over your head, senses drenched in his cologne, “I’m not going to answer that.”

“Once we got back, I left you to your own devices, thank you very much.” Offence lays thick in his tone. His arms fold indignantly over his chest, and you blatantly ignore the way that the lean muscles of his biceps peek out of the navy sleeves of his shirt. “I slept on the tacky leather couch, which is like laying on an ironing board made of granite, I’ll have you know. So yeah, thank you Yoongi for sacrificing your bed to my drunk ass for the night,” Yoongi mimics in a pitched voice that is nowhere near similar to your own, proceeding to jab an accusing finger at your face. “I hope that hangover feels like a bitch for the rest of today, you ungrateful brat.”

“Well, thank you for manhandling my ass into your apartment, pervert,” you hiss with conviction, ditching the sweater to the sea of trash that comprises his bedroom floor, cringing at the mess. “And christ, into this pigsty! What the hell, do you still not do laundry? And dishes either, by the sounds of Jimin’s aneurysm.”

Still. You bite your tongue, wincing, hoping Yoongi did not notice. When you glance at him, his exaggerated smirk appears as though it is fighting to mask a twinge of something much softer. Shit.

Despite this, he sends you a slow, deliberate wink. “What can I say, the ladies love it when I’m dirty.”

“No, fuck no. I refuse to throw up right now. Shut your goddamn mouth.” Clutching at your woozy stomach, you hastily scan the room for any sign of your cellphone or purse—anything that draws significance as your own belongings amidst everything that is so entirely and unbearably Yoongi. “Where–”

“This?” Yoongi cuts in and your gaze darts back to him, noticing with a wave of relief that the familiar case of your mobile is held gingerly in his grasp. Like a magnet drawn to an opposite pole, you speedily pick your way through the colossal clutter until you stand a good metre away from Yoongi, hand outstretched.

“Thank you,” you barely manage to say as a way of inclining him to hand over the device. The expression of gratitude tastes sour on your tongue, and it ferments all the more when he merely grins wider and makes no move to give it back. Barely containing your rage, you close your eyes and exhale loudly through your nose. “Please, Yoongi. Give it to me.”

“Well, isn’t that just a little suggestive.”

As simple as flicking a switch, the restrained anger that you were genuinely doing so well to keep at bay ignites all the greater, eyes snapping back open to discover Yoongi still wickedly grinning. “I swear to–”

The starting notes of your Until the End of Time ringtone startles the both of you; Yoongi nearly drops the vibrating device while you jump with a parrotlike squawk. The shock sparsely settles before you take the opportunity of his momentary vulnerability to lunge towards his hand, reaching for your mobile. But his sportsman reflexes are too sharp, underestimated in your desperate efforts. Yoongi lifts the cellphone high above his head, a victorious blaze flaring in his eyes as you create a strangled sound of annoyance and firmly plant a palm on his shoulder so that you have some leverage to push yourself up when you jump. All the while, Justin Timberlake continues to sing above your heads and Yoongi-come-Satan laughs heartily at your meagre attempts to grab the phone.

“Yoongi! Give it here!” you shout directly in his face, mid-jump, and he cringes at the dusting of spit that sprays from your mouth onto his cheeks.

“Ugh, the fuck–”

“The call is going to end, stop it!”

Once you are stationary on the ground, preparing to leap again, Yoongi takes the advantage and yanks you down into a headlock, hunching over your torso and nestling your face against his stomach as you squeal out of surprise. Among your exasperated thrashing, the ringtone ceases and you believe, for a sparing moment, that it is due to the call having rung through to voicemail. But that credence is only fleeting when you hear Yoongi begin to speak.

“Hey Minah, yeah it’s Yoongi again,” the Devil converses casually as if he does not currently have you wrestled into submission. “Uh-huh, yeah ___’s awake now, she’s just– Oof–!” A firm elbow knocks into his side, which you come to realise is the one that you previously smacked against the window, and you both groan in unison. Even so, his hold does not let up. “She’s beating the absolute shit out of me. Agh, um yeah, sooner is better than later because we have to practice. Bring some clothes for her if you can. ‘kay, bye!”

At long last, your bind is released and you scamper to grab your phone that he now willingly offers to you. The both of you are mildly panting after such exertion this early in the morning, and most especially in the wake of your hangovers. Before you can lift the phone to your ear to catch Minah before she hangs up, you realise that the call has already been disconnected. The locked screen displays an array of notifications that you swipe through—unanswered texts and missed calls from both Hoseok and Minah. Your brow furrows when you realise they have completely ceased by about 11PM.

“What’s wrong, doll?” Yoongi teases, though his expression remains blank, leaning against the doorframe as the old nickname shoots through your heart in a kryptonite bullet. You frown all the more in an attempt to guise the pain of the fragments shattering amongst your ribs; a metal firework of old memories that you wish he would stop trying to resurface.

“Looks like my friends are a lot shittier than I first assumed,” you mutter, staring at the screen. You ignore how the fluttering vessel in your chest continues to bleed among the damage, exceptionally so as you truly begin to register how close you are to the Devil himself, right now. “They stopped the missing-persons search before midnight, which is unheard of since nobody goes home until it’s known that everyone is safe. But they clearly broke the pal code by the fact that I stayed the night with you, and they haven’t even bothered to make contact until the damage has already been done.”

The corners of Yoongi’s lips twitch, as if he does not know whether he wants to smirk at your ignorant insolence or smile at the fact that you have hardly changed. “They tried, y’know. You caused them a fair amount of trouble last night.”

Flicking your gaze up from the phone, you glare daggers at him. “What do you mean?”

“Well, let’s just say that you were really drunk and you ran off on them at the start of the party,” Yoongi pushes himself off the doorframe and shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, staring right into your eyes to convey his honesty. “And then I, also quite drunk, found you out on the roof. We had, uh, a conversation, I suppose, before the police arrived to shut the place down. You kind of passed out, I had to carry you most of the way outside and both Minah and Hoseok were waiting for you, worried as all hell. They were insisting they take you back to your dorm with Minah, but you were coherent enough to say that you weren’t um–” Despite himself, a flush blossoms on Yoongi’s cheeks, which has your own beginning to burn with sheer embarrassment and a growing concern as to what you possibly could have said– “Leaving me. You wanted to stay with me–”

“No fucking way.”

“So, with their permission and after an exchange of phone numbers, we came back to my place–”

“No fucking way.”

“Yes way. I dropped you into my bed and then I went to sleep on the couch once I had made sure Jimin and Taehyung got home without missing any limbs or teeth,” Yoongi, as though he cannot help but rev the engine for the guilt trip, narrows his gaze at you like a disappointed guardian scolding their child. “If anything, I’d say you were the shitty friend for putting Hoseok and Minah through all of that. You basically ruined their night, since they spent most of it looking for you.”

A sea of mortification submerges you. The water fills your lungs and you feel yourself suffocating, unable to believe the truth that Yoongi bleeds out on you, though no surface makes itself apparent to break through and breathe once again like this is a punishment that you are deserving of for cussing out your friends when you were the one who was the burden in the first place. Still, you manage to find your voice buried in the back of your throat, meekly making its way past your lips.

“You’re lying.”

Yoongi’s frown deepens, creasing the smooth skin between his eyebrows. “No, I’m not.”

“Not about the last part, I’m sure that’s true,” you raggedly inhale, trying to hide the way your fingers shake around the device you clutch by dropping your hands to your sides, gaining the confidence to stare him directly in the eyes again so you can gauge the slightest shift in his reaction. “But there is no way that you would have just put me to bed like nothing happened. That’s not your style. You don’t leave people alone when they’re in need.”

It is barely there. The glint of vulnerability that is quick to be guised by a stone cold facade. Yoongi watches you guardedly, lacing his words with enough venom to conceal the dishonesty when he mutters, “Funny, somebody made me change that about five years ago.”

You cannot help but flinch as if he has physically inflicted you; the words are carved into your chest by the tip of a knife held by his own hand. It is ridiculous, utterly stupid to be so hurt by such sentiments when you were the one to enforce him to despise you this way by being the instigator of such a tragic rivalry. Standing there, staring into his unchanging expression that has done nothing but grow sharper and more handsome over the past five years, the pearly scars prickle and itch like a reminder as to why you must stand your ground and never hold up the white flag of surrender.

But a smothered voice at the back of your mind starts to question whether such determination to be spiteful is even worth it anymore.

The blare of a horn outside of the apartment startles the both of you silly, and a strange sense of comfort settles in your chest when you realise that you are not the only one who is feeling so high-strung around the other. A balancing act where, eventually, one of you is bound to fall, and it is up to the other whether they have the courage to face the drop with them.

You let your eyes fall to the sensation of your phone vibrating once against your palm, not bothering to check the screen. “That’s Minah,” you mumble, combing your free hand through your knotty hair and shaking it out as if doing so will rid you of the anxiety. You briefly wonder what on Earth the rest of your make-up-smeared appearance must look like when your knuckles snag on the tangled strands. “I’m leaving.”

A streak of something that resembles mild panic darts through Yoongi’s eyes, though you are already pushing past him to concern yourself with what it may have truly been. As you go, he mutters underneath his breath, and that, you do catch onto. The words send a chill beneath your skin that has not a thing to do with the cool air of the bedroom.

Just like you did the first time things got hard, huh?

The apartment layout is precisely the same as your own, allowing you to easily navigate down the hallway of mostly closed doors to enter the shared living room and kitchen. Immediately, your nose is hit by the mouth-watering aroma of eggs and butter in a frying pan that is manned by none other than Park Jimin in a pair of boxer shorts. And praise all the holy things, it is clearly not a myth that he has the thickest thighs on campus, evident in the defined muscles that curve the golden skin of his legs; flexed in unadulterated display with the way that his weight rests upon his right leg while he works. Your phone vibrates once more in your hand, and you cannot help but quietly chuckle to yourself at the thought of sneakily snapping a picture for Minah to salivate over. Though that plan is quick to be corrupted when Jimin whips his head around at the sound.

“Oh, hey Ice– ___,” Jimin says from the breakfast bar as if it is the most natural occurrence in the world to see you walking out of Yoongi’s bedroom on a Saturday morning. His gaze slips southward from your face, eyes widening as he, suddenly flustered, stammers out, “C-Cute outfit you got there.”

“What?” All mirth is eradicated as you exclaim the single word, overwhelmed by alarm and you glance down and realise that, oh god, you completely forgot how utterly flimsy, thin, and terribly short the white dress that you wore last night is. Your entire body burns with the might of the sun. “No. Shit. I’m so sorry, I–”

“Is he terrorising you, sweet pea?”

The deep, anonymous voice floats right beside your ear and you jump in surprise, covering your mouth to conceal the shriek. The speaker of the question manoeuvres around you in a silky red kimono, his peculiarly gorgeous face inches from your own. Amidst your heart palpitations, you assume him to be Kim Taehyung—a man you have only ever heard stories about and never actually seen in the flesh.

His large, almond eyes regard you with keen interest. A broad, tan palm gently rests upon your bare shoulder and sends an unusually tantalising shiver up your spine. “Hm, I see why Yoongi is so enthralled by–”

“I thought you were leaving.”

At that, all heads turn to the second intruder of the conversation. Yoongi stands behind you, appearing both mortified and infuriated. His eyes zero in on your face, vaguely fleeting to Taehyung’s hand that gingerly touches your exposed skin before coming back to stare at you with a greater volume of seething darkening his eyes. A bud of spiteful glee buds within your chest.

“That’s no way to introduce me, Yoongi,” Taehyung purrs before directing his gaze to you, and you have to admit that you are slightly blown away by the boxy grin that he gives you, absolutely dazzling at this proximity. “I’m Taehyung, sweet thing. No need to tell me who you are, I know all about you. It is a pleasure to finally meet the one and only heartbreaker of Min–”

It occurs all at once. Yoongi charges at Taehyung. Jimin hastily drops the dirtied pan in the sink to prevent the oncoming slaughter between his two flatmates, and the loud clatter slices through your migraine like it had no more than twenty minutes ago. Lastly, an angry fist pounds heavily against the front door, and at that final sound, all movement ceases to a complete standstill. Yoongi is in the process of getting Taehyung into a headlock, and Jimin already has an arm wedged between their bodies, wielding a wooden spoon dotted with the morsels of his scrambled eggs.

You stand before them, astonished by the bizarre scene. Clearing your throat, you slowly begin to shuffle around the spectacle, and the three boys shift their gazes from the entranceway across the room to you.

“M-Minah’s here so, uh, bye,” you stammer, picking up your pace and zipping away to the front door with your phone clutched tightly to your chest. You release an exhale of relief the second you are around the wall and out of their line of sight.

But the repose is short-lived, for when you open the door, you come face to face with the epitome of sheer vexation.

“Well well, if it isn’t the goods that I came for,” Minah, hands on her hips, says with bitter impatience. Her gaze slides down your attire in a manner that is similar to the way Jimin’s had. Unsurprisingly, the judgement in her eyes is tenfold. “I see why Yoongi told us to bring clothes. Vaginas are great and all, but whipping them out willy-nilly can be a little confronting.”

“You,” is hissed as you grab the hem of the dress and pull it down, cheeks burning brighter, “were the one who told me to wear this! And what do you mean us?”

Minah throws a thumb over her shoulder. “Hobi is in the car. We both came to the agreement that we’re going to get coffee and sit you down for a nice, long chat about everything that has happened over the past 24-hours. Prepare yourself for the interrogation.”

Peering past her, you notice that Hoseok is most definitely sitting in the passenger seat with his eyes closed and the side of his face smushed against the glass of the window. You glance back at her, raising an eyebrow. “He’s looking one-hundred-and-ten percent dead right now.”

“Hence why we’re doing this over coffee.”

“Hm, understandable.”

“Hey Minah, thanks for picking ____ up,” is cheerfully voiced from down the entranceway, growing nearer with his footsteps. You briefly close your eyes in all of your chagrin just as Minah flicks her own above your head, looking at Yoongi. You can practically hear the grin in his tone, unbearably close, as he continues to say, “I’m sorry she caused you so much trouble last night. It seems like she hasn’t changed much since the old days.”

Your entire body suddenly feels as though you have been dunked into the Arctic Ocean. What the fuck is he doing?!

“The old days,” Minah echoes with a tight grin while you attempt to telepathically send a giant fuck you to the pea-sized brain of the bane of your existence. You hesitantly look at Minah, who has now averted her gaze to you, eyes filled with accusation and the potential threat of first-degree murder. “Sorry Yoongi, but do you mind elaborating on what exactly you mean by that?”

“Oh, ___ hasn’t told you about us at all?” Yoongi’s faux bewilderment sounds more intrigued than anything to your own hearing. The curiosity that underlies it is undeniable, especially paired with the prickle of the small hairs at the nape of your neck when you feel the flicker of his pupils resting there. For a fearful second, you are absolutely certain he is going to reveal the history that you have smothered so well from your present life right on his front doorstep. That he will unlace the taut stitches to expose the ugly scars beneath for Minah to witness—to finally see the truths you have masked for the past five years.

Yet, you are unsure if you should consider it a blessing when Yoongi curls his arm around your frame and lightly jostles you. His bare skin is desirably warm—comforting—against your own, when he instead says, “Well, I’m sure she’ll fill you in. We were very close back then, I’ll have you know.” At that, his palm that cups your shoulder lifts, and the weight of his presence momentarily alleviates, only to return with his hand against your spine, swiftly shoving you forward and out of the house, almost barrelling you into Minah. “Enjoy your coffee date!” he calls, sugary sweet, and then the door slams with a loud bang that drives another nail into your pulsing headache.

Of course, only Min Yoongi—Satan himself wearing the flesh of a human—could possibly save your ass whilst simultaneously serving it on a silver platter to be slaughtered by none other than your best friend in the terrifyingly near future.

Speaking of the aforementioned, she would appear almost comical if it were not for the fact that she looks about ready to skin you alive. With Yoongi having pushed you out of the house, you stand nearly nose-to-nose with Minah. Her brows are raised to the skies; her eyeballs are bulging with barely suppressed rage; her fingers are digging deep into her hips as though she is tightly gripping onto the final shreds of her sanity.

Your mouth opens and then snaps close. You repeat this in your state of stupefaction as your brain tries to process everything that has occurred over the past hour, concurrently attempting to conjure an explanation before Minah makes you her next taxidermy project.

But some deity must be looking over your sorry self, for your best friend wordlessly turns on her heel and storms towards the car. Then again, you are not entirely certain this is a more positive outcome than her screaming bloody murder in your face for the entire residence to hear.

Awkwardly, you skitter after Minah as she charges towards the car pulled up on the curb, still opening and closing your mouth like a complete idiot. Yoongi has only cracked the gateway to the past open. Allowing you the choice of either filling that gap with yet another layer of deceit, or to swing the door wide open and let all that you have kept secured under lock-and-key to come flooding through. But you know that you owe it to both Minah and Hoseok after all this time of keeping quiet.

Perhaps, not the entirety of the truth. But at least enough of a glimpse to tide them over until the next time Yoongi so abruptly thrusts his hands into your history and yanks the unwanted memories right into your field of vision.

Before you climb into the backseat, you notice your reflection in the window. To say you look hungover is a grand understatement. Your silver eyeshadow has broken apart and is scattered in glittery specks over the spotty foundation on your cheeks; mascara rims your eye bags and emphasises the purple crescent moons embedded there; your lipstick only remains to be a dodgy line that outlines your mouth. You look like absolute shit. And not in the I-just-had-the-best-one-night-stand-of-my-life way, but in the my-brain-feels-like-it-is-going-to-explode-because-I-slept-in-the-bed-of-my-number-one-enemy kind of way.

When Minah slams the driver’s door, the entire car trembles on its wheels. The sound wakes up Hoseok with an annoyed garble of insults, and slices another dagger of agony through your skull. You shut your own with a soft click, behaving like a mouse in the presence of a cat. Not wishing to make any moves that may disturb your best friend and make her pounce.

Yet, staring at the haggard reflection of yourself in the review mirror over Minah’s shoulder, you finally sigh and say, “Can I at least go home and shower first?”

“No, you need to suffer a while longer,” Minah firmly denies you as she jams the keys in the ignition. The engine revs before the squeal of the tyres skidding out on the road silences whatever protest you were attempting to muster.

A small voice in the back of your mind agrees with her, whispering that you deserve this. You have deserved it all since the first moment you told Min Yoongi you never wanted to see his face again.

During the drive to the cafe, you change in the backseat into a simple black sweater, blue jeans, and your battered white sneakers. The familiar clothing is an immediate comfort, yet you continue to avoid looking at your deathlike face and dishevelled hair in any kind of reflective surface. As the promise of a hot beverage becomes ever closer, both you and Hoseok slowly gain more life. Yet the car remains to be swamped by an unpleasant lack of conversation, which is unusual for your gossipy trio. The radio is blaring so loudly that none of you would be able to hear each other if you tried, anyway.

It is not until the three of you have arrived at the cafe, ordered, and received those aforementioned orders that the silence finally begins to crack. A sigh passing through your lips acts as the key to the gateway of conversation.

“Look, I’m really sorry–”

“Apology accepted. We all make mistakes. Now,” Minah immediately cuts you off, her interests clearly residing elsewhere. Nonetheless, your mouth hangs open and she reaches across the table to lift your chin and shut it. “If you could be so kind as to tell me what one, fine Min Yoongi meant when he said the old days…?”

You nearly choke on your sip of iced Americano at the question. Hoseok, looking at least ten times more alive than he was in the car now that he has half of a latte in his stomach, jerks back in surprise. His eyes bore into Minah.

“What?” Hoseok says, completely aghast. His eyes slide over to you, bulging out of their sockets. “What? Excuse me. What the fuck happened while I was teetering on the cusp of death?”

With your knuckles digging into your eyes, you mutter, “Min fucking Yoongi, that bastard–”

“Yes, that bastard,” Minah helpfully coaxes you, leaning across the table to stick her face in your own, behaving like an interrogator trying to get a criminal to confess. “What old days did you have with that beautiful bastard?”

“We were…” you trail off, feeling years worth of bile rising in your throat, clogging up your airway. You close your eyes and bury your face further into your palms, elbows propping you up against the table, lips pressing against the heels so that both Minah and Hoseok have to lean further in to catch your mumble of, “Befthfnriens.”

There is a moment of confused silence. Then, Hoseok tersely says, “What?”

Swallowing the bitter taste that now touches the back of your tongue, you push yourself away from your cage of skin and knuckles and instead wrap them around the disposable cup. There, exposed, you finally open your eyes and let them burn holes into your drink. Anywhere but the faces of your two friends when you whisper, “Best friends.”

Minah nearly shrieks, “You and Min Yoongi were what?”

The café bustles too loudly, and you wish that you were the block of ice in your cold Americano. Blending into the surroundings; melting away into nothingness. You prod the cube with the end of your straw, gradually putting more force behind the blows until the ice is shooting down to the bottom of the plastic cup and then dejectedly floating back to the surface. Minah snaps her fingers, and you lethargically look up, feeling well and truly dead inside in comparison to the animated, wide-eyed expressions that she and Hoseok currently sport.

The big hand ticks into the third minute since the inquisition began. A sigh heaves from your lungs, and you return to murdering the ice cube.

“Do I really have to repeat myself? Again?”

Minah does not even blink. “Yes, and this time, a thorough, essay-worthy argument to support your thesis is required. Because what the fuck.”

You take a sip from the iced coffee, feel the chill slip down the walls of your throat. Although you wish you could physically project your being into any other location than here, you say, “Up until the end of high school, Yoongi and I were–” A cringe, not because of the title, but the fact that it is half a lie when you spit out– “Best friends.” Another sigh; another gulp of ice cold. “Our dad’s knew each other before we were born, so we grew up together. As kids, we shared a lot of interests, and our friendship developed from there. But once we started high school, we just drifted apart because we were both busy with our sports. The hatred grew with the natural rivalry between figure skaters and ice hockey players, I guess.”

