#and i like having to work with natural fibers it's given me more appreciation for wool and skepticism towards acrylic yarn

[chintzwife]

im having a blast nalbinding bc im insane and i like to learn something new and struggle, but seeing scandinavians weep about the integrity of a dying viking craft is nauseating. nalbinding 'died out' because it's an extremely inferior craft compared to like the potential of crochet or knitting which are much more forgiving since they can be unwound after a mistake and can work out of an uninterrupted string of yarn without having to attach new lengths. crochet and knitting can make dense or thin textile easily, have more decorative options, and crochet still incorporates the flexibility and improvisation possible in nalbinding. it just doesn't compete lmao, even if it doesnt unravel. also if it 'died out' why are so many of you posting to instagram about it.

[laurapalmerz]

rbing that post about james has got me thinking about just how much they butchered his character. he's an interesting case as the writing for and acting has been particularly bad since the beginning of the show. since many characters i adore eventually fell apart toward the end of s1 into s2 (josie is the biggest example, but you can also apply donna, cooper, audrey, nadine, the vast majority of the women of twin peaks in general, etc. to that list as well) it's not unusual to see a degradation of care toward plot lines and growth. however, it's just sadder in this instance since james never had a chance right from the jump. he's the biggest meme and most hated character that isn't a villain in the fandom by a long shot. hell, even when i first started watching the show i didn't like him for how he treated donna. reflecting on it now after my rewatch, yes i still hate how he treats her, but i can also see WHY he would be that way. because of the quality of his character portrayal, not a lot of people understand or care that his coping mechanism for trauma is running away. he stays with his uncle while his mom is out on benders so he doesn't have to sit in the silence of the home that his father ran out of and his mother drinks herself to death in, so it's only natural that he runs away from twin peaks to get away from the memory of laura that's been haunting him since her death. does that mean it's a good coping mechanism? absolutely not. it's just an explanation. should he have communicated that better to donna so they would work something out? absolutely! you can blame that on them being teenagers but can also point toward bad writing choices that purposefully wanted to push them away so that god awful grooming subplot could happen (i'm forever shaking my fist at whoever it was that made that decision in the writing room and approved that for filming). had he been written consistently and was given to an actor who could embody that personality, i truly believe we could've been given a more empathetic figure in james hurley; a boyfriend who loved laura with every fiber of his being and genuinely wanted to help her out of the hole she was in. who loved donna but couldn't give her what she wants because there's a wall standing between them that can't be torn down until the past is put to rest. a boy who runs away because he can't face thoughts that pervade his life, that he never learned to cope with. multifaceted and intriguing, one that could still be memed but appreciated still. we can't change the past, so we're stuck with the version we have now. one that will never get his flowers because we got pouting face instead.

[rollforthings]

Dug’s Duty: An Actual Play of Little Dung Guy

This post is part of a series I'm calling Solo RPG Sundays, where I spend a lazy Sunday afternoon with a solo journaling tabletop game. As I start this project, solo journaling games are everywhere in the indie scene but aren't really my cup of tea -- I love the collaborative nature and shared story of group games, which I don't really get with journaling games. My hope is that by sharing my experience with solo journaling game, I'll gain a new appreciation for them, share with others what they can do, and boost the signal of indie creators. With that said, here's the first in the Solo RPG Sundays series, Little Dung Guy.

Little Dung Guy is a one-page solo journaling rpg where you play as a dung beetle in its sisyphean task to get a ball of poop up a hill. This game was written and illustrated by Felix Klee, published by Sleepy Badger Games, and submitted as part of the 2024 Game Exploder Game Jam. Find it pay-what-you-want at this link to play for yourself: https://sleepy-badger-games.itch.io/little-dung-guy