You wonder if you cannot outright tell them that Yoongi ruined your chance at becoming a star because you are not so sure if you believe such a sentiment anymore.

“Sounds like bullshit, but okay,” Hoseok deadpans, and you automatically recoil. Minah, on the other hand, socks him in the shoulder, to which he yelps so loudly that the guy at the cashier glares at him.

“How does that sound like bullshit?” she says in your defence, crossing her arms and scowling. “It sounds completely reasonable to me.”

“I don’t know. I mean, it feels like there’s something missing,” Hoseok winces, dramatically cradling his wounded shoulder. He averts his gaze from his attacker to you, eyes narrowing a fraction. “To be best friends and then hate each other so much over a ‘natural rivalry’ sounds too fishy. Was there like, a fight or something?”

“Well, yeah,” you sigh, flicking the tip of your straw with your nail. Technically, it is the truth, even if the fall-out was over something completely different to what you say. “But it was the rivalry that caused the fight. We had a huge argument over not being able to hang out because of training, which then lead to insulting each others’ sports, among other things. It was petty and stupid. But we were only teenagers at the time, and we were already under loads of pressure with our intense training, and with getting good grades to graduate high school. So the fight was the last straw, y’know. We didn’t talk again after that, nor forgave each other, and it’s stayed that way ever since.”

Sometimes, you terrify yourself with how effortlessly you can craft a lie when put on the spot. An awful habit that nobody should be proud of.

Hoseok watches you for a moment longer before nodding slowly and leaning back in his chair, seemingly satisfied with your explanation. “Alright, fair enough.”

“Ugh, you can be such an ass sometimes. Why would you make ___ relive such a sad period of her life? Do you feel validated now?” Minah huffs after knocking back the last of her mango smoothie. Immediately, she and Hoseok launch into a round of pointless bickering, and you safely return to your silent sipping.

The topic of Yoongi ceases to be brought up again. For that, you are more grateful than the two of them could ever comprehend. But when you finally get back to the apartment and turn the shower on steaming hot, letting it scald your skin, you cannot help but think. You angle your face up at the shower head, let the mascara dissolve and stream down your cheeks, feel the day-old lipstick becomes chalky, and think.

Min Yoongi. The boy you used to know who still smells like candle wax and cinnamon. The intimate look in his eyes before he said he did not help you, did not do anything at all, last night.

Lying may not be a talent to be proud of. But at least you are not the only one who has refined it.

The atmosphere of his bedroom is discomposed. The sunlight that filters inside the stuffy space outlines the shape of her body where it has been carved out by the creases on the mattress. The sheets incline and decline like a small mountain range—an imprint of her presence. Yoongi stands at the centre of the room, slowly suffocating on his own breath, eyes boring into the lingering remnant of her existence that haunts him like a restless spirit. The hills and slopes in his bed. Her, entirely.

Yoongi did not dare to tell her that, last night, he carried her limp form across the grassy accommodation courtyard once the taxi had pulled up to the curb. Tucked safely into his chest, murmuring nonsensical sentences against his collarbone. He refused to let her know that he held her chin as he tipped nearly a litre of water past her lips over a span of three glassfuls; that he rubbed between her shoulder blades and gingerly held back her hair while she vomited in the bathroom sink; that he gave her the sweater to change into. And most definitely, he never hinted that she stumbled quietly into the living room while he was draping the couch-come-makeshift-bed in a quilt, clutching at his wrist and entreating him to stay by her side while she fell asleep.

An utter fool, he had obliged without question. Perched on the edge of the mattress, he drew soothing patterns over the back of her hand for the scarce minutes that it took her to drift off. Even then, he had remained much longer than necessary to gaze at the soft pout of her lips, the delicate feathering of her splayed eyelashes, the moonlight accentuating the youthful innocence that only sleep can ever conjure.

No, she did not deserve that kind of knowledge. That glorious victory hanging over his head in an upper-hand that she could use against him in the future.

Now, his knees tremble and he feels pathetic. An utterly despicable excuse for a human being with the sweater of his that she was wearing bunched up in his fists and clutched to his chest like a lifeline. Their smells kiss with tongues in the maroon threads; the colour of her blood. Yoongi knows this because he has seen it with his own two eyes against frozen white. Tinted silvery blue by the shadows of midnight draped across the sky, studded at the centre by the full moon in all of its might.

The thin film coating Yoongi’s unblinking eyes dries into a delicate crust. He knows why she would not have told her friends about the two of them, and yet, he cannot help but wonder. Is she really so terrified of her own vulnerability? Of being cracked open like a fault line splitting the earth, allowing those standing by to peek at the gory innards? Perhaps, it is because she already understands how it feels; the sensation of flesh slicing open, of cells pulling apart to allow the bone to cut through and be exposed to the still, icy air. She has known such pain all too well, so she folds it like origami until it can fit in the thin crack between her fibula and talus, and she lives as though she was never once hurt.

Yoongi watches the dust motes glacially glide through the sunlight, basking in the warm honey of it and landing upon the mountains that she rose amongst his bed sheets. There, with the blood-soaked sweater pressed against his thrumming heartbeat, with her tone of malice remaining to be a sticky syrup in his ear, the realisation surrounds and embraces him. He had believed he understood this entire time, and yet, he had always been beyond far off the mark. He knows this now because of the ghost of her figure atop his mattress. He understands why she pushes him away with all her might; with all the breath in her lungs. He understands why her body folds inward, smaller, like origami to hide in the spaces between bones, when she sees his face.

Yoongi has cracked her open once, and he is not afraid to do it twice. This time, for the right reasons. This time, with his eyes wide open.

Yoongi begins appearing wherever you go. Like the black plague.

Despite the hostility he had exuded before you departed his apartment after that evening, the guy has been nothing but a picture of perfect juxtaposition over the following two weeks. He wears a grin that is neither snarky, nor cocky, and it haunts your every move. Whether you are standing in line at the campus cafeteria, or rushing down the hallways to make it to training after one of your classes, or shopping at the nearby supermarket that is frequented by all of the campus residents for snacks. No matter the location, the bane of your existence has managed to announce his passing presence through a peripheral glimpse of a peculiar curve of lips. A smile that is so fleeting, so sincere, that you find yourself wondering for hours afterwards if you had merely imagined it, or even falsely fantasised that he was there in the first place.

So really, at this point, you are reasonably terrified that you might wake up in the middle of the night due to the demands of your bladder, and find Min Yoongi standing beside your bed, grinning down at you like an ultimately more horrifying remake of Paranormal Activity.

But although he has been popping in and out of existence like a spectre, and your guard is now automatically activated the instant you leave your flat, you foolishly allow yourself a moment of relaxation in a situation deemed high risk. That is, in public, as you tiredly stroll from one of your classes to the stadium.

Night-time has begun to stretch across the sky in a pink and orange sunset, looking like smears of bleeding watercolour. A threat of clouds dwells in the distant horizon, opposite to the direction that you walk, hinting at a late-night storm that crackles with lightning and draws goosebumps along your arms. Not many students are out. Those who are seem to be heading home from their training, or speedily rushing along to their evening lectures. At this time of day on a Friday, the chances of the rink being empty and you being able to get in without a booking slip tends to be high, and so you decided to save time by skipping out on stopping by the office to collect one altogether.

After a strenuous afternoon of classes, you are too exhausted to second-guess the nearing tap-tap of sneakers against the pavement. It sounds similar to a light jog, as though the person is warming down from their afternoon exercise, or perhaps heating themselves up to evade the chilly air. They are quick to gain on you with the slow trudge that you currently enact, and you mentally anticipate the mild shock that will fizzle through your blood at the sudden intrusion of a being in your periphery; the slight breeze that will come with their passing by…

Except they never do.

“Hey, ___!”

A shriek of surprise involuntarily escapes your lungs, and you are certain that your soul has been startled out of your body. “What the fuck?!”

“Normally, people say hello back,” Yoongi, who has materialised beside you, sniffs wetly. His breath comes out slightly ragged, concluding that he is the mystery jogger, much to your utter displeasure. “Or how are you?”

You purposefully take a step to the side, putting distance between your parka-bundled, sports-bag-loaded bodies, and venomously bite back with, “No, I genuinely mean what the fuck. Were you hoping for me to have a heart attack?!” With that said, you continue to walk ahead, taking deep breaths to calm yourself down. Yoongi, like a puppy waiting for a scratch behind its ear, eagerly follows. You whip your head to the side and glare at him. “Stop. Why are you walking with me? Go away.”

He sniffs again, ignoring your demand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. Besides, I’m not walking with you. I just happen to be walking beside you since we’re both going in the same direction.”

“You literally jogged to catch up to me,” you deadpan, quickening your pace and praying that he gets the message loud and clear. But Yoongi, as always, is not one to accept defeat so easily.

“Actually, I was getting my blood circulation going to keep warm, but whatever you want to think,” he says with the sly smirk of a liar, and your entire body boils with barely suppressed rage. “So… how’s life treating you?”

You stop dead in your tracks, and wish to beat the sense out of whatever it is that briefly flutters in your chest at his soft, casual tone. “Yoongi, don’t act like you care. Do you want me to apologise for that night at the party? Is that why you’ve been acting like Casper the Friendly Ghost for the past two weeks?”

Yoongi, having trailed a few steps ahead after your abrupt halt, twists on his heel to face you. His expression, despite its playful facade, is otherwise unreadable. “Hey, no. I don’t care about that. I’m only doing this for the sake of our coaches who want to dick each other.” His brow furrows. “They have a point, you know. Time heals all wounds.”

“But I’ve got the scar to prove it,” you snap, taking off again, and Yoongi visibly flinches as if you slapped him. Although you are the inflicter, you cannot help the cold sliver of guilt that slides down your spine at the remark. There is a poisonous taste on the tip of your tongue, even after the words have dissipated with a cloud of mist at your lips.

But it seems that even words in the shape of a blade cannot cut through his thick skin, nor deter him from any semblance of hope. Long used to years of your bitterness. Yoongi’s resilience remains as stable as a wall of iron, and is further proven when you can hear feet catching up with you again. His voice, right beside you once more, casually asks, “Are you mean all the time, or is that anger only directed at me?”

You press your lips into a firm line to prevent the small smile that threatens to curl them. “You’re certainly a catalyst.” The cold skin of your face heats up when you quickly glance out the side of your eye and notice that Yoongi’s gaze is fixed on you, hardly paying attention to where he steps. “Anyway, how in the world is walking together doing it for their sake? They’re not around to see us.”

“Maybe, but word spreads fast. Our rivalry is infamous on this campus, after all. Check it out,” Yoongi says, and you look up, but not without a brief side-eye at him in order to see where his stare is directed.

Following his gaze, it lands upon two girls walking on the opposite side of the thin trees that separate the massive path, brazenly watching the unlikely pair across from them. No, more so, they stare as though they have come upon a sight so rare and astounding that they can hardly tear their eyes from it—like you and Yoongi are aliens walking without their disguises. When the both of them realise that the two of you have taken notice of their observations, they make a fuss of panicked screeches and grab each other to tailwind it out of there.

A small missile of unease and insecurity implodes within your stomach, causing you to scowl. You are not entirely sure what creates the twist. Perhaps, being observed like an exotic zoo animal by strangers who know no better. Perhaps, walking so closely alongside the bane of your existence that your senses are tantalised by the cinnamon whiff of his cologne. Perhaps, agreeing with his sentiment. Wounds, no matter how ugly, can heal.

What you are certain about is that you need to get away from him before the foreign, virulent twinge in your chest blooms into something dangerous. Something unmanageable.

“Cool, and now they’ve seen us, so you can go,” you firmly state, curling your fingers tightly around your bag strap and picking up the pace again. “I have more important things to do than deal with your headache-inducing presence.” The arena, your escape, now resides no more than thirty metres away, and you determinedly stride towards it.

Yoongi, for what must be the third time, effortlessly catches up with you. Damn his longer legs to Satan’s fiery den. “Do you, now? Where are you headed?”

“The stadium.”

“Oh, me too. For what?”

Apparently, a lot of mental energy is required to will him the fuck away. “Practice,” you growl.

“Me–” The tail end of Yoongi’s sentence is completely severed by his mouth snapping shut. Right there, the realisation swiftly dawns as you both come to a standstill, staring roundly at each other in the middle of the pathway. “Do you have a booking slip?”

The moment of hesitation is infinitesimal. Then, the both of you are charging at the speed of two wild and voracious cheetahs in the direction of the arena.

“No! Don’t – you – dare!” you screech, arms pumping at your sides and sneakers smacking hard against the pavement, desperately attempting to catch up to Yoongi, who managed to take off a half-second before you. “I need to practice, asshole!”

Yoongi, almost at the stadium stairs, barks a sharp laugh. “We all have to practice!” he shouts back in a high-pitched voice. Immediately, you realise he is mimicking you from the time you dismissed his missing booking slip, and your blood reaches boiling point. “Cry to somebody who cares!”

An exasperated scream rips out of your chest, driving you to push your legs harder and finally reach Yoongi’s side, just as he is about to take to the first step. But before you can even reach for the collar of his parka to yank him behind you, Yoongi is whirling on his heel and, at a frightening speed, wrapping his arm around your waist and effortlessly lifting you from the ground. There is hardly a second for your brain to process what is occurring and ultimately conjure a shriek, because as quickly as the Devil sweeps you and your sports bag up, he is ungraciously depositing you in the shrubbery that lines the pathway before taking off again.

“First in, first served. Suck it, doll!” Yoongi crows from halfway up the stairs, all the while you spit profanities and struggle to wriggle your way out of the bush. By the time you have found your feet, the bastard is grinning and giving you two middle-finger salutes from the top of the stairs. Then, he is slipping through the sliding doors of the stadium entrance. Shit, shit, shit!

“You’re an idiot, ___,” you loudly curse yourself, partially out of breath as you hastily scale the steps, and not giving a single damn if anyone can hear you. “Who cares if you have to waste an extra ten minutes and walk to the other side of campus! Always get a slip, dumbass!”

Once you pass through the doors and realise that Yoongi has already crossed the foyer and entered the ice rink, you slow down your pace, despaired. Frankly, you feel more irritated at yourself for being too lazy to get a booking slip, which has clearly made you pay the price and lost you a bonus three hours of evening training. The fact that the extra time was missed out on because of Yoongi, of all people, has you inwardly brewing a storm, no matter that you already did your required five hours per day this morning.

Well, that is until he comes bursting out of the double-doors that lead to the arena, causing your heart to stutter in its otherwise fluid pattern of beating. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if the weird kindness he has been exhibiting to you lately has caused him to turn over a new leaf of consideration, and he has come out to let you have the slot. But that peculiar sense of hope fades once you realise his features appear utterly disgruntled.

Thus, with the bitchiest smirk that you can humanly muster in your deathly exhausted state, you ask, “What? Did somebody beat you to the punch?”

Yoongi comes to a halt a few feet before you, and the wicked curve of your mouth involuntarily shrinks. His sharp, dark eyebrows are narrowed in a scowl, and you stupidly have to force your stare at the linoleum in order to stop yourself from gulping at the fierce, stomach-sinking sight.

“The Zamboni broke down in the middle of the rink,” he says, evidently annoyed. “By the look of things, they won’t be able to resurface the ice or get the shitty thing off it until tomorrow.”

Not one to directly trust the words of Satan himself without blatant evidence, you navigate around him and head towards the double-doors. Sure enough, when you peek through them, it is to see a motionless Zamboni near the centre of the half-resurfaced ice rink. Two maintenance men skate around the vehicle, seemingly trying to figure out why it has broken down, and how on Earth to fix it.

Letting the doors swing shut, you state a disinterested, “That sucks.” Then, without sparing a glance at Yoongi as a safety precaution for your double-crossing heart, you brush past him and head back towards the stadium entrance. Because if you were not going to be training on the ice tonight, then you were most definitely rescheduling your date with your plush, cosy bed to approximately 15 minutes from now.

“Hey, wait.”

Your feet turn to stone, anchoring you in place. In that instant, if the manner in which it bounds at the sound of his soft tone is anything to go by, you confirm that your heart is a traitor.

Not expecting you to twist around, Yoongi, instead, comes up to your side and roots himself between you and the exit. A terrible sincerity is laced around those two words, and they bring forth a deluge of similar instances where they have left his lips. From across a sun-warmed playground as a shaved ice van pulled into the parking lot; to racing after the bus on the first day back at middle school; to underneath a streetlight with a hand curled securely around your wrist, Yoongi hesitantly leaning in.

The Min Yoongi who stands before you now is so different, and yet entirely the same. It nearly breaks your heart all over again.

“Let’s go to a pojangmacha,” he insists, rubbing the back of his hand against his wet nose. An old habit that vaguely soothes your inner conflict and your surface irritation. “There’s one close to campus that does the best tteokbokki–”

“I can’t– I don’t want to,” you sigh, anxiously chewing the inside of your cheek at the slip-up. You shift your gaze away from Yoongi’s eyes, absently staring at the empty kiosk across the foyer instead. “I have nationals coming up. I’m on a strict diet.”

“Well, isn’t that the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” Yoongi says, surprisingly genuine. I can think of one thing sadder, skims your tongue, but does not escape. Before you can part your lips to reply, Yoongi continues to say, “One night won’t hurt though, right? For Seokjin and Namjoon, of course, to prove to them that we can be civil. That’s it.”

Your gaze drags back to Yoongi, and you can feel your pulse thumping in your ears. His mussed, midnight hair is windswept from the frantic running, fringe in a slightly pushed-back disarray. The peaks of his cheeks are still flushed in a soft, rosy shade that makes him glow underneath the fluorescent lighting. His expression borders on being somewhat tender, vividly akin to the one that he used to save for nobody but you, yet not quite. It is guarded by glass walls; allowing you to observe, though protecting him from your touch.

But your fists have been known to shatter.

“Fine,” you huff, your stare unwavering. “For the coaches. But you’re buying.”

When Yoongi breaks out into a grin, looking like everything you have tried so hard to forget, you ignore the voice at the back of your mind that begs to differ.

Yoongi knows he should despise how utterly excited he feels. Yet there he is, feeling the kind of descending-rollercoaster-rush of exhilaration that he gets in his gut when the game is tied with 30 seconds left on the clock.

The entire 15-minute walk to the pojangmacha is submerged in a dense silence, though he hardly minds. Knowing that she is keeping up to pace beside him—despite the scowl that appears permanently etched into her features—is enough to satisfy his urge to be near her for the time being. Even so, he keeps glancing out the side of his eye to make sure that she is still there. To be absolutely positive that she is not some incredibly lucid figment of his imagination which, given the circumstances, would been highly concerning.

In fact, Yoongi is still struggling to believe that she even agreed to such an absurd offer of a stir-fried dinner on a chilly Friday evening. With him. Especially since she is on a diet for a figure-skating competition, which is something that she takes very seriously. Always, when it comes down to anything that involves her sport. Her future Olympic career.

What he really cannot fathom is that she accepted on the basis of such a flimsy excuse. Given their recent history, it was wholly unnatural on her part. She must have been able to see right through the “for the coaches” facade and caught wind of his genuine desire to sit down and talk civilly with her. Because surely, there must have been better options for her to schedule into her agenda. Like burrito-ing herself with bed blankets, cramming a bland salad down her throat, and bingeing on Netflix.

So, is this a subtle sign of peace? Or is she merely hoping that if she sacrifices the next handful of hours to his overly eager grasp, he may, perhaps, cease annoying her to the end of her wits?

Yoongi, as per usual, is as clueless as a fucking goldfish. Yet knowing that he will have the chance tonight to speak at least two sensible words to her—ones that are not founded on a pointless argument or a five-year rivalry—has him trying to compose that rollercoaster sensation all over again.

Once they turn the final street corner, the orange tent comes into existence through its bustling appearance and mouth-watering aromas. She, with her lips still clamped shut, strides right ahead and through the open flaps of the entrance. Yoongi, teeth grinding to powder, is tempted to fling an insult at her for her blatant rudeness. Instead, he channels that negative energy into propelling his legs forward, following her.

Determinedly, she weaves through the busy stall and picks a table in the far corner without so much as a glance back at Yoongi. So obviously attempting to project her lack of care for him and this entire situation. Without warning, a hopeless grin itches at Yoongi’s lips.

“Hungry, are we?” he says once he is back within her proximity, dropping his sports bag beside his seat and shrugging off his parka as she does with her own. Underneath, she wears a black, form-fitting long-sleeve. He hastily casts his gaze elsewhere before she tries to call out the pink flush on his cheeks for him being perverted.

“Yes, but I also want to get this over and done with as swiftly as possible,” she grouses, tossing her jacket over the stool and then plunking herself atop it.

Yoongi proceeds in doing the same, but not without retrieving his soon-to-be-withered wallet from the parka pocket. “If you eat too fast, you’ll get stomach cramps.”

“I’ve mastered the art of speed-eating, I’ve got this,” she sneers, leaning towards the makeshift kitchen to better penetrate the constant, chattering hum of the other patrons with her calling voice. “Can I please get one serve of tteokbokki and two bottles of soju?” Without turning to face him, her eyes slide to the side, meeting his own. “That’s only for me, by the way.”

Swiftly as possible. Right.

“I thought you were on a diet.”

“Yeah, I’m actually ‘Min Yoongi intolerant’ and the diet’s been working until, well, right now.”

“Ha! She says to the Min Yoongi who is paying for her meal,” he bites back sarcastically, though the words lack any poison.

At that, her mouth slowly seals shut, eyes narrowing at him in barely accepted defeat. Triumphantly, Yoongi smirks, and then calls out the same order to the little old lady. Within minutes, the steaming hot food and bottles of alcohol are being served to them, and Yoongi is reluctantly saying goodbye to the very few bills in his wallet. He takes a healthy swig of bitter soju to numb the pain.

“Calm down, cowboy. I don’t want to be dragging you back to campus,” she comments, skewering a piece of tteokbokki and blowing away the steam. Her pursed, plush lips glisten as they nibble at the stir-fried food. Yoongi takes another swig to spite her and to distract himself from the tantalising view.

“The fact that you wouldn’t just leave me here to fend for myself is commendable,” he says, raising an eyebrow. He similarly picks at the food, while she realises what she has said with mild horror. “Besides, you were the one who ordered two bottles first. Who’s to say that I won’t be dragging your ass back to campus?”

“I’ve come to terms with the fact that I can somewhat stomach your presence when I’m tipsy,” she clarifies. “And that’s as far as I’ll be going tonight. The last time I got drunk, I woke up in your bed without a single memory of what happened the night before. Pervert.”

Yoongi blinks, completely ignoring her last comment. “You can drink two whole bottles of soju and only be tipsy?” He ungraciously shoves two pieces of steaming tteokbokki into his mouth, stuffing them into his cheeks so he can continue speaking. “I always thought you’d be a lightweight. Yet here you are, proving me wrong.”

“And I always thought you’d grow out of being a pain in my ass, yet here you are,” she sighs, taking a swig of alcohol to try and conceal the tender smile that crawls at the corners of her lips. But Yoongi is too hyperaware of every slight shift in her expression to miss it.

“Admit it, I’m a pain that you can’t live without,” Yoongi says, staring right at her. He can see in her curious eyes that she senses the underlying venom. Yet, instead of acting on it, she rests the rim of her already refilled glass against her lower lip.

“I’m not giving you that glory, Min Yoongi,” she says, though it is practically an admission in itself. She knocks back the soju, and Yoongi follows in suit. Two souls numbing an agony that is still too unbearable to even whisper.

Their voices momentarily subdue and they focus on eating their servings of tteokbokki. Yoongi feels a little ridiculous to be so thrilled about doing something as mundane as eating with her, especially now that the conversation has dialled down to nothing more than chewing and sipping. Every so often, he will glance up at her as he mindlessly brings his chopsticks to his lips with more food pinched between them. Behind her, the orange canvas trembles with each caress of the wind outside. The buttery glow of the tent lights, the eye-watering haze from the food cooking in an enclosed space—they smear the outline of her, turning her into a nebulous, dreamlike being that slowly, silently eats.

Maybe the alcohol is contributing to the warming of his insides and the softening of his muscles like sun-touched clay, but he knows deep in his gut that it is mainly because of her. This sensation is no foreign entity; it never has been. It is as familiar as her eyes, watching him with misplaced contempt.

Yoongi, in a somewhat morbid sense, finds it ironic that the one thing they loved the most—the ice—ended up wrenching them apart, like the strength of a current upon a ship in savage seas.

With the ice on his mind, Yoongi cuts through the silence with a question. Akin to her, he is on his second bottle of soju, and so his words slip from his tongue like liquid. “Are you nervous for your competition?”

Her own voice drizzles honey-like from her lips. “I mean, of course. Who isn’t nervous about them?” She leans her elbow on the table and rests her cheek against her palm, blinking slowly. Brave eyes are set on his face. A hopeless war stirs chaos inside of his heart. “But I’m confident and free-skating is my forte, so I know I’ll do good, at the very least. My only issue is that Seokjin wants me to execute a quad-Salchow, which has only ever been done by Miki Ando in like, 2002. It’s a guaranteed ticket to the 2022 Winter Olympics. But if I fuck it up, I probably won’t get the spot. I don’t know why he’s insisting I do such a risky move, even though I’m coming pretty close to landing it, now.”

Yoongi’s brow pinches. “Four rotations? Wasn’t that Seokjin’s gold medal move?”

Her brows raise in bewilderment as she grabs for her soju bottle. “How did you know that?”

“Namjoon, of course,” Yoongi grins, and she hastily looks away, suddenly focusing on pouring her nth glass of alcohol. He decides to not call her out on it; the idea of her being flustered over his smile is something he wants to savour. “Anyways, I’m sure you’ll land it and the crowd will go fucking crazy because you’re the second woman to complete the move. You’ll do it again in 2022 for the whole world to see, and then you’ll become an icon in the history of figure-skating.”

Carefully, she sips from her glass, gaze focused on the wet ring of condensation that the cold bottle has left on the plastic-covered table. “Do you really mean that?”

“Well, you’re not called the Ice Princess just because you’re an asshole.”

She does not say thank you. But her glassy eyes, in the fleeting second that they meet his own before she tips the last of the liquid down her throat, are brimming with foreign appreciation.

After making a satisfied exhalation and wiping her mouth against the back of her hand, she says, “When’s your semi-final game? And before you ask how I know, it’s because your team never shuts up about in the cafeteria. I hope you realise I had to sit through five team chants while eating my beans this week, which made them taste even more awful than they already are.”

Yoongi gets sheepish about that, rubbing his thighs with his palms. “Yeah, they like to amp themselves up when a game is near. It’s tomorrow afternoon.”

The way her eyes bulge is comical, and Yoongi has to bite his tongue to stop himself from laughing. “What?! Shouldn’t you be practicing?! And you’re even drinking, what the hell!”

He shrugs. “I don’t like the other rinks on campus. That’s why I looked pissed off about the broken-down Zamboni, if you noticed.” He knows she noticed—he had clearly seen the victorious smirk on her lips when he had stormed out of the rink. “Namjoon always advises against practicing the night before a game, anyway. There’s nothing worse than having to deal with last-minute injuries, especially for any of the prelim rounds. As for drinking–” He polishes off his soju for emphasis, sealing it with a grin– “I wasn’t about to let you outshine my alcohol tolerance. If we lose tomorrow because of my shitty performance, I can at least blame it on you.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” she deadpans, though the corner of her mouth trembles with barely suppressed humour. Blaming each other for their own mistakes is something they have always done best.

Yet Yoongi, strung in this limbo between tipsy and drunk, wants to lean across the table and taste her swallowed laughter on his own lips. To be fair, she would probably slap him. Surely, she would.

Right?

Yoongi chews his desire and gulps it down. Instead of taking her face between his palms and kissing her until his tongue knows the precise shape of her lips again, he says, “You should come watch us play.”

“Don’t push your luck, Yoongi,” she says, and he smothers the small flame of hope that had unknowingly lit up inside of him. After checking the hour on her horribly cracked phone screen, she sighs. “Are you done eating? It’s getting late.”

“Yeah, let’s go.” Though as she begins to stand up from her seat, Yoongi stops her, eyes still lingering on the shattered glass that is lightning-like. “Wait, I just had an idea. To prove to the coaches that we hung out…”

When she endearingly tilts her head to the side like a curious puppy, Yoongi forces himself to not jump across the table and connect their mouths. He points at her phone on the table and continues on. “We could… take a selfie?”

He knows he sounds ridiculously unsure, but it is only because he is certain she will shut him down as quick as she did with the game-watching offer. So Yoongi is more than surprised when, after a silent pause of her chewing her lip and frowning at her phone, she shrugs. Though her nose is wrinkled with what appears to be mild displeasure.

“Uh– Yeah. Okay. Fine, yeah,” she rambles, sitting back down and pushing her hair away from her face. “But we’ll have to take it on your phone. My front-facing camera has a crack through it and it distorts the photos.”

“Oh, so that’s why you haven’t been posting any selfies to Instagram lately,” Yoongi mutters under his breath as he grabs his own phone and stands up.

“What?”

“What? Scoot over.”

Grudgingly, she obliges, pushing her seat back from the table to make room. Yoongi pulls the third, unused stool out from underneath the table, places it next to her own and sits on it. This close, her floral-scented deodorant lingers lightly in the air, and Yoongi subconsciously takes a deep inhale as he opens up the Snow camera app.

“Can’t we do it without a filter?” she says with a tinge of vexation, peering at his unblemished screen as he swipes through the different face-filters. “Hurry up.”

“Do you really think you look pretty without filters?” Yoongi lies through his teeth, and she socks him hard in the bicep for it. Her fist might be small, but her knuckles manage to dig into a weak point of his muscle, making him groan.

Knowing him, he will dote on the bruise she has made until it turns yellow as a durian.

“Fucking hell, ___,” he still grunts, finally deciding on a filter with a press of his thumb. He lifts his hand before their faces. “Here we– Hey, you’re going to have to lean in so the filter recognises you.”

“What even is the–” She cuts herself off mid-sentence when she leans a little closer and the filter attaches itself to her face, matching Yoongi. He is full-blown grinning by this stage, juxtaposing the way she frowns and presses her lips together, as if she is trying to not laugh. “Fucking heart crowns? Are you serious?”

“We’ve got to be convincing,” Yoongi says with an air of nonchalance. He cannot stop staring at her through the screen, nor will his mouth cease curving at the cartoonish pink hearts that dance around her head. “Don’t you want to make it worth it?”

“Oh my god, shut up and take the damn photo.”

“Calm your ass down. Annnd… smile!”

She absolutely does not smile. Her death glare pierces through the camera lens with an intent to murder, yet it is terrifyingly cute when paired with the little crown of hearts and the soft, rosy tinge of the filter. Yoongi nudges her elbow with his own as a means of firm encouragement, though all he can manage to weasel out of her is a half-hearted tilt of her lips.

Still, he grins wide and genuine and presses the little white circle once, and then a few more times for good measure. The shutter sound rings above the sizzling of fried food and the continuous drone of chatter within the tent. Satisfied, Yoongi drops his hand and bends his head over the phone, entering the photo album and clicking the last of the six-or-so identical images. When the preview image expands to fill the screen, air becomes locked in his throat.

“Hey, let me see,” she mumbles, her silk-like voice nearing as she leans closer to view the device. Yoongi, without peeling his eyes away from the photo, tips the phone in her direction.

He hears the air suck between her teeth; a blackhole inhaling the stars. He knows that she sees it, and he wonders if it crushes her ribs like the blows of swinging fists.

While she does not smile at her utmost potential in the photo, the mirth lingers on her mouth and lightens her soju-sparkled eyes. Her head is tilted closer than Yoongi first realised—almost close enough to be pressed against his own; close enough that their individual heart crowns overlap. In the past, they had taken hundreds of photos in this precise position. The only difference is that there would be arms curled affectionately around necks, and their cheeks would be unabashedly flush against each other.

But staring at this image of them now, it is like a brutal documentation of their reality. It reminds him of everything they lost—of what they could of been, had that incident never occurred. Although the image depicts her hovering close by, the blatant evasion of any physical contact is stark—a black smudge on an otherwise perfectly white canvas.

A deep, unsuspecting crack on the surface of an otherwise perfectly frozen lake.

Yoongi’s throat suddenly feels bruised and swollen.

“Can you send it to me?” she quietly asks, breaking the tension that has been steadily hardening in their chests. Newfound velvet wraps around her tone, softening the syllables. “S-So I can send it to Seokjin–”

She stops when Yoongi drags his eyes away from the photo for the first time since opening it, only to look at her and realise how near their faces have become to one another.

Yoongi knows that his expression must be twisted into one of remembrance—of pure tragedy. The photo unlocked a gate that he has kept under tight security ever since that day, and he feels each of those memories anew. A scarred wound that has opened again, riper than ever. This close, her sad eyes are swallowed with pity and spite and something else that he refuses to cultivate hope for.

It was only two weeks ago that he was this close to her, hidden between the shadows, sweetness on his tongue, red and blue lights dancing in a taunt on the walls. Yet, even now in a soberer state, he cannot decide where to rest his eyes—choosing to let them flicker between her nose, eyes, and the small opening of her parted lips. Not knowing when he will get to be this close to her again.

I’ve missed you, he remembers her whispering while she was dressed like an angel, submerged beneath a sea of intoxication. I’ve really missed you so much, Yoongi.

Yoongi’s eyes settle, at last, on her mouth. The flesh glimmers, plump and begging. He has no idea how many years it has been since he felt it melt into his own, all innocent and empathetic with young love. He can sense her testing him in the way that she does not move away—how the tip of her tongue snakes between her lips, wetting them in tantalising preparation.

But I can’t apologise, no matter how unbearable this has been.

Yoongi, in an effort more strenuous than he lets on, looks away. Though he cannot ignore the cold blade that carves her initials into his heart.

“Yeah. What’s your number?” Yoongi says the question as though he did not confess his undying love for her, solely through the look in his eyes. As though he was not about to kiss her with freshly harvested apologies and offer the bouquets of repentance with his tongue, tied at the thorn-ridden stems with urgent forgiveness.

Quieter than she had first asked, she rattles off the numbers and he presses at the keyboard with shaky fingertips. All the while, a tiny voice in the back of his mind makes him realise that he now has her phone number—something he has not had stored in his contacts since his old phone was wiped at least three years ago. He clicks the ‘send’ button, and her phone proceeds to vibrate in two quick pulses on the table. By the time she is reaching for the device to open the message and save the photo, Yoongi is standing and gathering up his parka, sliding his arms through the sleeves.

“Come on,” he says with a sigh, wedging his phone into his sweatpants pocket and slinging the strap of his sports bag over his shoulder. She, having been staring at her phone screen since he moved, suddenly snaps out of her silent daze and gathers her belongings.

The walk home, much alike to the walk there, is silent. Though rather than it being weighed down by her indignation and his stifled amusement, it is suffocated by unspoken confessions and dithering apologies. Yoongi cannot get the sight of her lips out of his mind, and he is somewhat glad that he no longer faces her, for the temptation of them being right before him like a forbidden fruit dangling from a low-hanging branch is too much.

He knew that cracking her open and digging through her bones for his vindication would not be a clean task. He knew that he would be up to his wrists in blood and the gore would tuck itself beneath his nails. He just never realised how completely in love with her he still is—that this vying for first place on who can hate the other the most was never about hate at all.

The part that eats at him the most is whether the feelings are requited. But, as always, she hides herself well behind her mask of ice.

After becoming used to the rhythm of their sneakers against the pavement, her shaky exhalation is like an air horn violating his hearing. Yoongi’s head snaps to the side, initially thinking that she is crying. Though when he sees that no silver stains her cheeks and her jaw quivers uncontrollably, he recognises the signs. A welcome familiarity amidst the foreign, yet oh-so familiar feelings they traverse.

“Your teeth are chattering.” Yoongi says, and she glances at him with a surprised jump of her shoulders. “Are you still prone to the cold?”

“N-No, I’m fine,” she bluntly insists, averting her eyes and continuing to stride ahead.

But Yoongi is faster, grabbing at her elbow and twirling her freezing—and now flustered—self around to face him again. “Nope. This won’t do.”

“D-Don’t be ridiculous,” she sputters, but Yoongi is not having it. He drops his bag to the sidewalk with a heavy clunk, shucks off his parka, and wraps it around her already padded shoulders and the sports bag at her hip. While he ties the sleeves at her chest to keep it in place, she keeps her conflicted glare on the ground.

“Warmer?” Yoongi asks with a forced, lopsided smile. The cold relentlessly attacks him through his thin sweater, digging its nails into his ribs and squeezing tight as he picks up his bag.

She wrinkles her nose and returns to her initial stride, though her teeth have stopped rattling like a loose doorknob. Yoongi, following after her, knows it is the only expression of thanks that he will receive. But he cannot find it in himself to mind, anymore.

By the time they have reached the campus accommodation, Yoongi’s muscles are frigid and his skin feels permanently raised in goosebumps. The silence between them has eased in its tension, yet he struggles to grasp the right words with his tongue when they reach the walkway in front of her dorm. Because really, what do you say after a night like this? It was never a date—a compromise, at best. He cannot kiss her on the cheek and wish her a good night. He cannot book another moment of meeting, as if there is something even close to friendship strung between them. He cannot tell her he will call her for coffee next weekend.

Thankfully, she saves him from his internal war-waging. Her hands come up to the tied sleeves, about to untangle them. “You can have this back,” she starts, but the words are lurching up Yoongi’s throat before he can stop them.

“Keep it,” he insists, fists clenching at his sides in an attempt to suppress the embarrassment that suddenly washes over his body. She stills, staring with uncertainty at him, especially now that he is slowly stepping backwards. “I… I mean return it, of course. When I see you next, yeah?”

Her brows are slashed downwards. “I don’t plan on–”

“Too bad!” Yoongi shrugs, now grinning like a thoroughbred lunatic at her utterly perplexed expression. Then, before he can fully comprehend the actions of his own body, he is turning on his heel and jogging down the path, calling over his shoulder, “See ya!”

If she says anything more, Yoongi does not hear it over the adrenaline rushing through his ears, the slapping of his sneakers against the pavement, and the rattling of his bag as it bounces against his ass. With his sudden spurt of energy, he runs from her dorm to the other side of the village, which, had he been walking, would have taken ten minutes. Though he finds himself slowing at the walkway to his own apartment within a record-breaking five minutes. His muscles burn with an aching heat, and the humiliation over his blatant corniness flares like a long-forgotten mosquito bite that he accidentally scratched.

“Oh my god,” Yoongi groans to himself, yanking open the already unlocked front door. His over-exerted limbs scream at him, and he knows that the prelim game tomorrow is going to be the epitome of Hell for his body. “I’m a whole fucking idiot. What the fuck.”

“I don’t need to know the context because I completely agree with you, nonetheless,” comes Taehyung’s voice from the opposite end of the entranceway. Yoongi looks up from kicking off his sneakers to find his housemate peering around the wall. There is a sly grin on his face, and the whites of his eyes are evidently stained with red, spidery webs.

Unsurprisingly, he is as high as the Lotte World Tower.

“Piss off,” Yoongi mutters, trudging past Taehyung and entering the living space. Jimin is nowhere to be seen, which is definitely a good thing. Dealing with one of his housemates is like trying to control five toddlers, as it is. “I don’t need your shit right now.”

“Ooh, somebody’s had their kimchi dipped in ghost pepper sauce,” Taehyung cackles, trailing after him in that tattered excuse for a kimono. Yoongi makes an immediate bee-line for his bedroom. “Why’re you lookin’ so flustered, huh? You smell like fast-food and alcohol. Weren’t you supposed to be training–”

Yoongi slams the door in Taehyung’s face and locks it. In the darkness of his room, he drags his feet across the small space, lets the strap of his bag slip off his shoulder and to the carpet, and then collapses with an agonised sigh on his bed. His muscles just about cry with relief. Though as quickly as they begin to unwind, they seize up at the memory of his random outburst—his sudden escape, leaving her with the sole means of having to see him again.

“What is my damn problem,” Yoongi mutters into his pillow, body deflating like a hot air balloon. “I practically forced it on her. She was going to refuse. Now she has to come and see me to give it back. God. What the hell. I hope she leaves it on our doorstep without knocking. I hope she gives it to Hoseok and he gives it to Jimin. Fuck.”

Yoongi slowly submerges himself into his own cesspool of self-loathing. Though the thoughts gradually mould into ones of observation, the subject unchanged. His mind, as always, remains to revolve around her like a moon orbiting its planet.

After tonight, Yoongi has realised that she is not the shell of a memory he has clung to for so long. He saw her in there, although she was hidden beneath layers upon layers. She peeked out every now and then in familiar mannerisms or ways of speech that alluded to long-forgotten fondness. Maybe, she did not realise the small slip-ups she made throughout the night; her tipsy carelessness let the layers peel back and fall to her feet like a rose wilting its petals. But the knowledge that not all is lost is enough to comfort Yoongi for the time being. It holds enough importance for him to linger.

Because he knows that he saw the hint of forgiveness in her eyes—still struggling to make it to her lips.

Perhaps, he thinks sleepily, eyes drooping closed, we’ll make it there one day.

You have been awake for a whole two hours, though you have not yet detached yourself from your bed. Despite it is nearing 1PM, you have remained cocooned in your doona the entire 120 minutes (give or take), reclined on your back with your head dangling off the edge of the mattress. You are certain that all of your blood has drained from your limbs and pooled within your skull, if the prickle-like, pins-and-needles sensation across your forehead and scalp is anything to go by. Nevertheless, you lay like a corpse and unwaveringly stare across the room at the foreign item within your quarters.

Yoongi’s parka.

The black swathe of puffy material is slung over the back of your desk chair, unsuspecting as a vase of flowers. In spite of its seemingly ordinary presence, you watch it from your upside-down position like an owl eyeing off its prey, as if the piece of clothing is a mouse that is going to flee if you dare look away. All the while, you continue to mentally flick through the scrapbook of your memories from last night; meticulously reading through the pages, all smudged by the lingering effects of two soju bottles.

(Okay, so maybe you were slightly lying when you said that two soju bottles only got you tipsy. By the time you had left the pojangmacha, you were certainly sitting more on the one-more-drink-and-I’m-dead-fucking-drunk end of the spectrum.)

But you keep finding yourself stuck on a particular scene, repetitively turning back to inspect the finer details of it. In the image, the Devil’s tragic face is a breath away from your own and his molten eyes are drinking up your features like cold water on a searing summer’s day. And while your sight was softly smeared like gouache at the borders, you are certain that his midnight gaze lingered longer than appropriate on the shape of your lips. You are absolutely sure that he was restraining himself; double-checking the titanium locks on his desire to ensure it would not break free—that he would not dive into your mouth with his own and remind you that he tastes like blackcurrants and first loves.

“Jesus on a Razor scooter,” you exhale, eyes still on the parka. Your face burns like a pot on a stove, and something small and deep inside of you whispers that it is not because of your body’s blood supply gathering in your head. “What am I doing? Why am I even thinking about him? I… I hate him. Yeah. I hate him.”

That little something—in a place within you that you refuse to reach—laughs with lungs full of incredulity, as if to say: Silly girl!

It is then that your intimate staring contest with the jacket is cleaved by Minah suddenly barging through the door. She looks as though she has just woken up herself, if the struck-by-lightning hairstyle is anything to go by. “Rise and sh– Oh, you’re… What the hell are you doing? Your forehead veins are bulging like John Cena trying to piss with a urethra infection.”

“That’s… a very unique way of putting it,” you say from your position, rather perplexed. “John Cena? Of all people?”

“Haven’t you seen his forehead veins when he wrestles?”