(Content warning: bugs and poop, of course.)

~~~

Hi. My name is Dug, and I’m a dung beetle.

I’ve got a job, a real important one. I work in sanitation and early-life care. A unique combination to be sure, but the savanna is home to all kinds of unique work opportunities. I gather poop into easy-to-move, ergonomic spheres, and roll them into the best spots. There they serve as home base and food for a new generation of dung beetles. Anyway, the following is a professional logbook of my work experience and musings on the craft. It’s for posterity and job training for future combination-sanitation-early-life-care workers, like myself.

Day 1

Weather: hot, sunny.

I got to thinking about the nature of my career. Who do I work for? Technically I’m self-employed, a contractor of sorts. My duty (hehe) is to the younger generation of scarab-lets that come after me. But I guess in the clerical sense, my employer is a middle-aged African elephant named Subira. Subira is an excellent boss. She’s a patient and attentive listener, she takes care not to step on me with those enormous padded feet, and her high-fiber diet makes my job all the easier. We don’t really talk much -- my work is more the back-end of the production line -- but this just means she’s very hands-off when it comes to the work I do, which I appreciate. I’m sure most folks prefer being hands-off when it comes to my line of work, but not me. Anyway, today Subira’s given me a lot to work with, and I’m taking it up this hill here.

Working mostly with my back legs in a rhythmic workflow, it leaves the mind to wander as I work. I think about the future and what I hope to achieve one day. I like to think I’m a pretty simple guy. I often think about culminating my life’s work in a huge, round ball of elephant dung and settling down, having a few hundred kids, maybe taking up gardening in my retirement. It’s not a huge dream, but then I’m not a huge guy. I like the simple things in life -- dirt, dung, rolling, family, the warm sun, and semi-digested leaves and grasses.

Sometimes I wonder if the larger animals here on the savanna are aware of what I do. Sanitation work is often overlooked, I think. Folks usually don’t  consider their waste after they’ve discarded it. Like, take buzzards for instance. They relieve themselves from the tops of trees, or even from high up in the sky. I bet they haven’t a clue where their poop even goes after the fact. But then, buzzards do care a great deal for the waste of lions and leopards and such. The leftovers from a big animal are food for the buzzards. And the leftovers from elephants and giraffes and the like are food for dung beetles like me. I guess it’s all relative when you look at it from multiple perspectives. Lok at things all ‘round. Kind of like this ball of dung, which is probably double the size of when I started on it this morning. Anyway, I’m not really sure how aware the big fauna are of the work I do, but at least the elephants like Subira are careful not to step on me.

I’ve passed the halfway mark up this hill now. The sun is at its highest, the slope is getting steeper, and this ball is probably much heavier than even me now. I hear the hum and buzz of cicadas drift across the hazy air. I quite like the cicadas; they may be loud and talkative, but they have some interesting ideas and they’re always good company if you don’t mind hanging out in large numbers. Sometimes after a shift I’ll hang out with some fellow dung beetles, and we’ll shoot the sh- uh, the breeze, over lumps of mulch. It’s mostly standard work talk, which I don’t mind, but often the conversation gets into these one-upping matches about the size of the dung balls everyone’s rolled. And while I must admit I’m guilty of getting into those discussions myself, they can get a little annoying. And I’m pretty sure Dusty is stretching the truth about the ball she rolled last week. There’s no way you could roll a 30-cenitmeter ball out of hippo dung, it’s just too wet!

Ah, poop! Just as I was nearing the top, a huge breeze whipped up, curved my dung ball sideways out of my grip, and it tumbled down to the bottom of the slope. I knew this was going to happen today. Th stars weren’t right last night and the cicadas were chirping off beat this morning, both clear signs we were gonna be dealing with harsh conditions. Dusty doesn’t believe in the cicada theory, but it’s never told me wrong. Shit. Ah well, nothing for it but pick up what’s left and try again. I’m pretty beat though, so I guess I’ll leave it lie and start it up tomorrow.

~~~

Day 2

Weather: hot, sunny.

Okay, here we go, bright and early. The ball was right where I left it, and I’ve started it back up this hill. I lost some progress on it, but at least it’s a lighter start to the day and I can roll up most of the bits that came loose on the slope.

I wonder if other dung beetles encounter this kind of professional setback. Surely others have similar experiences. But maybe my approach is a little off. I remember this time Dusty hit a snag and her dung ball starting rolling down, but she held right on and rolled with it. Kept it mostly together too, and she bragged about the scratches on her shell from the experience. Maybe I should try the hang-on trick, too.