“I– No? Have I ever exhibited any interest in John-goddamn-Cena over the past three years of our friendship?”

Something flits across her face; a flash of discomfort that is not founded on the fact that you do not keep up to date with professional wrestlers. Something that screams: Well, I know less about you than I first thought. Who knows what other secrets you harbour.

But it dissolves quicker than medicine in water. Like a bandaid on a bleeding scratch, Minah plasters a grin on her lips and seats herself beside you. “Touché. Anyways, where were you last night? I woke up to the sound of you emitting a continuous, soft scream and slamming all the doors in the flat, so I have a feeling you weren’t at the stadium.”

“Oh, shit, sorry. I thought you were staying at Hobi’s place,” you feebly apologise, lethargically rolling onto your stomach and taking your precious time to sit up. Your body feels light as a meringue as all the blood rushes out of your head and back into your limbs. “But yes, I was… out. At a pojangmacha.”

“Drinking without me? Rude,” Minah says, tugging at a corner of the doona after she notices you struggling to be freed from its confines. You mutter a small thanks when it effectively loosens the material’s bind on your body. “Since you didn’t rat me out to Seokjin after my Shark Week binge, I’ll be merciful to you and your alcohol-abused liver.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” you bite with every inch of sarcasm you can muster.

“Damn right I’m your Queen,” Minah asserts, and you roll your eyes. A sly smirk inches its way onto her lips and she jabs her thumb at your desk. “So, I’m guessing you went out with whoever owns that parka?”

You freeze mid-stretch. A thousand and one excuses charge through your head like an off-course train—your usual knee-jerk reaction to lie. And while your gut screams at you to oil the hinges of your defence and heave that bulletproof gate shut on the truth, your heart urges you to reconsider. After all, Minah is your best friend. She deserves a Royal wedding buffet over the stale breadcrumbs you have always thrown her to keep her hunger at the bare minimum of satisfied.

You can feel her eyes on your skin as you slide your own back to the jacket. The face of its owner—bright and mischievously determined—looms at the forefront of your mind when you bluntly state around a mouthful of thorns, “It belongs to Min Yoongi.”

Silence hangs like a fog over your bedroom. You do not dare to sever your gaze with the jacket and meet Minah’s stare. A year ago, you would have said it was because you wanted to upkeep your meticulously cared-for facade of strength. Yet now, you not straying your eyes to your best friend is completely and utterly due to you being terrified of witnessing her reaction up close—the range of emotions that must be stretching and shaping her dainty features like dough.

For this reason, your heart lurches in surprise when Minah grabs your shoulders, forcing you to face her near-manic grin as she giddily shrieks, “Are you pulling my dick right now, ___?! Because I swear to our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, I will shatter each of your knuckles with a hammer while you’re sleeping if you’re lying to me!”

Dumbfounded, you blink at her. “N-No, I'm serious! Please don't do that, what the fuck–"

"Oh my god. What. This is... insane! The two of you have hardly spoken since we started at KNSU a whole three years ago. Yet, in the past fortnight alone, you've slept over at his goddamn dorm and skipped training to go on a drinking date with him?!"

"Would you just calm down for a sec–"

"Are you sure you're the real ___?" Minah urgently asks, hands coming to your cheeks and squishing them like putty. Her eyes are round as dinner plates. "Has a ghost possessed you? Am I going to have to take you to a shaman? You know, like in that Jo Jungsuk K-drama where he's a chef–"

"I'm not possessed, Minah!" you finally snap, recovering from the shock that her unexpected reaction thrust upon your body. You bat her palms away from your face. "Christ, you jump to conclusions like you jump on dicks."

"Hey, don't shit on my enthusiasm," she snickers, hands falling to her lap. "Seriously, though. What's gotten into you? Has Yoongi black-mailed you into becoming friends again? Do I have to kick his succulent, Channing Tatum replica ass?”

You sigh, picking sleep-crust out of the corner of your eye. “Well, not exactly… it’s complicated. The coaches want us to move on from the past, but it’s not that easy.”

From there, you explain the incident with the Zamboni and you striking a deal with the Devil in order to get back into Seokjin’s good graces. You let the information flow out of you in a stream of truth, only retaining the part where your faces were separated by an exhalation and Yoongi’s eyes were sinkholes, set on consuming you. Nevertheless, your stomach feels less congested by the time you have finished speaking, and Minah seems pleased enough with what you have shared, if her bemused yet thrilled expression is anything to appraise.

“This is fucking wild,” Minah oh-so eloquently summarises. “Hey, can I see the photo?”

“Must you?” you groan, reaching for your phone on the bedside table nonetheless. A low-battery signal pops up when you unlock it, and you silently admonish Past You for prioritising a low-key panic attack over remembering to put the device on charge last night. “The lighting was pretty bad in the tent, so you can’t see much,” you pitch as a final attempt to get Minah to lose interest in the photo, though you know it is hopeless. She snatches your phone once you open up the message in which Yoongi sent it.

“Oh my god, the filter,” she immediately giggles, pinching at the screen and zooming in. Your cheeks are uncomfortably warm, sleepy features screwed up like a cat just passed gas on your lap. “Wow, you look like you’re one more photo away from giving him a vasectomy.”

“I was,” you partly bluff, chewing at the inside of your cheek and leaning closer to see the screen without the light of your window reflecting on it. Minah zooms the image out again so that the entire thing is visible, and a soft, heart-shaped lump wriggles up your throat.

“Dare I risk you snapping off the blades of my skates when I say this,” Minah begins, her gaze adhesive as glue on the device. “But you guys actually look… kind of cute together?”

You snort, ignoring the way your face feels as though it has been dunked in boiling water. “If you think so, why’re you saying it like a question?”

“Because the skates weren’t cheap, and thus, suggesting an element of uncertainty with my own statement might give them a chance at surviving your wrath.”

“Am I really such a heartless monster in your eyes?” you say with a pointed glare, seizing your phone from her grasp. Minah now stares directly at you, and the humorous quiver of her lip is unmistakable.

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

You smack her over the back of her head with your pillow, to which she yells in protest.

“Oh, you bitch!” she cries, though it is said through a cheek-splitting grin. She leaps off the bed to evade your second sweep with the pillow, which narrowly misses her side. From a safe distance, she says, “Wait, since Yoongi texted you that pic, that means you’ve got his number now! Are you going to message him so you can meet up and give his jacket back?”

To be honest, you did not even think of that—the fact that you now have a means of directly contacting your nemesis. “Uh, no. I think you’re forgetting that I still hate his guts,” you claim, though the words sting like nettle leaves on the tip of your tongue. “If he wants it, he can come and get it.”

Minah smirks like an evil witch. “He can come and get it, huh? Are you talking about the parka or are you talking about yourself now–” She, with the reflexes of a jaguar, catches the flung pillow before it can strike her face. She hugs it to her chest and laughs while you glower at her with faux loathing. “Well, hear me out on this,” she starts, raising her finger in a gesture of silence when you go to speak again. Mildly disgruntled, you bite down on your tongue. “I’m going to be driving to the off-campus stadium in approximately two hours to pick up Hobi. If you want, you can join me. Yoongi will be there for the prelim game and it should be over, if not close to that by the time we get there, so you can give his parka back. The match starts at 2PM.”

As much as you would love to spend the rest of your afternoon becoming a single organism with your bed, Minah undoubtedly presents a prime opportunity for you to be rid of the jacket. You make a contemplative hum, flipping your phone over and over in your hand as you chew on the offer, even though you are certain from the get-go that you are going to accept it. Your hesitation is more due to you knowing that your best friend will give you a whole lot of shit for the next handful of hours if you are to accept without a hint of regard.

“I know you’re stalling because you think I’ll give you shit,” Minah—apparently a fucking mind-reader—interjects, tossing your pillow back onto the bed and making her way to the door.

You cease fiddling with your phone and gaze impassively at her. “What makes you think that?”

She turns and leans against the doorjamb, arms crossed. “___, I’m your best friend, which basically means I’m your mother. I know everything about you, your mannerisms, and your expressions.” Then, her final comment is spoken with a raise of her brow, “Also, you’re wearing the kind of dumb smile that one does when they think about Labrador puppies. Be ready in 40 minutes, okay?”

Immediately, as Minah departs with a wicked cackle, you smack your hand against your mouth, realising that yes, indeed, your lips are goofily curved in a stupid smile. Groaning into your palm, you tip backwards onto the mattress and gather yourself into the foetal position. God, what is getting into me? Now I’m subconsciously smiling at the thought of Yoongi? What the ever-lasting fuck.

“He must be Voldemort,” you reason, giving the stink-eye to the guiltless parka and hoping that it somehow channels through to its satanic owner. “He must’ve cursed me as a method of torture. That’s the only reasonable excuse.”

If Minah had of heard you, she would have sighed and said: Really? The only reasonable excuse? Are you that blind to your own feelings? But Minah did not hear you, and thus, your totally unreasonable justification as to why you are experiencing even the thinnest sliver of pleasantness towards Min Yoongi is safe with you and his jacket.

Once you have surpassed your dramatic moment and put your phone on charge, you shower the remaining listlessness from your skin and throw on a dark grey hoodie and black skinny jeans. Assessing your attire in the mirror, you definitely look like the reincarnation of your 13-year-old emo phase, but that is exactly what you are wanting—to look as inconspicuous at the stadium as you can humanly muster. With the jacket under your arm, you meet Minah—who is still unnecessarily enthusiastic about the entire situation—in the living room and head out to the car.

And while Justin Timberlake has always lifted your spirits, you find that throughout the 20 minute drive to the stadium, you cannot even bring yourself to sing along to SexyBack. Instead, you cling to the parka on your lap as if it is the only thing keeping you rooted in place, and internally blame the way that your stomach swirls like a blended milkshake on a peculiar case of car sickness.

“Have you even breathed in the past half hour?” Minah questions once you have reached the location, striding into the stadium’s foyer. A hint of genuine concern turns her lips down. “Really, you look like you’re about to pass out. Do you want me to give the jacket to him?”

“N-No,” you stammer, instantly feeling heat gather at the nape of your neck over the way your voice trembles like a harp string. You cough, clearing your throat. “I think I might be a little hungover from last night, is all.”

“Okay.” Minah draws the word out, her tone blatantly conveying that she is unconvinced. Before she can say anything further, her phone pings and she slows her walk to a standstill, checking the notification. “Hobi says the game finished ten minutes ago, but he’s with Jimin and Wonwoo in front of the change rooms. Let’s head there.”

Although she does not say it aloud, the mischievous twitch of her near-smirking lips says, Yoongi should be there, too, loud and clear as a billboard promoting a sex shop. A little reluctantly, akin to the feeling you have right before you rip off a bandaid even though you know it is not going to hurt as bad as you think, you nod and follow her. Dodging around the crowd that is slowly spilling out of the arena exits.

By the look of some familiar KNSU faces and the exuberant commotion that they make, the KNSU team must be the ones going to the finals. A small sense of pride blossoms in your chest. Not for Yoongi’s sake, but for the representation of your university at a game that will put them up as potential contenders for the next Winter Olympics. If they are successful in the final and get the placement for 2022, they will become South Korea’s youngest ice hockey team in the country’s entire Winter Olympics history. They will be renown by the future generations for decades. It is difficult to not feel thrilled for them, as much as they annoy you in the cafeteria.

Yet, betraying your initial thought, a tiny space within your chest fills with warmth over Yoongi’s triumph in particular. He is a defenseman, so you know he would not have scored the winning goal or anything of the like. But as the captain of the team, having a large role in assisting his coach with planning the gameplay techniques, you can imagine how exhilarated he must be at the moment—chanting the KNSU anthem with his teammates; a tad breathless from being squashed beneath the pile of their bodies on the rink in a typical ice-hockey-style victory hug; still charged from the adrenaline of the game. He is probably calling his parents in the locker rooms right now to let them know of the successful game. Wait, oh shit, unless–

“___, is that you?” announces a perplexed voice, simultaneous with a hand tentatively resting on your shoulder, halting your forward motion.

In an instant, it feels like all of the blood has been sucked out of your body, and you are now no more than a sagging sack of meat with weak, jiggling knees. When you lift your head, it is to see a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair. His skin is wrinkled around the corners of his hesitantly smiling mouth.

A spitting image of Yoongi in 20 years time, except a head-and-a-half taller.

Sweet fucking Mary riding a mechanical bull.

“Mr. Min,” you almost gasp, hand reflexively tightening around the smooth fabric of the parka. “Hello! Sorry, you startled me! I should’ve guessed you would’ve been here for Yoongi’s preliminary game–”

“And what exactly are you doing here?”

The nasally, sneering voice comes from around Mr. Min’s elbow, belonging to the side of the family that Yoongi gets his shorter stature from. His mother’s crow-like, narrowed eyes peer at you with an obvious glint of contempt. Even when you and Yoongi were friends, she was never necessarily fond of you. Mrs. Min tolerated you, if you must call it anything. She thought you were nothing more than an unneeded distraction for Yoongi, and he scorned her for it, which certainly did not assist her skewed perception of you.

To her, the accident must have been a blessing in disguise.

“Honey, she’s here to support her university’s team. You know that.” Mr. Min casts a firm glance at his wife, who merely sniffs and continues to critically dissect your perturbed features. Then, with a smile that has a softer curve to it, he says, “Look at you; you’re all grown up! I almost didn’t recognise you, but your outfit is identical to the one that you would always wear during the, er, teenage phase that you went through with Yoongi.” He laughs and tenderly shakes his head, all the while you curse Emo Phase Past You for essentially getting you in this predicament.

Unsure of how to behave—especially with Mrs. Min glowering at you like you are the bird shit that just landed on her blouse—you settle with a deferential, thin-lipped tilt of your lips. “It’s been a few years, yes.”

You hope that the Min’s sense the vibes of discomfort rolling off your being, taper the conversation there, and go on their merry way. But Mr. Min, always the courteous man, continues to ask, “How are your parents? I haven’t managed to see them since the summertime.”

It is then that Minah politely clears her throat, prompting you to remember that she was leading the way to the change rooms, which are now no more than a few metres down the nearby corridor. You give her a small, reassuring smile with a look of firm insistence, to which she immediately catches on and, with a nod and a raise of her eyebrows, continues to walk away without you. Squaring your shoulders, you return your attention to the Min’s and say, “My parents are well, thank you. I wasn’t aware you were still in touch?”

You bite your lip to refrain from adding on: Since after the incident.

“Well, your father and I try to catch up for a drink every few months.” Mr. Min chuckles good-naturedly. Mrs. Min remains silent, wearing an expression of one who has just caught a whiff of expired canned tuna. “We’ve know each other since we were studying, after all.”

“Exactly, how else would you’ve met our darling son?” Mrs. Min bitterly mutters, not quite underneath her breath; intentionally loud enough for you to hear. The urge to scream at her rises high in your throat, and the smile on Mr. Min’s face slips away like water on a plate. He inhales deeply through his nose, turning to berate his wife.

“___? You came?”

The baffled exclamation of your name comes from your left, and you immediately whip your head to the side to face its owner. Yoongi is still in his red-and-black hockey gear; the safety pads underneath his jersey fill out his shoulders and chest, narrowing down at his waist like an arrowhead; the battered helmet is held by the cage with his gloveless fingers, allowing you to experience the full-force of his post-game appearance. His onyx hair is mussed and sticking up with sweat; his eyes are wide and bright, the pupils still slightly dilated with adrenaline; his skin glows a faint shade of salmon from the freezing rink and his exertion; his cold-cracked lips are creamy and plump, liberally coated in lip-balm.

Yoongi looks more a sportsman in this moment than he ever has.

Yoongi looks… fuck.

“I-I just got here,” you stutter, and it is only when your brain restarts in order to formulate a sensical sentence that you notice the bewilderment that traces his features—the panic that steadily fills his eyes. He looks down at your hand which clutches his jacket, lips slowly parting in realisation.

But Mrs. Min is suddenly bursting forth, beaming and reaching for him, nearly knocking you aside in the process. “Yoongi, sweetie! Congratulations–”

“Excuse us a second,” Yoongi bluntly cuts her off, grabbing your elbow and practically dragging you and your stumbling feet to the floor-to-ceiling windows of the foyer. You are too dumbfounded by the entire situation to shake his hand off or fire a few insults at him over his manhandling, though his hand ceases contact the moment he finds a spot that is not swamped by departing spectators.

At a loss for words, all you can do is stand and stare at him, quietly uttering, “Um.”

“Are… are you okay?” Yoongi tentatively questions, still looking a little shell-shocked. His eyes momentarily flit over your shoulder, in the direction of his parents, before they return to your painfully astounded expression.

Yoongi asking about your wellbeing makes something viciously blossom around your heart, and you grit your teeth as though the roots are situated between your molars and you have a chance at ceasing their growth. You shift your gaze to his nose when the genuine look of benevolence in his eyes only fertilises the feeling.

“Yeah. I’m fine.” You almost say: I see your mother is still a nasty bitch, though you work the affronting statement into, “I didn’t expect to see your parents here.”

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Yoongi comments with a raise of his brow, and you cannot help but quirk your lips at that. His gaze strays to his parka, still bunched up in your grasp. “If you only just got here, did you come to drop this off? I mean, thanks, but–”

“Do you really think I’d go out of my way to give your jacket back?” you snark, but the words come out a whole lot less savage than you were intending. Nevertheless, you pass it to Yoongi and let your hand fall to your side, fingers aching a fraction from how tightly you were clinging to the material. “Minah was coming here to collect Hoseok; it was nothing more than a convenient opportunity. After all, I didn’t think you’d come and get it yourself after you literally ran away from me last night. Do you do that after your dates, too?”

Yoongi, looking like you just lifted your hoodie and flashed him your bra, coughs. “Uh, I don’t date.”

“Unsurprising. I don’t know anyone who’d want to,” you tease with a teaspoonful of salt in your tone, but you only realise what you have said when Yoongi’s eyes flash like lightning. Your heart just about punches right through your ribcage as the horror dawns on you like a summer storm—out of the blue, yet in an instant.

“You did, remember?” Yoongi taunts, wearing a grin coloured by melancholy.

You want to wipe it off his face. With your hand; with your mouth—you cannot decide. After everything that has occurred over the past day, chipping away at you like a hammer and chisel on marble, you have been reduced to a state of vulnerability that you have not experienced in years. You have become a knight stripped of his armour and sword in the middle of the fight, with nothing but his fists and his willpower left to protect him.

But you cannot find the strength within you to throw a punch.

Yoongi seems to notice this when you do not immediately fire back with a scathing remark. The curve of his mouth straightens and he quickly backtracks. “Sorry, that was out of line,” he says, and you are stunned that he even apologised for the jibe. “Anyways, thanks for bringing this along. I should, uh, get back to my parents. But before I go, the usual frat will be hosting a party for the team’s win tonight. You should come.”

Grateful that the subject has shifted before it could fully develop, you fiddle with the strings of your hoodie, a hint of amusement tinting your expression. “They were that confident you guys would win?”

Yoongi’s grin returns. His eyes crinkle like his father’s. “Oh no, it was either going to be a winner’s celebration or a pity party. All we knew was that getting drunk was going to be on tonight’s schedule, no matter the outcome.”

“Well, if that isn’t the spirit of KNSU in a nutshell,” you chuckle. His grin grows impossibly wider and your heart does the ridiculous punch-through-muscle-and-bone thud again. A fierce urge to slap your chest in order to scold the traitorous vessel momentarily overcomes you. “Is it cool if I bring Minah and Hoseok?”

The smile falters. “Uh, only Hoseok.”

“Wow. I can’t believe everyone thinks that our rivalry is bad.”

“I’m kidding. She only hates me because you do,” Yoongi shrugs as he begins to circle around you. “I have to go. But I’ll maybe see you tonight?”

“Keyword: maybe,” you state with a smirk, rotating on the spot to watch him go. Yoongi nods and lifts the hand that holds his parka in a half-hearted salute, heading towards his parents. Though he only manages a few paces before you are realising what you have not said, which imminently leads to you clenching your fists and calling out, “Hey!”

Yoongi stops and turns back around, quizzically observing the immediate regret that contorts your features. Especially since—to your complete horror—a few KNSU students have come to notice the interaction occurring between you and Yoongi. The infamous foes who would once not dare be seen in the same room together. Heat spills into your cheeks, and despite the small audience, you inhale deep enough to consciously sense your lungs shrivelling up like dried grapes before they are expanding once more, releasing your voice.

“Congratulations on the win,” you say at a much lower notch than your initial shout—loud enough for him to hear you, though not at a volume where the distant spectators can precisely make out the words. “Your team has done KNSU proud.”

Yoongi’s expression shifts. The thinly veiled amusement melts into something akin to when one has an epiphany; a cocktail of sincerity and fulfilment, garnished with the shimmer of elation that softens his eyes. Although it must last no more than a few seconds, it seems as though the moment has been taken hold of at its ends and stretched out like taffy. Yoongi stares at you like the past five years never occurred and you, with your hummingbird heart, wonder what that could possibly mean. And in this prolonged time where your enemy exudes forgiveness in tidal waves, you are almost tempted to let the current sweep you under, too.

But a fist of ignorance keeps you standing by the fingers it curls around your throat, and Yoongi must see the bruise marks it leaves on your flesh. Because then, without a word, he twists around and continues to walk away.

Anger does not strike a match on your bones and light up your insides. Rather, your spine is stroked by a warm hand of serenity, and the strength to bat it away evades you. Leached from your limbs like a receding shoreline, as if Yoongi’s physical being is drawing the vigour out of your soul with every step that he takes.

From the corner of your eye, you see Minah and Hoseok approaching with quick strides. As they near, they glance between you and Yoongi, who has now returned to his parents. Once she is close enough, your best friend slings her arm around your shoulders in a manner that is more colluding than consoling, and turns you to face the windows instead of the thinning crowd.

“Were they Yoongi’s parents?” Minah hisses, looking over her shoulder to where the Min family is standing. “Oh, they’re already gone. His mum sounded like she had her head up her own ass.”

“What? What’s going on?” Hoseok asks, leaning close, hands on his hips with his brows pinched. “Why are you two always hogging the tea from me?”

You sigh, though it comes out as more of a groan. Your limbs still feel filled with air after the way that Yoongi looked at you, like he was one bad decision away from gathering you in his arms. “Yes, they were. And no, we’re not, Hobi. There’s nothing to discuss, alright?”

“I don’t believe you, you’re being shady as hell lately,” Hoseok says with a nonchalant shrug. The tips of your ears burn like smelting ores, extracting the irritation from a small nook within you and igniting it into a vivid sensation. “First, you stay at Yoongi’s overnight. Then, not even a few minutes ago, I saw you have a whole conversation with not only his parents, but with him, with my own two eyes!”

In your periphery, Minah bites her lip. Clearly torn about whether she should keep your confidences locked behind her teeth, or cease holding back the truth from Hoseok. But this is not her issue to deal with; it is your own. Thus, you shift her arm off your shoulders and breathe in, ready to exhale your defence.

“You’re overthinking it, Hoseok. I already told you that Yoongi and I used to be best friends, which is why I talked with his parents. Yoongi was merely putting up a good front for them when he talked with me; they still don’t know about the severity our fight. They think that we’re still friends.” Now that you have hastily dressed the wound, you cover it with protective plaster by steering the topic towards something more favourable. “Anyways, all he said was to tell you two that you’re invited to the celebration tonight. The frat is throwing a winner’s party for them. And no, he didn’t invite me, but I’m still coming, of-fucking-course.”

“A party?! Aw shit,” Minah excitedly exclaims, leaping on the new subject like a determined puppy, and you are beyond grateful. She looks to the ceiling, hands held up in prayer against her chest. “Coach Kim, I’m sorry that I’m going to break the rules of my diet. But it’s for a good cause, I promise.”

“As long as we can still fit into our dresses, he won’t notice a thing,” you laugh, linking your arm through her own. The both of you stray your eyes to Hoseok, who has remained silent and is still vaguely looking like his cereal has been pissed in. Your grin of encouragement slowly widens. “Are you going to come, Hobi?”

“It’s not like he has a choice,” Minah pitches in, matching the size of your smile and innocently batting her lashes at him. Hoseok’s expression does not budge an inch. Well, until she adds, “After all, didn’t your fuckbu– I mean, very good friend Wonwoo already invite you?”

Suffice to say, Hoseok’s cheeks ripen into a shade of fresh cherries and you, oblivious to this budding romance, amiably accuse him of withholding information from you, too. From there, it only takes you and Minah teasingly getting up in his face about Wonwoo—a combination of poking at his ribs while making offensive, lewd sounds—for his lips to finally split into a bashful beam, the details of his recent hook-ups with Wonwoo imminently gushing out. The three of you leave the stadium and head to a salad bar for a late lunch in good spirits, and you are finally distracted enough to put your torn emotions about Yoongi on the back-burner of your befuddled thoughts.

Until the evening, that is.

Normally, your drunken selves are more than happy to take the half-hour walk to the frat house a little ways off the campus. But now that the winter is truly beginning to settle in on this side of the hemisphere, your trio makes the wise choice of splurging on a luxurious method of transportation for once—an Uber. This not only gets you there 20 minutes faster, but it comes with a solid heater system that fogs up the car windows like morning mist on a river.

Not that the three of you notice, of course. You and Hoseok are too busy dealing with Minah, seated between you, who perhaps took this night of free-rein a tad too far, considering she consumed almost half a bottle of Russian Standard at the pregame in your dorm.

“Swallow it, you little shit!” you desperately urge, hand wrapped around the lower half of Minah’s face. While you are certainly not as drunk as she, your vowels have attained a noticeably slurred quality. “We’re turning down the street now! Only a few more seconds ’til we’re there!”

“If she throws up in this fucking Uber, I’m going to throw up,” Hoseok warns, nearly just as drunk after losing a game of beer pong against you. He holds Minah’s handbag open underneath her chin, in case you forcing her to keep her vomit down happens to fail. “I’m serious, ___. I’ll paint the fucking car with my power-puke.”

Minah tries to speak, but her voice is muffled against your palm, which impulsively presses tighter on her mouth. You glare daggers at Hoseok from across the backseat. Yet, considering that you can hardly see his paling expression in the dimness of the Uber, you are positive that he cannot see you looking at him like he has a death wish.

“Pull yourself together, Hobi!” you snap, having no desire to pay for a clean-up fee, and knowing that neither of your broke-as-hell-student-life friends can afford it, either. It is then that, to your immense relief, you feel the car slow to a stop, and the Uber driver, perceptibly panic-sweating, announces that you are at the destination. “Oh thank god. And thank you for the ride, kind sir. Minah? I’m letting go to open the door, but I promise I will throw your $300 Lush collection into the trash if you projectile spew before I can get you out.”

With that said, and with what sounds like an affirmative grunt from Minah, you use your free hand to unbuckle the both of you. (Hoseok, the unhelpful asshole, departed the car the instant the driver put it into neutral.) Then, you are hastily snatching away the hand on her mouth and grabbing the handle, yanking the car door open and stumbling out into the street with your best friend—thankfully—close on your heels, handbag under her arm. Immediately, she staggers across the pathway and bends over the frat’s neighbouring front lawn.

“At least you’ll still fit into your competition dress because you’re throwing up lunch, dinner and pregame,” you call out to her as you slam the Uber door shut, giving the driver a jolly wave as he speeds out of the street, probably signing off for the night after that traumatising experience. You turn to face the drunken mess and, luckily for her, you are the only two out on the street. Hoseok left the scene so fast that he most likely has Wonwoo’s dick down his throat already. “Are you really gonna let Jimin see you like this?”

“Shut uuup,” Minah whines, and you are empathetic enough to walk over and hold her hair away from her face. She would do it for you, if the roles were reversed. Minah takes a series of loud, deep breaths, though not even a glob of spit comes out onto the grass. She stays in her hands-on-knees position for an instant longer before she is standing, nonchalantly shrugging and looping her handbag strap over her shoulder. “Nah, I’m good. Told you guys that I get motion sickness.”

Your eye twitches. “I could kill you in your sleep, y’know?” you threaten with a smile, sharp as a sword’s edge. Minah simply gives you a knowing look, which directly translates into: Try me, bitch. “No, really, I could. Especially since I had to change after you spilled the Kremlin’s drink-of-choice all over my first outfit.”

“That was merely a misfortunate event, my sweet pal,” Minah hums, patting the top of your head like you are a misunderstanding preschooler. “But this outfit is cuter, so who cares.”

“I’m wearing a turtleneck sweater to a frat party,” you deadpan, pinching the coffee-coloured collar for emphasis and narrowing your eyes at her infinitely more party-appropriate silver, silky camisole.

“But it’s cropped, and you’re wearing your Ass Jeans,” Minah giggles and begins to walk towards the party, winking and planting a firm smack on your behind as she goes, which is admittedly shaped magnificently by the black denim. “I wouldn’t lie to you. All the better to seduce Yoongi, amiright.”

Like an elbow to the gut, the remembrance of Yoongi being no more than a handful of metres away from you—of him being the one to even invite you in the first place—forces the air out of your chest in a rush. Your stomach flutters like it is filled with moth wings and your palms grow damp as stones on a lake’s edge. The sheer knowledge of all this is enough to keep you from feeling the chill of the air—eager heat licks at your body like flames consuming kindling, burning up your skin from the inside and boiling away your intoxication. The sweater and jeans suddenly feel too hot; you are suddenly too conscious of the situation to deal with this.

“Oh come one, I was only joking. Wait, woah, you okay?” Minah, back at your side, rests her hand on your bicep. She looks as though she wants to ask something else, but instead, she says, “Have you come down with something? You look like you did at the stadium today. We can go home if you want–”

“No no, I’m fine,” you insist, coercing an assured smile onto your lips. “Just had a wave of nausea. Probably from all that vomit-talk in the Uber. Alternatively, it could’ve been you just putting the disgustingly vivid image of seducing the Devil in my head.”

“Or it could’ve been the five Pineapple Malibus that you drank at home,” Minah suggests, smirking and raising her eyebrows. You huff and roll your eyes, to which she laughs and wraps her arm around your waist. “Come on, pumpkin. Let’s get smashed and regret it in the morning.”

Shoving your nerves into a box and storing it in the back of your mind, you exhale the jitters and grin at your best friend. “God, Coach is going to break our ankles for this,” you say, stretching your arm out to rest your hand on her hip and beginning to walk towards the party.

Minah whoops with delight. “Onwards to our shattered bones!”

The house is trembling with energy as the pair of you approach. Trap music spills from the open windows into the front yard, where only a smattering of sobering partygoers wait for their Ubers or flatmates to pick them up. The front door lays open like an arm swept out in welcome, and the steam of the celebrating, clustered bodies within the purple-and-green-lit frat house immediately sticks to your skin upon entering.

Minah and yourself huddle into a corner by the stairs, and you survey the crowd for the missing member of your trio while she rapidly taps away at her phone. Neither Hoseok nor Wonwoo are in sight. In fact, you cannot see Jimin, his strange flatmate Taehyung, or any of the other ice hockey team members in the thrumming living space. Peculiar, considering this party is for them and you assumed they would all be dancing the night away.

I wonder where Yoongi is, you quietly muse to yourself, though you hurriedly bury the thought and reprimand your treacherous mind. Shut up, idiot. Stop thinking about him.

Then, Minah is leaning into your ear, yelling loud enough to nearly pop your eardrum. “I’m going to go pee! But Jimin just texted to say he’s in the backyard, if you wanna go hang with him for a moment!”

“Cool, I’ll get us drinks and text you where I’m at!” you shout with a thumbs-up and she nods, planting a sticky, raspberry lipgloss kiss on your cheek before scampering away to the bathroom.

You begin to weave through the crowd, still buzzed enough on your last few drinks to sway your hips to the beat and pause to dance with some of your classmates as you go. By the time you have passed through the mass, you are grinning like a fool and feeling slightly sweatier than you were before, but the endorphins charging through your brain like a happiness drug have you feeling too high to give a damn. Ahead, the fluorescent white light of the kitchen entryway spills into the low, pearly illumination of the living-space-come-dance-floor, and your tread towards it becomes steadfast, knowing that a treasure trove of alcohol and mixers awaits you within.

But what you do not expect is to find Yoongi in there, too.

You do not see him straight away; the transition from darkness to blinding light makes you flinch, eyes squinting in an effort to adjust. It definitely does not help that your vision is still somewhat hazy from your earlier Pineapple Malibus consumption, either. Though the blurred, watery edges of the kitchen gradually come to form solid shapes. At first, your gaze zones in on the island bench, overwhelmed by a plethora of glinting liquor bottles and red cups. But it is only once your eyes focus on what you were searching for that you finally notice the movement in the background—the girl cornering the boy into the counter, her supple, tangerine lips pressed in a feverish caress against the rosiness of his own.

The rosiness that you used to kiss.

“I…” you unconsciously say aloud, only realising when the girl jumps back from Yoongi as if his lips are suddenly buzzing with static electricity. His half-lidded, confused stare drags from the girl to the interruption, and when he realises it is none other than you, his cloudy eyes seem to clear, growing wide as moons. The connection of his gaze with your own is what seems to kickstart your heart, and your frozen tongue follows in its stead. “Woah. Didn’t mean to… Woah. Bye.”

It feels as though your soul detaches from your being when you quickly walk out of the kitchen, observing from above as your numbed body pushes its way back through the crowd. Calmly to begin with, though increasing in its haste once the front door becomes visible. You watch yourself charge into the front yard, and it is not until you have reached the walkway, separating the lawn from the road, that your soul seems to catapult back into your chest, bringing a torrent of emotions with it.

Yoongi was kissing another girl. But that is fine. That is completely okay. I hate Yoongi. I utterly despise him for what he did to me—for ruining my chances at a younger start as an Olympian. He destroyed everything I worked so hard for. I hate him. I hate him. I… do I?

You are halfway down the street when you hear your name be called out from the shadows. And while you know deep down that you should keep walking without looking back, the soles of your feet disobey, cementing you to the ground. It is as if you have become a marionette and a higher being is controlling your movements, pulling at your strings to turn you around and be faced with the last person you wish to see.

Slowing his jog to a walk, Yoongi looks like he did out the front of the stadium on the night you went to the pojangmacha. Windswept, red-cheeked, breathing hard. Except his mischievous eyes have been replaced with ones of deep-rooted sorrow and the cheeky smile is weighed down at the corners. Now, standing no more than a stride away, you can see that an apology is perched on the bow of his swollen lip, trembling and unsure.

But… an apology for what? He has done many things wrong. Yet, on this evening that took a wrong turn somewhere down the road, he did nothing that requires him to express remorse. You hold no claim over Yoongi, and neither does he with you. Yoongi looks like he knows this, and perhaps this is why the repentance clings to his mouth and refuses to be shaped into words. He did nothing wrong.

So why do your cheeks feel kissed by the cold, streaked wet and filling the corners of your lips with the taste of the ocean?

“Don’t go,” Yoongi finally murmurs, hand hovering next to your elbow as though he wishes to grab it—to keep you by his side. But the world is suddenly cracking beneath your feet and dropping you into a dark pit, sucking you back into the past.

“Don’t go!” Yoongi calls out, voice thick with desperation. Since you are physically incapable of escaping fast enough, he circles around your frame with ease and blocks your path. His expression is wild; a storm of rage and love and urgency. “Please, ___. I’m so sorry. Please. We can still be friends, can’t we? I’m–”

“Get out of my way, Yoongi,” you mutter from between your gritted teeth, staring over his shoulder and at the end of the empty high school hallway. But he continues to gripe, eyes glowing and frantic, the pleas falling like pennies from his lips. It is only when he goes to grab at your shoulders that you shriek, “Don’t fucking touch me!”

Everything is sucked from his expression in that instant, as though a higher being has plucked his soul right out of his body. He stares at you with a look of terrifying blankness, like he does not know you—like he never knew you.

And you are fine with that. It is exactly the way you want it to be. You want Yoongi to forget all about you, because you have already erased everything about him from your heart.

Yoongi seems to recognise something in your expression, for his hand drops limply to his side. And as grateful as you are that he is not burdening you with his insistence, you almost wish that he would grab your wrists and pull you close and tell you that what you saw was nothing.

That the two of you, after all these years of competing against each other in this game of spite, could still be something.

Yet, with your chest aching for the wrong reasons, you give him a final, regretful look before you turn on your heel and continue down the pathway. Yoongi does not follow you with desperation defining his tread. Yoongi does not scream out your name and beg for you to come back as if it is the last time he will ever see you. The cold night is all that grabs at your skin with its icy teeth and whistles in your ear with its freezing wind.

Deep down, tucked within a crevice of your heart that you are reluctantly—at long last—admitting exists, you wish the winter evening that embraces you as you stride further away from the party was Yoongi instead.

When Yoongi wakes up on Monday, a shadow-like something lurks at the back of his mind. A dark smudge that exudes discomposure, as if it is anticipating a horrible thing to occur. And while he savours his final moments in bed before he must get ready, it gradually creeps into his stomach and stirs the sleep-heavy contents with its inky fists, making Yoongi feel woozy and uncertain.

Foolishly, he passes it off as an after-effect of drinking twice over the weekend and the fact that it is a Monday, which is always the hardest day of training. Now that the KNSU team is in the final, Namjoon is bound to make it ten times as gruelling. Though, in hindsight, Yoongi should have known better to seize the tenebrous warning by its tail, made up a half-assed excuse to his coach, and stayed home. But did he? Absolutely not.

Yoongi knows bad things happen in threes. Monday delivers the first bad thing in the locker rooms, and the second right on his doorstep.

Number one happens after the 8AM training session, though Yoongi feels it bubbling thick and pungent like tar throughout the whole four hours. While the strenuous training grates his resilience like a block of cheese until it is nothing more than a weary nub, his uncertainty grows like a poisonous weed from Kim Yugyeom. They have never been on good terms. But there is something about the way in which the younger player watches him the entire time they are on the ice, like a prowling panther, that puts Yoongi on edge.

Thus, once the training finally comes to its end near midday, Yoongi is grateful. Not only because he can now go home and melt his muscles beneath a hot stream of water, but also since he no longer has to deal with Yugyeom eating him alive through his intense stare.

When he enters the lockers, the first thing he notices is that the men’s speed skating team is already in there, preparing to use the rink. Then, he realises that half of them are gathered around a grinning Yugyeom, cackling amongst themselves and leaning in to get a better look at whatever he holds up on his phone. Walking straight to his locker, taking out his sports bag and placing his skates inside, Yoongi decides to not engage with their little party, especially after the nasty smirks that his teammate was sending him throughout training. But the universe has apparently put a bounty on him, offering a million-dollar reward to whoever can get him to snap the quickest.

“Oi, Min!” Yugyeom vociferates, which causes the surrounding speed skaters to snicker. Yoongi clenches his teeth and ignores them, yanking away his jersey and protective gear, shoving them into the bag. But Yugyeom refuses to let up. “I know you’re listening, Min Yoongi. Now, tell us, how’s her pussy?”

Yoongi freezes for an infinitesimal moment, as if spontaneously paralysed, and then he reaches into the locker, pulling out his hoodie. No, there is no way he would be talking about her. He would not be so dumb to talk shit about her after last time. It must be about that girl from the luge team.

Attempting to appear as unfazed as possible, he pulls the soft material over his head and says, “No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Aw c’mon, I know you do, Min!” Yugyeom jibes in a honey-coated tone. Yoongi does not turn to face him as he packs away the rest of his belongings, though his hyperaware senses can pinpoint the exact movements of Yugyeom’s casual approach. “I can’t believe you two hid it from us for so long. Pretending to hate each other when you were secretly getting it on behind our backs. Look, is this when you had a little lovers’ spat?”

Yoongi knows he should let Yugyeom’s sneering fall on deaf ears and walk away. There is no use in fuelling this fire because it will only serve to burn him down. Yet, despite his internal negation, Yoongi’s perfidious eyes twitch to the side to see the phone screen that Yugyeom holds out towards him. And there, in effulgent LED, Yoongi sees a zoomed photo of a girl—of her—standing in a doorway, taken through one of the kitchen windows at the frat house.

Her expression is twisted into one of desolation; eyebrows bent like longbows; eyes glassy with tears; mouth hanging open in a soulless shape. The sight strikes Yoongi like it did when he saw it in the flesh, slicing right through his chest and hunting for his heart.

The whole locker room is silent.

Yugyeom takes Yoongi’s seething silence as some sort of sick permission to continue. “So, does our Ice Princess like it gentle or rough? I bet it’s like hate-fucking. All wild and kinky and shit. Does she cry like this and call you ‘daddy’ when you stick it in her, too–”

“I would shut the fuck up right now, if I were you,” Yoongi mutters, turning his head enough to murderously glare at a still grinning Yugyeom through his bangs.

“Ooh, what’cha gonna do, big guy?” Yugyeom barks a sharp, nasty laugh and straightens his spine. He towers a head taller than Yoongi, not that it will make any difference if he continues to talk shit. “Are you gonna slap me like you slap her ass while she’s snivelling about how much she loves you on your tiny cock–”

Yoongi has never punched a person, but he would consider his first to not be so bad. The second lands much better against Yugyeom’s cheekbone, and Yoongi cannot tell if it is his own knuckles or his teammate’s bones that crunch. By the third swing, he feels like he is getting the hang of it, and he distantly finds it somewhat amusing that Yugyeom, for all the bullshit he was just spouting, is practically a bag of flour beneath Yoongi’s fist. But before he can manage a fourth, there are short but strong arms curling under his armpits and yanking him back, off of Yugyeom who now slides down the side of the lockers with a crimson-soaked mouth.

Then, the blood rushing through his ears ceases to impair his hearing, and the enraged shouting booms against his ear drums at full volume. “That’s enough!” Namjoon roars, standing between Yoongi and Yugyeom. While Yoongi does not fight the arms that keep him locked down, they do not lessen the strength of their hold. He only realises it is Jimin when the familiar voice of his flatmate mutters into his ear, telling him to settle down.

“You’re both fucking lucky that I can’t afford to bench either of you for the final,” Namjoon barks, staring hard between Yoongi and Yugyeom. Almost everyone flinches at the threat—it only serves to hit home how furious he is over the situation. Then, Namjoon’s eyes settle on Yoongi, and Yoongi truly understands the phrase if looks could kill in this moment. “Go home. Don’t come back tomorrow.”

Jimin, after a brief second of hesitation, drops his arms. Without a word and with his eyes on the ground, Yoongi calmly slings the strap of his sports bag over his shoulder, leaves the change rooms without an utterance of defence, and runs back to the dorm. It is not until he is reaching for the front door’s handle that he notices the vibrant red caked on his swelling fist, and he winces and hisses as his knuckles scream in protest at the way he curls them around the metal. He figures that he can tend to his wounds later, and instead heads straight for the shower, set on scalding his skin of the anger still clogging his pores and the abuse that Yugyeom spewed all over him.

It is late in the afternoon by the time that the second bad thing materialises at the front door in three loud thumps, as if the person is knocking with their closed fist.

His own has now been sanitised and bandaged by Taehyung, who soon after left the dorm in a bright purple tracksuit. Yoongi, as always, did not question it. Jimin has not yet come home, and Yoongi is somewhat glad, considering he needs at least another hour of downtime before he has to exhaust an explanation about why what happened, happened. Though Yoongi wonders if it is, in fact, Jimin at the door. He could have forgotten to take his house-key to training, and Taehyung could have possibly locked the door behind him as he left, which would be a first. It is definitely more common to find the door unlocked than locked—he is genuinely shocked that their flat has not yet been raided by thieves; it would be an easy entry and an even more effortless escape.