This wouldn’t be the first time a workday went up in steam. This one time last season I tried rolling on a flat plane got a great shape and size, only to roll directly into a termite mound. After the initial panic -- it was a very big dung ball, and termites are pretty tiny -- there was a lot of kerfuffle about how to proceed. Eventually I had to concede to some weird zoning bylaw, which I’m pretty sure the termite foreman was just making up on the spot. But I wasn’t about to argue the matter further, I was wasting daylight and the termites were getting agitated and swarmy, so I just cut my losses and had to start a new ball from scratch. It was a shitty day, but it taught me the importance of location and regular blind-spot checking, so I guess it made me a better roller in the long run.

I’ve just had to stop rolling for a sec, something super interesting just happened. There was a shadow overhead, one of the buzzards I think, and an aerial poop just came down like a falling star right near me! It’s kind of fascinating, and it’s got me thinking. One animal’s waste and all that. Maybe I could roll it up. I’ve never done a hybrid ball before. This buzzard material is… different. Not sure it’s prime ball material, nothing like the elephant-issued industry standard, but hey, innovation breeds progress, and maybe it also breeds hundreds of larvae. Heck it, I’m gonna try it and see what happens.

Excellent! Just made it past the spot yesterday where the breeze foiled my attempt. The slope is leveling out and the top of the hill is in sight. The ball is really big now, and the incorporated buzzard material is blending in an interesting stripe pattern. It’s at this point I need to remember to keep things at pace, even, controlled. Don’t get hasty just because it’s almost done. Stay focused, stay on target, keep the rhythm. Left leg, right leg, other left leg, other right leg. Left leg, right leg, other left, other right.

Aaaand… there! Yes! I made it to the top! I wipe the dust from one of my several brows and give myself a pat on my front left shoulder. This is a fine specimen. Huge, round, with hybrid materials (elephant and buzzard dungs), atop this little hill in the full light of the savanna sun. If only my parents could see me now. They’d probably say something like, “Which one are you?” I’m one of hundreds of siblings and we dung beetles don’t really do names or anything until we reach our adult phases anyways, but I could definitely introduce myself and they’d definitely be proud of me. I hope one day, my future children will accomplish a feat like this, and I can ask them who they are and they can introduce themselves and we can all admire our glorious, if unglamorous, profession. ‘Cause we’re little dung guys, and that’s just how we do.

[etherealsomething]

2/26/23

An Assignment for Sculpture I

(Context, Brian Morgan’s relative, Finck, made a marble egg that looks very similar to Brancusi’s Sculpture for the Blind and our assignment was to respond, as an art scholar, to Morgan’s letter asking why Brancusi’s art is in a museum and why Fink’s is not)

(My sculpture teacher read it aloud to the class, so I wanted to keep it here to remember it. I’m proud of it.)

(anyways… the assignment)

Dear Brian Morgan,

“...what is there about Brancusi that makes his egg a work of art suitable for a museum, and not the egg by Finck?”

Thank you for your inquiry. The debate of what qualifies as art is an ongoing question that permeates the work of all creators. 

When it comes to the work of your great-grandfather, Peter Finck, I am forced to think about the artisans and craftsmen from before the European renaissance. Throughout the medieval ages, art was created not by artists but by craftsmen working off their workshops' commissions. Art was not made by artists. The names of so many creators have been lost to time and replaced by the names of their patrons. But just because their art is not tied to the name of the creator does not mean that they are any less of an artist. The very fact that we can see and appreciate the beauty of their craft gives it the power to be art. 

Art–the very concept of it–is nothing if not unforgiving. Unfair, even. Ruled by the hyper-intellectualized and aristocratic nature of academia, art has always been defined by those in power. The societal connotations of Brancusi’s work have established an agreement on its artistic nature and I think this is the root of why his work lies in a museum instead of on the desk of his descendants.  