So when Yoongi opens the door with an expectation of seeing Jimin, or potentially, a delivery man, the air is knocked out of him when he is faced with her. She wears an expression that is carefully sculpted to be as smooth as a still sea, and he cannot tell for the life of him whether she is here on good or bad terms.

Nonetheless, Yoongi blinks, surprised, and says, “Hey, what’s up–”

“What the hell are you doing?”

Although her features barely shift, her tone strikes like a cobra, sinking its fangs deep. Yoongi’s eyebrows raise underneath his fringe as her venom bleeds into his veins. While he knows deep down what warrants her sudden visit, he is shocked that she would come all the way to his doorstep about it instead of blatantly ignoring him, as usual.

“Is this about the night at the frat?” he says, crossing his arms and flinching when his bruised knuckles tuck into his elbow. “Look, I don’t know what you want me to–”

“Are you really that fucking idiotic, Yoongi?” she snaps, expression cracking with a fracture of scarcely composed rage. Yoongi is suddenly taken aback, and he truly thinks that he must be what she claims he is when she lifts her hand and points at his bandaged fist. “This is about that and the fact that you beat half the shit out of Yugyeom because of me.”

Yoongi’s mouth hangs slack, stunned speechless. He cannot comprehend why she is so outraged over him defending her, and that is all he can think to say. “I– I don’t understand why you’re going off like this when I was literally defending you because that bastard was making those disgusting comments!”

“That’s exactly it, Yoongi. When did I ever ask you to start standing up for me, considering you’ve hated me until the past month?” she bites, eyes flashing like a lightning storm. “Why the hell are you doing this? Why are you acting like we’re suddenly… something when that’s clearly not in your interests?”

“Not in my interests?” Yoongi scoffs, the candlelight of anger within him steadily growing. “You know that I’ve wanted to move on and heal all this time when you’ve been the one stuck in the damn past, not allowing that to happen! I should be the one saying that us being anything is not in your interests because it certainly hasn’t been until recently, too. Don’t be so fucking hypocritical!”

Now, the indignation is painted as clear as blue skies on her face. “Oh piss off, asshole. You’re the one playing cat-and-mouse with me!” she yells, fists clenching at her sides, taking a step closer so she can stare right up into his face and he can see the finer details of her fury. “For the fucking coaches, is that really what this was? You actually wanted to be friends again? And yet you were sucking face with that girl on Saturday night after inviting me to the party?”

Yoongi cannot help the vicious grin that rips at his cheeks over her statement. He knows he is being nasty, but really, she fell into the trap with such grace. “Oh, and since when do friends kiss, doll? Huh?”

If Yoongi had of blinked, he would have missed the way that the anger washed out of her face for a split second, replaced by a look of genuine confoundedness. But he sees that gleaming surprise flicker in all of its momentary agony before the hostility returns with renewed strength.

“That’s– Don’t twist my words! What I’m trying to get through your stupid, marble-sized brain is that one minute you’re kissing other girls and saying that this thing between us is only to keep our coaches happy, and the next, you’re out there acting like you’re my fucking boyfriend! Like… like you think you have some kind of right to put your career on the line over me because of who, fucking Yugyeom of all people? Yugyeom, who we all know talks shit and has always done his very best to get on your last nerve? So don’t you dare turn this around on me when you’ve not only been the one trying to kiss my ass and pretend that I hold some kind of importance to you, but you’ve then been turning around and using that as an excuse to fuck with your future!”

Yoongi knows she has a point, that her words come from a place of honesty within her. But he has years of anger festering around his lungs, finally rupturing and oozing into his every word like a disease. Unstoppable. He latches his teeth onto the only bit of meat that she has left tender enough to shred apart.

“What I do with my future is my decision! Why do you even care if I fuck it up for myself? I thought you would be happy to see me come crashing down after what happened. Eye for an eye; tooth for a tooth, right?”

She visibly bristles—shoulders hunching up to her ears; spine curling. He cannot tell if it is due to his accusations or because he blatantly ignored the tougher parts of what she initially said. The portions that he refused to chew. “I don’t care. I just can’t live peacefully because you’re constantly wriggling your way into my life in one way or another—this is merely a prime example! And now it’s come to a point where you’re sending me mixed signals and fucking around with my feelings like it’s some kind of sick game! What did I ever do to you, other than despise you, to deserve this, Yoongi? Really, what did I fucking do to you?”

“Are you really that thick in the head that you think your feelings for me are returning because I’ve somehow manipulated you into liking me again?!” Yoongi is roaring, but he could not care. He wants the clouds in the sky to hear him and compress his words into a storm, drowning her in the torrential rain. “Does it really kill you so much to admit that hey, perhaps we never fell out of love?!”

Her eyes shine, wet with rage and frustration. “You’re delusional if you think I still give two shits about you!”

“Go on then, say it,” Yoongi snarks, and he feels hot to the touch, like he would release steam if he were to have a bucket of water dumped on him. “Say that you don’t love me anymore. Say that you stopped loving me when it all went to shit five years ago.”

He expects her to deny it straight away. Yet, under the pressure of his ferocious gaze, she simply stares over his shoulder, into the void of the entranceway, and keeps her mouth clamped shut. Her failure to speak is practically a profession of assent in itself, but Yoongi is not so sure, anymore. He exhales, harsh enough to disturb the hairs floating around her distressed expression.

“When are you going to stop blaming other people for every single thing that doesn’t go the way you want it to, ___? When are you going to realise that only you can control your own feelings? When are you going to see that some things just naturally happen, and nobody can be blamed for it?” Yoongi, without remorse, lunges for the jugular and begins to tear, tasting copper and salt and vivid scarlet. “When are you going to stop blaming me for that accident and apologise to me? I’ve said I’m sorry to you about something that was never my fault more times than I ever told you I love you.”

“Fuck you,” she immediately spits, beginning to twist on her heel and flee. The right one—the one that she is convinced he smashed to smithereens with his bare hands.

But not before Yoongi slams the door in her face with enough force to shatter his heart.

Note | If you haven’t already noticed, I’ve decided to split the finale into two parts. This will enable me to get content posted for you guys much faster and it’ll be a weight off of my shoulders!! As you can see by the word count, it was getting pretty darn long sdfghs. Also, the ending was very scrappily edited, so if it’s bad, just know that I’m going to go through it again on Monday.

Anyways, prepare for the finale to be posted sometime over the next few weeks!! In the meantime, I’d love to know all of your thoughts on their relationship and what you think happened in their past!! ♡

#yoongi angst #yoongi fluff #yoongi x reader #bts x reader #yoongi fics #min yoongi #bts fanfics #bts fluff #bangtan sonyeondan #bts scenarios #yoongi scenarios #bts #tdsoti #vankoya

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trashpandaorigins · 6 years ago

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Groot Steve Rocket Bucky Scenes from a Life: First, Do No Harm

From the team that brought you The Shrapnel in Your Heart, who really should have had their Tumblr messenger apps taken away by now, comes an intimate portrayal of a retired life of leisure, except for when it’s not. Based on the ridiculous head-canon that Groot, Steve, Rocket and Bucky all live together in a New York City apartment after Infinity War. From misadventures, pranks, and drinking shenanigans to harrowing reckonings of their past, Groot, Steve, Rocket and Bucky will eventually carve out an odd little family for themselves. That is, if they don’t kill each other first. A series of incorrect quotes, flash fics and funny scenes/dialogues. Lots of humor and fluff, some angst….okay, moderate amounts of angst.

Read the entire GSRB Scenes from a Life Series on A03

Check out the work of my partner in crime at Skarabrae_stone on A03 and follow them here @captaintoomanybattles

Note: This fic is based off an actual dream I had. As soon as I woke up I told captaintoomanybattles/skarabrae_stone and began debating if I should write it out as a fic. That debate lasted less than two hours. Some gaps had to be filled in but most of it is exactly how it appeared in my unsuspecting subconscious, including the dialogue. I still left some things in ambiguity (ignore the fact that they found a fully functioning yet abandoned hydra lab) because well, it’s based on a dream. Note to self: I REALLY need to stop drinking that herbal tea before bed…

*Warning: This fic contains EXPLICIT discussions of torture, animal abuse, graphic descriptions of violence, and ptsd.*

Cold

Restraints

Can’t. Breathe.

Bucky bit his tongue, the gag in his mouth threatening to make him heave. Not like that would do much good. He’d only end up spilling the contents of his stomach all over himself. His sides still throbbing from where the Hydra agent ran that sharp electric staff through his ribs. This couldn’t be happening, no. I got away...Steve, he got me free. We---

“We are sorry to interrupt your little life,” the doctor before him sneered. “But you were so, malleable. We needed to observe your programming.”

Bucky tried to struggle against the chilling restraints that wrapped around his shoulders and secured his torso. Arms locked to his sides.

The pale man’s voice spoke with a succulent satisfaction gleaming behind thick rimmed glasses. “You were quite the protagonist, very entertaining.”

“Oh good,” Bucky grated through his gag, “wouldn’t want to bore you.”

The doctor’s lips twitched, leaning forward. Chemicals flooded Bucky’s nose, tables, tinctures, pincers, knives, bright lights.

“Your time playing house is over, soldat.” He smiled, yellow teeth gleaming in the flickering fluorescent light.

Bucky stared at him, trying to calm his panicking mind. He flung himself against the restraints with what little mobility he could, a burning sensation pricking his body. He shifted his remaining arm at the heat, the arm that hadn’t been lost in the failed struggle to get away. Bucky tensed his fist, throwing his weight against the metal contraption and sucked in a breath as he fell forward, wincing with the impact of the floor.

The doctor stumbled back and Bucky looked up just in time to see a rain of gunfire explode from above. He twisted, scrambling to get up, watching as Rocket fired his gun, perched on top of the restraint chair, it’s metal bars now smoking at the edges. Bucky got to his feet, shaking with nausea. Fight! His mind screamed over the raccoonoid’s weaponry. He made to charge forward at the agents but halted, exhaustion seeped in his bones. No! Promised Steve….promised Steve, no more fighting.

“Barnes, I’m out of ammo, let’s go!”

Bucky didn’t miss the tremor in Rocket’s voice and whipped around to see the hydra doctor running forward, scalpel in hand. Threat identified, priority disarm, kill. Bucky’s mind instantaneously ready to spring. He sucked in a breath, hissing through the stabbing in his side, limbs heavy. Don’t fight, not like that. Not anymore. Once I start, I won’t stop. He’d learned that the hard way. Too many times having seen the look in Steve’s wide blue eyes after a euphoric spout of unintended violence. Never again.

A hissing screech tore through his ears and Bucky pivoted to see Rocket leap from his prefered perching position on the restraining chair, to land on the hydra agent’s head. Gun fire cracked in Bucky’s ears as more armed guards rushed in, firing. Metal table, shield. This time his previous conditioning was productive, Bucky nodded in agreement to himself, just like Steve, he reminded himself, picturing his boyfriend using his shield expertly for offense or defence. Bucky scrambled low to pick up the overturned table and swung it towards the guards, standing between the bullets and where Rocket clawed madly at the hydra agent’s face. Bullet’s riqueshed off the metal, Bucky holding it fast against the pressure.

Something hit his back and he twisted to catch himself, the bullets stopped. Bucky’s stomach dropped, head spinning even as the guards grabbed him. Lead filled his limbs, vision swimming. Hissing, chattering. Footsteps. Snarling. He twisted over his shoulder as four more guards came clambering in, two of them taking up their stations on either side of him. He swayed where he stood, colors blurring together.

“Get it on, get it on! Watch for the teeth!” Voices snarled.

“Barnes!” Rocket barked.

Bucky shook his head, trying to dispel the fevered dizziness from his wretched mind.

The raccoonoid twisted his neck with such force Bucky worried it would snap clean off. The doctor held the small animal by the scruff of his fur, dangling, vulnerable. Bucky had learned quickly that despite his size, Rocket was a forced to be reckoned with; his endless supply of firearms and bombs alone were enough to make a foe of any size cower. Let alone the animal’s genius abilities to improvise lethal machines with the scarcest of resources on a moment’s notice. Yet stripped of all weaponry and nothing to improvise with, Rocket was still a 4 foot tall, 20 pound creature. Rocket snapped his teeth as gloved hands attempted to lift a muzzle to his jaws. For all his scrappiness, Bucky knew what Rocket knew: it was over.

“B..Barnes what the ..f..flark are you waiting for?! Get your ass outta here!”

He could have laughed, all this time living with Steve has really rubbed off on him. Bucky attempted to muscle forward, held fast by the hydra agents.

“S...stop!” He coughed, watching as Rocket’s mouth began to foam, tail thrashing madly as the scientist let him dangle. Helpless, hopeless, loathing. Feelings Bucky knew all too well rose up like black waves inside of him. Consuming and drowning. “Stop...it!” He winced as the guards yanked him back. “Rocket!” The raccoonoid’s ears now pinned back to his skull, claws ferociously swiping at the muzzle the agents forced around his head.

“Barnes,” foam flew from the raccoonoid’s jaws. “GET OU..ARRRGGHHMMM”

Bucky’s insides twisted, watching them secure the cruel contraption over Rocket’s head, clamping his jaws shut though he continued to fume.

“Let him go,” Bucky whispered, all fight gone from him. “Please, let him go.”

The doctor turned, grinning. “I can’t let it go Soldat,” he said. “We need the parts.”

Parts? Bucky’s mind raced to try and comprehend but his consciousness drifted sluggishly. The scientist turned, one of the guards plucked some odd claw device from the table and fitted it to the doctors free hand. “The hardware is old, but some of it can be salvaged, no doubt.”

Bucky shifted arduously, hitching a breath as a balled fist gutted his middle. He pitched forward, gasping only to be hauled to his knees. Bucky squinted through his bruised face across the grey concrete room where the scientist held Rocket. What….what is he….

Bucky startled as the man plunged the three pronged claw into the raccoonoid’s bristling back. Razor sharp blades punctured the flesh on either side of Rocket’s upper spine and yanked. Rocket’s eyes went wide, an agonizing animalistic shriek making the man’s skin prickle. The raccoonoid arched back, then buckled. Thick blood spattered the floor, nausea hit Bucky again jerking at the snapping of bones. The claw retracted, gripping something imbedded in raw flesh. Rocket’s body spasmed, eyes larger than Bucky had ever seen them. The doctor frowned, ceasing his motion and pulled again, met with resistance. Thin veins and tissue stuck taunt like the strings of a puppet from the raccoonoid’s open back.

Bucky swallowed, any hope he had of containing the contents of his stomach lost as he doubled over, vomiting at the sight.

“I forgot how deep these were inserted.” He was mildly aware of the doctor’s observation.

He coughed, heaving at the sight of the device pulling free. The odd claw twisted, provoking another spasm from Rocket. A dreadful gurgle came from the raccoonoid as blood now seeped from clamped jaws, dripping from the muzzle.

“One more try,” the doctor hissed and yanked mercilessly. With a final series of snaps and crunches the device came free. Arms around Bucky tightened as he was pulled to his feet. A thick metal panel clutched in the hand of the doctor, attached to it were four tangled, bloody wires with bolts attached to each end. Rocket’s head lolled, eyes rolling backward.

“No,” Bucky wheezed.

The doctor set down the cybernetics, flipping Rocket over unceremoniously and pulled at the two remaining implants just below the raccoonoid’s collarbones. Bucky held his breath, waiting for Rocket to squirm or cry out, but the creature only lay immobile. A sickening crack indicated a broken clavicle and the two pieces were ripped out with what appeared to be less effort.

The doctor smiled. “There, that’s better.” He dropped Rocket, who landed with a thud, limbs and tail flailing.

Bucky stared at the growing pool of blood seeping from the creature. Stirring his own fury. Swore I wouldn’t fight. Bucky trembled as the doctor stomped over to him, still holding Rocket’s implants. Breathe, just breathe, he reprimanded himself in Steve’s own voice. Firm fingers gripped Bucky’s chin, twisting him to stare into those malicious eyes.

“Steve,” Bucky whimpered, longing for home. What would Steve do...Steve... that name was a prayer and that prayer ignited his heart. Bucky peered over the man’s shoulder to where Rocket lay. Bucky met the eyes of the doctor.

“We have you now soldat, and this time we will not let you get away. You will be the perfect, obedient…”

Bucky grabbed at his throat, his fingers wrapping easily around the flabby flesh and squeezing. The guards moved to shock him but he spun, disable, disarm, destroy. He kicked outward, grunted and grabbed the electric staff, swinging madly. Blue lightning fizzed and bubbled, reckless adrenaline fueled him, spiking at the sound the first agent made as he fell to the ground clutching his stomach. Bucky thrust the staff downward, into the man’s face. Behind, his senses screamed, the man leaned down grabbed the guards gun, spun and shot bullet echoing. The guard behind him fell. Two down, four more to go.

With conditioned effectiveness, Bucky charged the fourth agent, who was fumbling with his gun.

“St...stand down!” His monotone order went through one ear and out the other as Bucky seized his wrist, snapping it and thrusting his head forward, hitting the man’s skull with his own.

The man’s head drooped; Bucky shot him in the chin. He grasped the heavy weight before the man collapsed and turned him around, shielding himself from the fire of the remaining guards with the body of this one. A tried and true motion. Shameful, no. Necessary. Bucky rushed upon them, pushing the two guards against the concrete wall.

They swung, something sharp rattled his arm, and Bucky momentarily blinked away the white pain.

“Fuck!” he thought, hitting the ground only to roll, kicking up at the guard who made a grab for the staff.

Bucky’s own instincts were quicker; years of being a super soldier would do that to a person, he supposed with grim amusement. The prod ran through the man’s chest. Bucky pulled himself upward, letting four more rounds fire on the second guard. The man let out a shocked noise of pain, but died before he hit the ground. Bucky’s entire body trembled, facing the last guard. He smiled. His heart screamed at what he was doing; his mind, however, reveled in it.

“I...I have your arm!” The soldier held the appendage, shaking.

Bucky let down the electric staff, stomping over to the sweating man and wrenched the limb from the man’s weak hold. It slid rather neatly into the socket, and he smirked with satisfaction.

“Thanks,” he muttered, flexing the limb.

Before the guard could reach for his weapon Bucky slammed his metal fist into the man’s throat. He coughed, taking a tentative step backward. Now! Bucky reached out again, this time with both hands and quickly snapped the man’s neck. The same blood curdling crack as Rocket’s bones. The guard crumbled and Bucky turned. The patient will see you now, doctor.

Bucky approached the cowering man, who cowered in the corner. “The parts, where are they?”

Bucky crouched to the man’s level, holding the gun to the pulsing veins of the man’s forehead.

The doctor shook his head, teeth biting his own lip so it drew blood. Ammonia and fear wafted off of his pathetic form, burgeoning Bucky’s violent euphoria.

“Fine,” he growled. Crossing over to Rocket, Bucky stooped, gently removing the creatures muzzle and crossed over to the doctor once more. “Where.Are.The.Parts?”

“Soldat…”

Bucky rolled his eyes, grabbing the man’s head in his hands, easily thwarting the flailing limbs and weak kicked as he buckled the straps around his head. The man garbled, blood flecking his lips and tongue as he moaned.

“The parts?” Bucky ordered, still holding the man fast.

The doctor cringed, gagging, body heaving.

The device. Bucky picked it up from the floor, fixing the claw to his own metal arm.

“You may think what you’ve done to me is a miracle. You thought you created the perfect weapon for your games,” he hissed, “but you were wrong.” He crossed behind the doctor, yanking him upward to his feet. “I was never, and will never be one of you.”

With that, Bucky drove the claw into the man’s back. He let loose a savage sound as the razors sliced through flesh and tissue. With a few swift pulls Bucky fell back, the bone releasing. Blood whipped across him, metalic in his mouth. It sent his heart hammering with need, kill. Bucky yanked a final time and the doctor deflated, Bucky dropped him. The noise shattered the frenzy. W...what….Steve…? Where...what have I done? He let go of the clump of bone and flesh and cloth he held balled in his fists and stepped over the doctor’s form, taking the muzzle off.

“N….no..s...solda...soldat,” the doctor rasped, “you…..a….are...one...one of ...us…”

Bucky’s breath hitched, watching the smile curl on the man’s lips, the moment the life left his eyes. Bucky stood, surveying the area. Dead guards….blood...weapons...the doctor...I...I did this..? His stomach rolled, and he felt his knees give out from under him. Steve! Bucky looked up, trying to determine any evidence of his soulmate’s presence, though he realized with a flood of relief, there was none. You didn’t hurt him.

Shaking, Bucky got to his feet. The door’s wide open? Get out! He made his way toward the exit and stopped, foot catching on something. It moaned.

“Rocket!” Bucky cried, the memories coming back as he woke from his red-stained fog. Bucky knelt once more to the hard stone floor.

Rocket lay still, sides barely moving. His eyes pinched closed. “I said I was...g…” Blood bubbled from Rocket’s mouth, staining his teeth. He swallowed painfully. “Get your arm. D….didn’t really mean…...it like..t...this.”

Bucky slid his hand under Rocket’s head gently, trying to scoop him up. “Hey, I gave you the arm remember?” Rocket tried to muster a laugh. It came out a rattle and his head went heavy in Bucky’s hold.

“...I’m gonna get you out of here,” Bucky breathed, precariously lifting the raccoonoid off the floor. Rocket hissed in pain, buckling and slumped back down. “Hang on,” he whispered. “Just hang on.”

“If you’d just,” Rocket gagged, “r...run they would’ve...k...k...killed me quicker.”

Tumultuous guilt sunk in the man’s heart. He’s right. Clear wetness pricked at the edges of Bucky’s eyes, first one then the other. Bucky settled Rocket into the crook of his arm, stepping carefully. The raccoonoid stiffened, letting out a choking strangled breath.

“Rocket just, just hold on.” Bucky pleaded, biting his lip.

Rocket shuddered, eyes rolling back, going still. Bucky’s stomach dropped, running over to the blood stained counter. Stitches, scissors. He rummaged for them through the drawers and began to sew Rocket’s back. Being in the army, even as far back as WWII, had made his impromptu surgical skills hard to forget.