The institution of museums is built upon this idea of legacy. Legacy as in an intellectualization of art that stems from a creator's thoughts and ideas and their ability to fit into the ideology of ‘museum-worthy art.’ It's a heartbreaking reality of the art world. The works of Brancusi are built upon a lasting legacy that is ripe with ideas and commentary. Brancusi has created art with a foundational idea stemming beyond just the desire to create and sadly, the museum world may never uncover the ideas proposed by creators like your great-grandfather. 

It comes back to this idea of exposure, rooted in the elitist nature of academic art. There are most likely a near-infinite number of examples of artists just like Finck that have been lost to the sands of time merely because of their lack of exposure. The harrowing reality of art–museum art specific–is its inaccessibility to the public. Artists are forced to establish connections with other artists, critics, and scholars in order to root themselves in the canon of academic art. Finck may have never been given the opportunity to go to art school or make these connections, shafting him from joining the ranks of ‘museum-worthy artists’.  

Sadly, I feel as if my opinions on art and its value are not shared among many in the art world. But I’d like you to know. 

To me, art can be anything. Art is beyond what ‘belongs’ in a museum and it infiltrates the very fiber of humanity. Art stems from aesthetic mastery and the realization of ideas. The aesthetic and emotional purpose behind a piece of art is infinitely more important than the academic intellectualization of its ‘meaning’. I believe that Finck’s egg is equally as important as any piece in a museum, based strictly on its ability to inspire beauty. The aesthetic value of art is not something that can be objectively sought and if someone is able to find beauty in an object–regardless of its intention–then it should be treated as art. The moment something is given truly artistic care, dedication, and attention it becomes a work of art. Hell, even this computer I’m typing this on could be its own work of art if I gave it that authority. I believe that your great-grandfather’s egg has not been treated like art because it has never found an audience with people that can appreciate its beauty in an artistic way. 

I am a firm believer in the idea that anything can be art if given the power to be so. The generation of one's ideas of beauty and artistry are incredibly subjective, being altered by one's upbringing, one's culture, and one's background. What gives art meaning is being able to find meaning in it. Art, to me, is based on the aesthetic experience on the most individual level over intellectualism defined by any specific class. Just because artistic authorities have deemed certain pieces unartistic does not take away from their ability to inspire beauty in an individual, and to me, that is art. 

If I were a curator, I would love to include Finck’s work. You said, “..the egg of my great-grandfather has the smooth, graceful lines of an artist.” That is more than enough reason for this piece to be seen by the world. Your passion and belief in this piece give it a depth of meaning that goes far beyond the ideology of many artists being showcased in modern (temporally. With a lowercase ‘m’) museums. The fact that you find artistic beauty in this piece gives it the power to be art. 

I think the only reason your great-grandfather’s piece is not in a museum is that the very institution of museum-worthy art has not given it the title of the art, but I refuse to believe that such an institution has the ability to take away your individualized perception of Finck’s work as art. 

Thank you for your inquiry. I wish you the best.

Define art however you wish. 

[protector-ofthe-wilds]

The afternoon following the events in the Hinterlands was rather quiet. Koda and her new companion had spent the majority of the night talking at the camp about many topics - both serious and casual in nature. The sunrise prompted a nap, and then the two found themselves sat across from each other once more as Koda prepared an apple to snack on.

“May I see your bow?” The request was polite enough, given the otherwise haughty nature the Lady Sathrah seemed to possess. More Highborne than arachnid, Koda had thought to herself - though perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised. To be so thoroughly loved, by both Elune and her priestesses, would be enough to inflate anyone’s ego, she mused. To be loved so dearly that in order to save her soul and relieve her of the misery of madness, they would give the somber order to murder her. It was almost…

“Kodian?” The named Kaldorei sat up a little straighter, her thoughts sundered as the many eyes of Sathrah peered at her quizzically. “Your bow?” 

Koda exhaled a quiet grunt, before reaching for her prized weapon. It was placed with care in the space between them and then the archer was still. The Lady took a moment to give the bow proper appreciation, admiring the handiwork of its crafting and the endless amount of care that had gone into maintaining it…and then promptly used her pincers to bite through the string, shearing it into two uneven pieces. 