“Rocket, shhh, it’s okay. I’m going to get you out of here, just….” He bit off the extra string and looked down at his crude job. Better this then nothing. “Raccoon, I swear if you die on me!”

A sudden inflate of the raccoonoid’s chest made Bucky grin. Nice to know that tactic works, he mused. It wasn’t much but it was a response. He tucked Rocket in his arms once more and, lifting a spare gun off one of the guards, Bucky ran through the tunnels, gun first, guilt later.

At last fresh air filled Bucky’s lungs with hope, stumbling out into the forest. “STEVE!” He ran, as far away from the base as he could. “Steve!”

“BUCK!”

Bucky’s tears returned again as Steve emerged from the trees, skin ashen, eyes wide. Bucky flung himself into the other man’s arms, breathing in that scent of sweat and good intentions. Steve, I’m so sorry….Steve. Steve’s hands gripped Bucky’s shoulder’s tightly. It was a nightmare...it was just a nightmare.

“Bucky, shhh. It’s alright. I’m here, you’re alright.”

“No, no,” Bucky found his voice for the first time since the ordeal. “Hydra...they...they captured us...they let you rescue me, Steve!” He breathed, slowly retracting his embrace. “They just watched the whole time….for...r..research! They…”

Large footsteps made both men break away as Groot came barreling towards them. “I am Groot!”

Bucky revealed Rocket from his protective hold, offering the raccoonoid to him as though he were a peace treaty.

Groot faltered before him, glanced down at Rocket and ever so tenderly took the raccoonoid in his arms. “I am Groot,” he cooed, having eyes only for the small creature. “I am…”

Bucky gasped as brittle wood wrapped around his body, lifted him up off the ground, and slammed him against a tree.

“Groot!” Steve protested, horrified.

“I AM GROOT!”

Bucky clawed for breath, staring into those large eyes. For as long as he’d known the tree-like giant, Groot had been nothing but sweet, patient, and doting. What Groot lacked in understandable words he made up for in hugs and flower crowns. So many flower crowns. Bucky had never seen the flora ever provoked to anger, not even at Rocket’s drunken debauchery, not even at his own slow learning when it came to ASL--a method Steve recommended they utilize to communicate with Groot in Rocket’s absence. But this-- Bucky tried to gather air, even as tight branches constricted against him. He kicked feebly. He’d never seen such savagery from Groot. He didn’t think it possible.

“I am Groot?!” Groot roared, Bucky’s hair ruffling with the force of it.

“No, he’s not dead!” Steve guessed, looking to Bucky for confirmation.

“I am Groot!” You….you let this happen!?

Disappointment. Bucky needed no translation for it. He forced himself to relax, even as thorns began to grow from Groot’s branches and upon the flora’s shoulders.

“I am Groot?” How could you?

“Groot, listen to me,” Steve begged. “Let Bucky go. I know you're scared, but this won’t help Rocket.” Groot paid no mind, his sap stained eyes boring into Bucky.

He trusted me, the man realized; the flora’s hold on him did not lighten but he set Bucky’s feet down to the earth again. Trusted me to take care of Rocket. Bucky’s gaze shifted to Steve, if it’d been reversed...if I’d entrusted Groot to go with Steve…

“Groot, I’m sorry,” he swallowed. “I...I failed you.” He looked where Rocket lay and felt his heart twist. “I failed both of you.” Failed Steve.

Groot’s eyes did not waver for a moment. Hard and cold, unnerving from a creature usually so warm. “I am Groot,” What will you do about it? Thorns pricked Bucky’s sides and stomach, stinging.

“Groot!” Steve beseeched, “Let. Him. Go!”

Bucky looked to Rocket once more. An image of himself freshly captured by Hydra. Groot stared at him unblinking, as if into Bucky’s tattered soul, but slowly unwound his vines, taking his arm back to hold Rocket closely to his chest. He leaned down, nuzzling his head against the dull-looking fur.

“Buck.” Steve turned to him. “We have to do something.”

Bucky nodded, turning to Groot, solemn.

The affection dropping from the flora’s eyes once more replaced by murderous intent born from love and ….betrayal .

“I have an idea,” Bucky admitted, “but none of you are going to like it….” He looked down at his quivering, bloody hands. Me least of all.

II.

“Will this work?” Steve’s skeptical gaze landed on the leaking pipe overhead.

“We don’t have much of a choice,” Bucky commented, scanning the abandoned lab. That gurney, his breath caught beholding the human-sized contraption he had been locked into. He winced, focusing on Rocket. Somehow the sight of his mutilated little friend was, in some repulsive way, not as terrible as that fucking gurney. Though he hated to admit it to himself.

He rummaged through the grey cabinets and examined the tools scattered about the counter. It’ll do. “Steve?”

Bucky looked up at the blonde-haired man wheeling the gurney out of the room roughly. He tossed his love an understanding look, and Bucky nodded, thankful.

“So,” Steve planted his hands on his hips and addressed them in a way Bucky could have laughed at for all its natural expertise. “He’s stable for now, relatively.” Bucky could almost see the gears turning in his mind. “Our main prerogative is to...”

“I have to do to him, what they did to me.” Bucky looked down at where Rocket lay in Groot’s defensive hold, the uneven movements of his side the only indication of life.

Steve’s hand touched his arm. Bucky twinged. After all this time? Why do I still flinch? Potent self-loathing coursed through him but he stifled it, instead meeting Steve with a grim face. “They tore out his main control unit,” he explained. “If his cybernetics are anything like mine, it’s not going to be pretty. But it can be done.”

Steve nodded, one finger subtly stroking his shoulder. “Tell me what you need.”

This time a real smile came from Bucky, for the first time since their capture. The ever helpful Steve Rogers, always wanting to be of service.

True to his nature, Steve gathered all manner of equipment needed, arranging it beside on the steel table.

“That should be good enough,” Bucky inspected the scalpels, slicing pain, skin opening, blood, no. Don’t think of that. Cutting, ripping, pulling, gutting, no! He tightened his grip on the lithe blade and set it down, tearing his gaze from the array of brutal instruments.

“I found this,” Steve commented. Bucky turned to where the man wheeled in a smaller gurney, this one outfitted with four metal clamps and an extra one besides... For a tail, Bucky realized, and gestured for Steve to bring it closer. I’m putting him in this….trapping him. The way they trapped me… “you are one of us soldat.” He gulped, steeling himself, and scrounged what little assurance he could muster.

“Groot,” he breathed, “I need to take Rocket.”

The flora colossus scowled and stepped back, shaking his head.

“Groot,” Steve placed a delicate hand on the brittle wood. “You need to let Bucky see, he’s going to help him.”

The flora looked to him, bewildered.

“ You can hold onto him, and he'll die in your arms. Or, you can release him to ours and he might live. Your call. ” Bucky clenched his teeth against his impatience. Despite his limited vocabulary, the flora colossus was not dumb.

Groot only glared, but Bucky pressed on. “I seem to remember that sort of thing already happened to you, hasn’t it? I doubt you’d want to go through something like that again.”

“I am Groot,” the flora spat, searing eyes boring into him. He signed severely.

“He says…” Steve began, “He says that you have suffered enough to know there are things worse than death.”

Bucky glanced at the knives on the table, taunting him in their reflecting light. “Your call, but you better make it fast.”

Groot looked at Bucky, helpless rage threatening to shatter his bark. He looked down at Rocket for a moment, and Steve wordlessly patted his arm. Groot leaned down, tentatively touching his brow to that of the raccoonoid. Finally he relinquished his hold, and Bucky reached out, transferring the wounded creature with surprising grace.

“Thank you,” Bucky whispered, turning to place Rocket in the gurney. Several stitches on his back had already torn; dark dried blood crusted around those that remained intact. With the tightening of each strap and check of anaesthesia Bucky repressed images of pinched skin, of constricting pain, and mounting fear.

“I am Groot!” Groot made to shove Bucky aside but halted, Steve’s large arms hooking around him, pulling him back.

“Trust me Groot you do not want to see this,” Steve urged straining with all his might to drag the large flora out through the double doors.

Bucky glanced at him, those eyes he knew so well. I’ll be alright, Bucky tried to convey. I’ll be alright. Trust me.

His soulmate did not answer but nodded in affirmation and led Groot out, double doors swinging behind them.

Good. Relief temporarily lightened him as the footsteps faded down the hall. Steve should not see this either. Bucky plucked the scalpel from the table once more, holding it above Rocket’s torn back. He poised it with accuracy, the faces of the scientists behind his eyes. Don’t want him to see...how easy it is… Bucky bit his tongue, lowering the little instrument and setting it against the mess of flesh and stitches and fur.

“Forgive me,” he placated aloud, to Rocket? To Groot? To Steve? Whose forgiveness was he seeking? Doesn’t matter, I don’t deserve any of it no matter who it comes from. He let himself exhale as he drew the scalpel down opening Rocket’s back once more. Looks remarkably like my own, he recalled the first time he’d been opened. A canvas, that’s what the hydra agents called his body, a perfect blueprint for weapons capacity.

Buck set down the scalpel and looked, trying to recall those procedures he’d worked so hard to repress. If his cybernetics are anything like mine, then all of it is connected through the spine, he squinted in the flickering light at the thousands of tiny vien like silver wires.

“Soldat’s spine must be reinforced to support weight of artificial limb,” the grating voices in his head spoke. Bucky closed his eyes, leaning back against the counter. “You are one of us soldat.”

No….no. I am not! He forced his eyes open once more, holding his breath as he squinted down at Rocket again. That was one arm, he thought. But Rocket was a raccoon turned weapon, made bipedal through multiple surgeries and changes to his skeletal structure. All four limbs would have had to be reinforced, Bucky’s reason spoke to him in the language of the hydra scientist. With two prongs he gently lifted the pink viscus muscle tissue. Tiny wires, he assumed of the razor thin silver fibers that wound through the soft tissue. They must have all been supported and gather together by that main control unit. Like the fuse box of a building. Bucky pried gently, startling backward, dropping the prongs as Rocket’s left foot kicked.

“Rocket?” He held his breath glancing with dreaded apprehension at the raccoonoid’s sides. Finally, they moved. Bucky picked up the tool slowly.

“You must be careful there,” the doctor’s words echoed, “the spinal cord is of the most complex components to the human body.” Excruciating pain, screaming at the peeling of flesh, the dribble of blood. cold metal. “A single prick could compromise the entire operation and we need him functional.”

Bucky tried again, looking down at the open back, what was fat and muscle and bone and hardware amalgamation of parts. They didn’t need a large panel with my enhancements, Bucky recalled glancing at the note pads he could see from the table where they tortured him. After the procedures became routine and mind and body learned to deal with the initial shock of them, he could sometimes, on a good day, retain consciousness long enough to make out their handwriting. Desperately trying to figure out what and why they were using him. Faces leering, smiling, fingers and pincers poking at his flesh, jabbing into who knows what. A twitch of the face there, a tweak of his natural arm there, laughter as they stuck him with their tools. Bucky grimaced against it, willing himself back to the task at hand.

If they could connect the metal and hardware directly to each other, or to his spine, there would be no need for an extra plating. He loomed close, the bright light illuminating Rocket’s insides. Hues of pinks, reds, a sack of something pink and quivering, a kidney? He held the pincers tight, two in each hand trying to connect a small wire frayed on one end to another, please let this work, he prayed to a god he had stopped believing in long ago. With scrupulous care, Bucky connected the wires, watching Rocket’s ears or limbs or tail for any reaction. Once again, nothing.

“That’s it,” he whispered, looking for the next series of wires he could connect. Each tiny thread disappeared into his body, though Bucky tried to trace each one as far as he could. “I’m going to try and repair these.”

He found another set of wires, each of these coming from the raccoonoid’s left leg. “ Stop it! What are you doing?” he would scream, but their vacant eyes never looked at him, never considered or spoke to him. It was only after the surgeries, when the psychological tests began that they addressed him.

“I’m not going to treat you like that,” he whispered. You already are, by doing this, you are one of them. The shame making him pull his bloody gloves from the mush of Rocket’s bloody back after repairing more of the wiring.

“This is for your own good, ” the raccoonoid grinned, his mind hallucinating. Bucky tried to get free from the table, restraints cutting into his wrists and ankles. No….no!

“You of all people know there are things worse than death.” Groot’s words roared in his mind.

Bucky sprang backward, slamming into the concrete wincing as the white pain flashed through the back of his head. He looked down, fingers shaking, stained with blood. “You are one of us, soldat.” Bucky closed his eyes, beating back the harrowing memories while he slid down the wall, drawing his knees to his body. They were right, Groot was right. I can’t...I can’t do this. He looked through fevered eyes at where Rocket lay, passive. At his mercy.

Steve’s words stirred in Bucky’s heart, “we aren’t asking for forgiveness, and I’m way past asking for permission.” The fate of the universe had been at stake then. How is Rocket any different than that? How are any of us? He is Groot’s universe. And he was, inexplicably, part of Bucky’s too. Never worthy of anything, nothing more than a weapon. A means to someone else’s ends. Each of them had believed it. Each of them created because they were meaningless. Having died, having been born a rodent. Bucky drew himself up, trying not to look at his stained gloves. I’ve already asked for forgiveness, but he had yet to give himself permission to do this thing. Hell, Groot hadn’t really permitted it either and if he knew Rocket at all, the raccoonoid probably would’ve refused too.

If he makes out of this I’ll argue about it with him later. Bucky tried to make himself imagine it while he got back to work.

“We are creating something beautiful here,” the doctor encouraged while Bucky grit his teeth and wept.

“I am creating something beautiful here,” Bucky whispered, hovering the scalpel over Rocket again. “I’ll do you better than what they did to us.” His voice hitched at the lump in his throat. “As much as I can, I promise.” It was a thin promise, one he was pretty sure he couldn’t keep, but between the bouts of flashbacks and the spouting of blood and the fear he swallowed Bucky managed to repair four more cybernetic connectors and sow together a severed tendon. The man swayed on his feet several hours later, wiping sweat from his face, a trail of dark blood streaking down in its wake.

Knock. knock. Bucky tore his eyes from the vertebrae he was fixing and looked up through his haze of fatigue.

“How’s he…?” Steve stopped, taking in the scene before him.

Bucky could only guess at what he was seeing: The ex-assassin standing in a grim stone lab, tools and gauze, wires from damaged cybernetics hanging out with bloody cables from the back of a small hapless victim while he, Bucky Barnes, stood over it all, eyes glossy and arms painted in hues of agony.

“Bucky?”

Bucky looked up. Threat. Captain America. Kill. No! Steve….no. Not one of them. No! Bucky let go of the scissors he held, letting them rest against the wall of Rocket’s back.

“Steve,” he whispered. Take me away from this place.

As always, Steve seemed to read his mind. “It’s been over 12 hours Buck, you need to rest.”

“I….c..can’t...I have to…” Steve laid his hand on top of Bucky’s and closed around it.

The warmth traveling up his arm to his heart instantly slowed his breath.

“He’ll be alright for a few hours. Let his body heal on its own for now.”

Bucky nodded. “I just have to--” but Steve intercepted, slipping on gloves and gently wrapping gauze around the open wound.

He checked that Rocket’s heart rate and breathing were stable, and gently led Bucky away towards the door. Bucky glanced over his shoulder, seeing himself in that gurney. So many times they left him lying there. Exposed to the elements. Blood running down his back, burning flesh and the ghostly presence of the electric tools still inside of him for the night. Lost and alone in this same place.

Steve pushed open the doors and Bucky held his breath as Groot stood up, instantly looming over him with an expectant gaze.

Exhausted, Bucky explained, “He’ll live.”

“I am Groot?” He signed something, to quick for Bucky to follow.

Bucky’s raw fingers ached to answer but thankfully, Steve beat him to it.

“He wants to know if he can see him.”

“You won’t like it, but you can if you want, just...don’t touch him or anything else in there.”

Groot nodded but did not make to go through the lab doors just yet.

Steve said something to the flora colossus that Bucky could not hear, and Bucky resigned himself to passively following his boyfriend down to where he’d found an adequate bathroom and sleeping place.

“Do you want to shower?” Steve wondered, gesturing to the towels he’d found.

Bucky shook his head, only stripping off his filthy clothes down to the boxers.

Steve nodded, wrapping an arm around his waist and took him to sit in the small room. Bucky’s knees buckled the moment he got to the uncomfortable bed. He closed his eyes, visions of Rocket lying torn apart etched into his lids. His own mechanical arm, holding Steve and tearing into his own back as he howled in agony. Him leaning over Steve as he struggled in restraints, scissors cutting into his flesh. A grin full of teeth, soldat, soldat, soldat. Bucky put his hands to his head and stopped, dark blood embedded under his nails. Filling in the lines of his skin. The blood of his friend, the blood of the only creature who had gone through something similar to him, arguably because of him.

Steve knelt down in front of him, bearing a wet cloth. In the sliver of moonlight from the narrow window, the water gleamed as Steve silently wrung it over Bucky’s hands. Absolved. For a moment. The water dribbled over his flesh, washing away the blood, the guilt, the embarrassment. Steve’s warm hands took his and rubbed them dry, lulling Bucky’s mind into quiet contemplation.

“I’m one of them,” Bucky rasped, tears pressing against his eyes.

Steve shook his head, hands coming up to cradle either side of his face as he moved to sit beside him. “No, you aren’t, Buck.”

Bucky looked at him, those eyes so blue and so full of promise, of carefully cultivated hope despite all they’d been through. But equally tinged with hurt, with anger. With the messiness of emotions unbecoming of The Captain America.

“If you were anything like them, you would have let Rocket to die in that lab.”

Bucky nodded, the doctor’s words about “spare parts,” grating across his brain.

In the darkness, the outlines of Steve’s body leaned towards him and Bucky sucked in the breath of his kiss. How he longed to drink in all of that which was Steve Rogers. Selfish, maybe. Unwanted, probably not. Bucky kissed him back before drawing away for a moment.

“I couldn’t fight, Steve, I….I promised I wouldn’t. I didn’t want to kill again.” He looked away, towards the depthless dark of the floor. “I didn’t want to remember how good I was at it. How there’s a part of me…” He shivered despite Steve’s arms winding around him. “...that enjoys it.”

“James, look at me.” Steve’s fingers gently touched his face, turning him to look. “I would have done the same thing. Without a second thought.” He smiled sadly, eyes searching for Bucky to tell the truth.

Bucky sucked in a deep breath, the smell of his soulmate mixed with the damp of the concrete walls. He felt his spine seem to melt, leaning into Steve and laying his head on his lap, letting his feet tangle off the edge of the utilitarian bed. Steve cradled him, barricading him from the terrors both inside and out.

“You really are a shield you know,” Bucky smirked, letting his fingers run over Steve’s arms.

Steve laughed against him, and he closed his eyes to savor it.

“Haha. You’re hysterical, Buck.”

“I mean it!”

Steve planted a kiss on his head. “I know.”

They lay in the dark together, letting the sounds of their silence speaking for them. Bucky breathed to the tune of the dripping pipes and felt Steve’s hold on him, grounding him to whatever sanity he still had.

“I’m torturing him, Steve….I….I stand there working, and…”

“You went through it yourself, it’s the only reason you are able to save him.”

“No,” Bucky whispered, “it’s not that...I...I enjoy seeing it split open. It’s like it’s every Hydra agent, doctor and scientist who ever hurt me. Like I’m somehow getting revenge on them by what I’m doing to it.”

Steve’s arms did not retract their hold, but he looked down at Bucky. “ Him , Buck,” he reminded gently. “Rocket. What you’re doing to him .Which is saving his life.”

Bucky’s head snapped up, looking at Steve.

“ I….I forgot.” His voice broke, “Oh god, Steve,” the warmth drained from him. “I forgot,” he let out a choked sob.

Steve only kissed him again, stroking his cheek. “You remembered, that’s what matters. That is why you aren’t one of them. You never will be. The only person you belong to is yourself.” Steve grinned, eyes like the water under the moon. “...and to me.”

That infectious love burrowed it’s way into Bucky’s most ineffable fears, by some miracle making him believe the man.

“That’s right,” he whispered, kissing Steve back.

Steve pulled him close to his chest and lay down. They held each other close in that night, and for a moment, Bucky forgave himself. For everything.

Bucky didn’t want him to enter.

Bucky said he wouldn’t like what he saw.

Bucky said not to touch him.

Bucky said he’d keep him safe.

“You can hold him and he’ll die in your arms, or you can release him to ours and he might live. Your call.”

Your call. That was what seperated Bucky from the people who tortured him. Groot pushed open the doors to the lab and saw what it was that Bucky had done. Bloody tools lay on a tray. Each one had been used. Sharp smells of ammonia and anesthesia and rubbing alcohol. Rocket lay on his stomach, strapped into some odd metal contraption. Groot leaned down, looking at his friend’s face. Eyes closed, mouth muzzled with something that kept him so deeply asleep the flora colossus was worried for a moment that he was in fact dead. But no, one careful touch to his side and Groot sighed with relief. Somehow still alive. Like Bucky.

Bucky was the only one in this whole galaxy who could truly understand what they had done to Rocket. More so than even Groot himself. The knowledge of it a rot in his proverbial heart. Not jealousy; Groot would never envy another living thing having to go through such harrowing torture. It was something else, a vacant indisputable fact, like the leaves dying in autumn.

The flora gently undid the straps, holding the gauze that had been carefully placed around Rocket’s back. He lifted the little raccoonoid down as he sat cross legged on the hard floor with nothing to root down into, keeping the gas mask on despite everything within him that screamed to remove it. He held Rocket to him, feeling the soft fur against his wooden arms. He stroked the top of the raccoonoid’s head between the ears in the usual rhythmic motion. If only he could save him the way he’d saved the rest of the rest of the Guardians so long ago. He’d save them all if he could. Steve….Bucky. Groot let out tiny spores, dancing around Rocket’s little form and creating an air of tranquility.

Bucky didn’t want me to hold you. If only he knew, that holding you was all I could do. It was not enough. Not this time. Groot despaired, watching Rocket’s sides move in and out, in and out. Sap stuck to his face from where it leaked from his eyes.

He knew Bucky wanted to do the right thing. Knew that Bucky believed what he was doing was right. The only way, and maybe it was, yet Groot held onto the little ball of fur in his embrace and saw there the same thing he saw when he looked at the human with the mechanized arm. Someone who had been burnt and beaten, broken and bereft of anything they had been before. Someone whose eyes held a delicate happiness, trying to conceal their anguish. Someone who used their metal and weapons to keep from breaking down. Groot knew Bucky was smart, but what Bucky didn’t knew was how easily Groot could see through his stoic facade. Past that fragile exterior into the fear they harbor inside. A fear that they will turn and become the things they were meant to be. Terror that they must hold it together lest they snap and hurt the very person dearest to them.

It happened with Rocket, once, though Groot’s regenerative abilities easily healed the damage. He suspected it either hadn’t happened with Bucky yet, hence the man’s fear, or it had happened and he or Steve never spoke of it. As far as Groot knew. But Groot didn’t know anything, did he? He was a gentle, simple giant. How could he know the depths of anyone’s soul?

Some untold time later, Groot forced himself to place the raccoonoid back in the disturbing restraints, cursing himself with every snap and click.

“I am Groot,” I love you Little Rocket, I will be right outside. I love you. He let himself stroke Rocket’s tail one final time, sap leaking from his eyes before he turned and departed.

He walked down the hall, no sunlight in this place of misery. No earth. No...he stopped looking into the small bathroom. Clothes, lying in a heap. Groot sniffed, Blood. Rocket’s blood. Metal, chemicals, sweat. Bucky’s distress. He carefully plucked up the garments and filled the sink with water. Though brown at first it eventually became clear, and Groot worked through each piece. Shirt, pants, jacket, vest, socks, gloves. He rang out the vile odors of butchery, watching the blood and excretions and other forms of bodily fluids run down the fabric, down his own absorbent bark, into the cleansing water and eventually down the drain.

Groot shook with the smell and the feeling of his own vines taking in those substances, draining them from Bucky’s clothes. But he washed diligently, until each article of clothing was at last clean. Then set them out to dry, unleashing the small yellow spores to create tiny balls of warmth and light. Eventually satisfied, Groot folded them, leaving them outside the closed bedroom door but looked down once more, frowning.

Bucky is from New York….oak trees in the park, he recalled from the time Star Lord made them visit. Nodding, Groot grew several oak branches from his arm, letting the garments rest there until they smelled of sweet earthy oak. He set the clothes down once more by the door and resumed his post outside the doors of the lab. He sat down against the wall, knowing that if he entered again he would not leave.

III.

It was not hard to rise out of the rough bed the next morning. Steve was already up when Bucky opened his eyes, sitting up and stretching out the kinks in his back from the tough metal springs.

“I found coffee,” Steve appeared in the doorway, already fully dressed to Bucky’s dismay, but the coffee was good as any consolation.

He accepted, standing up and taking the military issued metal mug from Steve’s smooth hands. “This tastes like shit.”

“It’s been down here for who knows how long.” Steve laughed, beaming smile on his face as he finished the rest of his. Golden light through the small window illuminating his already radiant hair.

Bucky smoothed it gently and forced himself to drink the rest of the tar tasting liquid.

“Will you be okay? To work on him?”

Bucky nodded.

“You know if you need me to take over, just let me know.”

Bucky smiled but shook his head. “No I….I started this, I have to finish it.”

With that, he kissed Steve’s cheek and opened the door, staring down at the folded, cleaned clothes on the ground. “Did you wash these last night?”

Steve came up behind him. “Nope.”

Bucky shrugged, picking them up and changing, and started down the hall to the lab.

Groot sat outside, roots growing outward from his body to secure him to the wall as he slept. Bucky tip toed over the long legs, edging the doors of the lab open.

Just a few more days. The hardest part is over. You can take breaks. Reassuring himself with whatever wanton logic he could fathom was another area of expertise for Bucky. Just one more test for today, then you can sleep. Just three more drills, then they’ll cut. He distracted himself, making his way over to where Rocket, as immobile as ever lay strapped in the gurney.

“I’m sorry Rocket, just a few more days. Just hang in there a little longer.” he whispered and despite his better judgement Bucky reached out his fingers brushing one soft ear, half-expecting the raccoonoid to leap up and attack him. Almost wish he would, he thought stroking the soft ear. He allowed a small tenderness to fill his heart. They were all soft underneath weren’t they? Despite it all.

“Now I know why Groot likes to pet you so often,” he mused, the warm fur running smoothly under his hand. A tranquility slowly wrapped around him as he continued to pet the soft fur.

“I wanted to go to war, you know?” Bucky found himself saying. “Wanted to help in any way I could. Thought I was invincible. Like I could single-handedly save everything that was good in this world.” He smoothed Rocket’s fur. “Didn’t realize how wrong I was until I got to this place.”

He moved his hand in tune with the raccoonoid’s breathing, the mask of the muzzle fogging up and releasing. He let himself enjoy this odd serenity a moment longer, finally letting his hand slip into his glove, the velvet texture still a presence on his hand. It vanished the moment he unwound the wrapping, smell of meat and metallic fluids and sourness. Bucky covered his nose and mouth, reaching for the water to clean out the wound. Once done he took up the pinchers once more, searching for more cybernetic wires needing repair and connected them each with dexterity.

What if I save him but he...isn’t the same?

The words of caution from the hydra scientists flooded his ears: He must remain himself insofar that he is human, but not too human.. Capable of having emotions that support killing. Destroy all notions or impulses related to compassion or sensitivity.

Little did they know, Bucky mulled over as he worked, that out of all the torture hydra put him through, out of all they sought to do to him to establish their control, it was that very area that came the closest to being irreversible. Only Steve has been able to stir up his old self from where it has retreated so deep into his mind even he could not find it.

Bucky squinted as he attempted to reconnect another set of cables, these even thinner and coming down from Rocket’s brainstem. If he wakes but he isn’t sentient...if I just reverted him back to a normal raccoon... He’d never be able to face Groot again. He finished connecting the two and moved on to another set right underneath it, holding back the tight muscular tissue with clamps. And if it’s the opposite? If I snipped whatever it was preventing him from turning into the little monster they wanted? He tried to bury the thought under a mound of diligent work, keep focused. Worry about it later. Bucky worked his way up the spinal column, fixing and connecting, trimming and knotting and folding where he could, the voices of the Hydra scientists guiding him along the way.

It took five days and immeasurable hours. Bucky waned between embracing the demons that whispered to him and blocking them out as best as he could manage. Each day, Steve would come in with offers of reprieve, but never lingered long, knowing Bucky did not wish him to see. On the times Steve did linger long enough to drag Bucky from his surgery, he gave into a break and the two of them would leave the lab to find Groot sitting guard outside.

The flora too, bore the mark of the long hours. Bucky noticed the bark of his wood flaking, growing pale. The leaves and vines, usually a lucious green were dull and brown, and by the third day, they were gone all together. On the fourth day, Bucky finished closing Rocket up for the night, gave him a small stroke on the head and left the operating room to find Groot sitting as usual, only this time with fungus beginning to grow from his head and torso.

“Groot,” Steve began, looking up with worry at the flora colossus.

“I’m going to be done tomorrow,” Bucky judged. “When I’m done on his back I’ll wind him down from the anesthetic, just a little. You can go in then.”

“I’ll stand watch,” Steve offered. “But you have to go outside and get some sun.” The man had taken a hobby to researching everything he could about Groot’s rare species after the war. Bucky always knew Steve had compulsive tendencies and enjoyed learning about things. He wouldn’t be surprised if the man knew more about flora colossus then Groot did. “I’ll stand right here, and alert you if anything happens.”

“I know you were the one who kept him safe through all that’s happened to the two of you,” Bucky tried. “But, you’re not alone anymore. You’re not the only one who cares about Rocket. You don’t have to bear that burden alone.”

“I am Groot!” It’s not a burden! No more than Steve looking after you. Would he see that as a hardship? Groot shook his head, looking at the lab doors.

Bucky sighed. “Fine. With any luck you will be able to see him tomorrow.”

In answer, Groot only scowled incredulously and sunk down to the floor again. The next morning, however, Bucky noticed his clothing had been washed of gore again, and smelled of the trees that reminded him so much of Central Park.

On the last day, Bucky let Steve help him. He did not have enough hands to keep the fragile skin open while he repaired the cybernetics closest to Rocket’s brainstem.

“You’re a natural at this,” Steve observed watching as Bucky tried to hold a string-thin wire still.

“Yeah,” he quipped, “that’s why I hate it.”

“You could be a doctor,” he offered. “You could help people, Buck.”

Bucky cursed as the wire fell into the mess of blood and liquid below. “I don’t know, Steve, I,” he stopped, frowning.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky peeled back a thin viscous layer of soft tissue. He carefully reached for the scalpel and touched it gently. Metal. Raised…. He motioned for Steve to pull back harder, revealing a circular piece. PROPERTY OF H.Y.D.R.A BIOWEAPONRY DIVISION 89P13

Bucky drew his lips tight, brow creasing. “ Forget everything you knew soldat, you belong to us now.” Steaming flesh, smoke, white hot burning, searing skin. Bubbled blisters. The branding: H.Y.D.R.A

“Buck,” Steve called him back from the nightmare. “You alright?”

Bucky looked up at him. “No, this is coming out.”

“It’s close to his brainstem Buck, if something got caught or nicked--”

“I’d rather die my own person than live as someone's property, Steve!” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

For a moment Steve’s face went hard, then softened, as if deciding something for himself. What it was, Bucky would ask later. “Alright. Then let’s do it.”

Bucky reached for the small drill, heeding his aim. It hit true, loosening the circular bolt. Ever so carefully he pushed and prodded the thing, trying to ignore the phantom pain at the base of his own neck.

“There!” Steve exclaimed and Bucky let himself breathe again, dropping the bolt into a bowl.

Bucky smiled, surveying internal structures of Rocket’s back. Panel gone, brand gone, all wires and cables either connected, repaired or for some of them, removed. He checked once, twice, three, four times before Steve persuaded him to step away.

“Trust yourself,” he pointed out, knowing how hard that was.

If I don’t close it up now I never will. I’ll just do more harm than good, he finally decided, and prompted Steve as they closed the wound, taking every care to minimize the potential for scarring. We both have more than enough of those to spare.

“Ready?” Steve asked, as Bucky carefully began to measure down the anesthetic.

Not enough to fully wake him yet. He knew firsthand what it meant to wake to early from the procedures and while he was pretty sure Rocket did too, there was no reason to make it happen again.

He turned to Steve. “You can go. I’ll meet you soon. I want to be here in case, in case anything happens.”

Steve looked troubled for a moment, but eventually gave in. With a kiss he took his leave and left Bucky standing alone in the lab. The man stood over the patient for a while, cleaning the dried blood around the stitches and suddenly something moved. He reached for the knife at his leg.

Hydra operatives? Should’ve known they’d find us by now! Prepare, get to Steve, watch your six, watch..

“Mmmm,....G….Groo…?” Rocket moaned listlessly, tail flicking back and forth once before resting again.

“Rocket?” Bucky glanced at the anesthetic. I checked! I made sure it was enough! But several breaths more and the raccoonoid didn’t appear to fully awaken. Bucky carefully watched him over his shoulder as he moved to the doors.

“He’s asking for you.” He motioned for the flora to enter.

Groot approached, taking Rocket’s tiny paw in his large hand. Little claws tightened around one long wooden finger and Bucky felt his heart expand. Adorable enough to make Steve squeal, Bucky imagined, laughing to himself.

“He’ll be alright,” he whispered. “You can stay with him tonight,” Bucky explained. “Wake me if anything happens.”

The flora nodded, but only looked at Rocket’s muzzled face. For his part Bucky gratefully left, his body and mind and heart waiting for the welcome of Steve’s embrace.

The next morning, after Groot willingly left the lab, Bucky rotated Rocket over onto his back, the gurney conveniently shaped to expose his back underneath while supporting from the shoulders and hips so that it did not have to bear any weight.

The raccoonoid’s head lolled as he moved, and Bucky jumped at the sight of the muzzle. That terror, anguish, humiliation, I did this…. He trained his eyes downward at the right side of Rocket’s stitches under his clavicle. I had to, he couldn’t be awake for this. No one should be. Agony...dizziness, seeing his own ruined stub of a shoulder open, raw. A socket with the ball missing.

“Fuck,” Bucky breathed, revealing the totality of Rocket’s right shoulder. Raccoons don’t have shoulders….they broke his bones, to reposition them. The two bolts having served to keep his chest expanded, permanently, giving him a more bipedal stance.

Bucky grimaced at the sagging bone. Without the bolts, Bucky mulled it over morbidly. His shoulders will sink, collapsing into his chest. It’ll press on his heart and lungs. The voices of the doctors echoed, counseling him. If he was going to have to listen to them, he was going to keep the new hardware internal and not metal. Too heavy, biting, no relief, the long rod that had connected his metal arm into the socket pulsed with irritation. Instead he found a durable plastic, used for prosthetics and inserted it just below the collar Bucky repaired the torn blood vessels and stabilized the broken bone. Bucky repeated the process on the left side the next day, this one easier.

“Alright,” he cinched the last thread of stitching. “You’re done, we’re done.”

He took off his gloves finally, cursing at the blood that stained them and gently removed the anesthetic mask. Rocket’s jaws jung open, pointed white teeth sharp. Bucky waited, watching the little black nostrils expanding and huffing for breath.

“I’ll go get Groot,” he whispered and stood, making for the door and feeling a great weight lift from his….stinging claws ripped into the clothes on his back, tearing furiously, a wily hiss making him panic, reaching up to try and pry the snarling biting creature off of him.

“Rocket! Rocket!”

The ringed tail hit against him, batting his face, and Bucky cringed at the claws that drove into his skin. Rivulets of blood dripped down his back.

“Rocket!” He grabbed fistfulls of fur in his hands and pulled, yanking his own flesh as he did so. “Rocket, easy!”

The racconnoid writhed, teeth biting at Bucky’s arms as he tried to force Rocket off of him. With a final rip and skin splitting pain Bucky wrenched him off, holding him at arms length. The wild dark eyes fierce and foreign. The man’s heart skipped a beat, I failed...he’s...he’s just an animal. Rocket’s claws dug into his arms drawing more blood as he squirmed from Bucky’s hold.

“Groot! Get in here!”

Within moments, the flora colossus barged in, large eyes taking in the scene. For a moment he looked at Bucky, crushed. The pain of Rocket’s teeth dulled in comparison.

“I’m...I’m so sorry, I…”

Vines lashed out and the man made to throw himself to the ground out of their way, but stumbled back. The vines lifted Rocket from his hold and grew around the animal’s torso, binding his tail, legs and arms. The raccoonoid screeched as Bucky lunged for the vials on the counter.

“Hold him down!” he shouted.

Groot pressed Rocket to the ground, tears of sap ebbing from his eyes. “I...I am Groot,” he pleaded with the crazed creature.

“What’s going on?!” Steve demanded.

Bucky bit the cover of the syringe off with his teeth. “Sorry Rocket,” he growled, jamming the needle into his furry arm. He panted, rolling backward on the ground, staring at Rocket, whose movements eventually became lethargic and he slipped into subdusion again.

“I am Groot?” What did you do?!

Steve helped Bucky to his feet as the man examined his scratches.

“Let’s get him somewhere more comfortable.” Steve immediately began to try and solve the problem.

Bucky agreed, walking hurriedly through the hall down to the bed he and Steve had been utilizing, the only one in the place.

Groot laid Rocket down. “I am Groot?”

“Now we wait,” Bucky sighed, going over and leaning against the far wall. Steve pulled him into a hug and he rested his head on his shoulder, letting Steve hold him and descended into a peaceful darkness.

“Wh….what...the...”

Hours later, Bucky rose at the sound of a weak rasping voice.

“What the fuck...h….OW! GROOT!”

The man smiled, watching Groot throw his arms around the little raccoonoid, picking him up off the bed and holding him tight to his chest.

Bucky rushed over to the two of them. “Careful of his stitches!”

Rocket cocked his head in confusion, surly but made no attempt to get free of Groot’s hold. “What stitches? Barnes, what the flark happened?”

“It’s a long story,” Bucky admitted, grinning like an idiot.

“My back hurts,” Rocket whined.

“I am Groot,” Groot explained gently, nuzzling Rocket who endured the affection with the least resistance Bucky had ever witnessed. He held his breath at Groot’s words, but the raccoonoid only shrugged at whatever the flora colossus had said.

“I’ll give you two some privacy,” Steve smiled, ushering Bucky out of the room before his guilt could spill every detail of what had happened.

“You did it, Buck,” Steve exclaimed once they shut the door.

A small flickering pride was bubbling in his chest. “I just wish it didn’t have to be like this,” he put in.

Steve wound his arms around his waist, pulling him in close. “I’m glad it was.”

“Why?”

Steve reached up, moving Bucky’s hair out of his eyes with such reverence Bucky could have wept. “You never would have reconciled with yourself if it hadn’t.”

Bucky smiled wryly. “Reconciled? I wouldn’t go that far.”

Steve shrugged, swaying playfully. “You used what was done to you to save a life, you should be proud of yourself.” Steve beamed, wetness coming to his eyes.

“That’s all I’ll ever need.” Bucky kissed him deliciously.

Bucky forced himself to return to the room sometime later. Though he paused in the doorway. Rocket sat in the bed, Groot beside him, one large hand in the raccoonoid’s lap. Rocket thoughtfully traced the cracks of the bark of Groot’s hand. Lush vines adorned with pink flowers bolstered Rocket up from the pillow and Bucky muffled a laugh; he’d never seen such quiet tenderness from the raccoonoid.

The flora looked up, smiling at Bucky for the first time in a long time. Bucky nodded to him as he stood.

“I am Groot.” The tree creature declined to sign whatever it was he’d said but only left the room without explanation, leaving Bucky facing Rocket who had instantly replaced his gentle face with a jaded frown.

“How you feeling?” The man came and sat on the edge of the bed.

Rocket turned away, tail flicking, ears lowered. He drew a deep breath but did not meet Bucky’s eyes. “Like shit.”

“At least you're alive, right?” Bucky forced himself to ask.

To his relief, the raccoonoid nodded.

“Get some rest, we’ll head home tomorrow if you’re up for it.” He raised an arm to pet the raccoonoid’s head, but stopped himself and made to leave.

“Bucky?”

He halted. “Yeah?”

“Groot told me I passed out for a few days after….after the hydra agent.”

Bucky nodded, but did not turn to face him.

“That ain’t exactly true, is it?”

“No,” he whispered, “it’s not.” Silence hung between them, and Bucky opened the door a crack.

“Thanks,” Rocket’s small voice wavered and he did not need to see the tears to know they were there.

He sniffed at the same liquid beginning to leak from his eyes. “Of course. Now get some rest,” he whispered softly, and left the raccoonoid to sleep.

“Barnes!” Rocket’s harsh tone traveled across their apartment several days later.

Bucky cursed, getting up from where he and Steve cuddled on their bed and went to the door. Something soft grazed his foot. Bucky looked down. A beautiful ornate flower crown lay outside, made of oak leaves and acorns interspersed with simple white flowers like baby’s breath. It was Groot, Bucky realized. He smiled, a tear of gratitude coming to his eyes as he picked it up.

“BARNES!”

Bucky cursed again, setting the crown down on his dresser and following Rocket’s demanding voice. “What?”

“You want to tell me why I don’t got no metal in my back or shoulders anymore?” Rocket stood before the mirror on the bathroom door, dressed in black pants.

Bucky looked him over, quite impressed with his own work. The flesh was healing nicely, and fur had already begun to grow over the spot where the shoulder implants had been.

“I know you and Groot are in a platonic life partnership,” Bucky began, “but if you ever wanted to branch out I figured I’d spare you the awkward first date conversation and get that metal out of your skin.”

Rocket considered for a moment. “First off, Groot and I aren’t in ‘a life’ anything! I told yah, I keep him around cuz he’s useful in a fight.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Right, that’s why his name was the first thing you said after you nearly died.”

“EXACTLY! Now….wait what’s platonic mean?”

Bucky smiled. “Oh ask Steve, he’ll be happy to answer all your relationship questions.”

Rocket just blinked at him. “And as for branching out, romance, all that, just ain’t my thing.”

Bucky raised a brow, glad to steer the conversation somewhere away from the procedure. “No?”

Rocket shook his head. “It’s fine for you and Steve, but that stuff ain’t for me. Never has been.”

Bucky nodded. “Well, I thought you’d be better off without all that metal getting infected.”

Rocket nodded, looking at himself in the mirror. He raised a claw to where the bolts on his collarbone had been, and Bucky watched for a split second as a heartfelt smile broke the raccoonoid’s face. Self worth, love. In that moment, that look on Rocket’s face made it all worth it.

I did this, Bucky thought, and for once it was in admiration.

“Besides,” Bucky joked, “I don’t like seeing any creatures in pain. I only use shampoo that’s cruelty free. That’s why my hair so luscious and shiny.” He tossed his hair over his shoulder with bravado.

Rocket pulled a shirt over himself, glaring at Bucky with impatience. “1-800 why the flark should I care?” He shook his head in indignation and pushed past Bucky, who only watched him stalk off.

Same old Rocket after all, he jested to himself. Steve was right, as always. “You should be proud of yourself,” a new voice sounded in his heart, this one welcome.

“I am.” Bucky whispered, his heart unfolding just a little, his own wounds a little more healed.

#gsrb scenes from a life #my writing #steve rogers #captain america #rocket raccoon #bucky barnes #gotg #avengers #to be bucky is to suffer #groot #stucky

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