“Hey!” Koda barked out in shock, snatching it back into her hand. The apple was abandoned as she flipped the weapon over, gingerly lifting one half of the string with her fingers. Then, her ire landed onto the tarantula with a deep frown. “What’s wrong with you, huh? Do you know how much work it takes for me to get this to where I want it?” 

“Hush, sister, and have patience,” the Lady chided, which only served to vex Koda further. “I do not act without purpose.” 

“I’m not your sister,” Koda growled back, but then found herself obliging Sathrah’s order as the spider began to…spin a web? Well, not quite - she wasn’t hanging from the tree and weaving some intricate pattern to entrap flies. No, it was more like a seamstress pulling thread from a spinning wheel, winding the silvery fibers together between the hooks of her legs. 

“Your bow again, if you would be so kind.” 

Koda was understandably hesitant, but at least this time she had an idea of what the Lady was planning to do. And so, the archer's deft fingers worked the tattered string away, and the bow was now held out at an angle towards the weaver. A certain sort of awe overtook Koda, then, as she watched Sathrah slice free what was now a solid, tensile string and attach it to the bow's hooks with ease. 

“You may need to adjust the tension,” she instructed, “but you should find it an otherwise perfect fit.” 

Koda didn’t waste time on being annoyed by the Lady’s prideful self-admiration, instead taking the moment to thoroughly inspect the new bow string. Hardly half a second’s worth of adjustment, and the string settled into place perfectly. 

“I’ve never had it balance so easily,” Koda said, tone baffled. This, of course, did no favors for the Lady’s already swelling ego, which was clear enough in the tone of her next words. 

“Yes, well, the Priestesses did not have me weave for them simply due to my good looks.” This earned her something of an exasperated stare from Koda, and so the Lady quietly exhaled an amused sigh and continued. “The healing capabilities borne of my webs are well known, but lesser spoken of is the latent power woven within each thread. My mother has deemed you worthy of such gifts…” One of her frontmost legs pointed towards Koda for emphasis. “...and so I shall give of them freely.” After a second of pause, the Lady continued, her leg once more resting upon the loamy soil. 

“I will need to travel to Duskwood soon in order to provide you with my healing waters. Weaving a web here to gather dew would be pointless; the air is too thick with the humans’ detritus. In the Twilight Grove, however - under the Light of Elune and within proximity to the Dream - I will be able to work with the proper efficiency.” The corruption of the human’s city was one thing the two of them could agree on, and Koda nodded along in understanding. The Lady watched her for a moment, before offering one final thought: “The battle ahead will test you and your flame-bathed Druid, both body and soul. You will want these waters, sister.” 

“Then I will accept them,” was Koda’s solemn response - a reply which seemed to please the Lady well enough, by the way she adjusted her stance to stand a bit taller.

“Wonderful. You may run along for now, Kodian, and begin your preparations for the journey to come. Perhaps give your bow’s upgrade a try at the training grounds, yes?” The arachnid’s dismissal of Koda returned some of the girl’s annoyance - but not quite all of it - and with a grunt, the Kaldorei stood to depart, slinging her bow into its place across her back.

“Try not to get your webs all over everything while I’m gone,” Koda instructed as she retrieved her apple, if only to punctuate the quip with a sharp bite into the crisp skin of the fruit. The Lady allowed her this, only chuckling lowly as she watched the girl wander off towards the city with a silent, solitary thought:

What a fascinating little adventure this would surely turn out to be.

[bpdypulsblogs]

3 tips to get fit in 3 weeks.

Given the question "What is the key to fitness?", There are some things to consider.

- Regardless of the science, everyone knows the physical state differently according to their own preferences.

- There are many ways to get to any fitness component, I've only talked about a couple.

- You must know what are the five basic components of physical fitness determined by science.

- All the "keys" of physical condition require constant effort on the part of the person receiving the form.

Once these things are determined, we can begin to analyze some of the ways in which I know that you can improve your fitness level quickly. To be specific, I will discuss four (4) parts of the board that I will only give to those who want to get in shape as quickly as possible.

Then, without further ado, go ahead!

1* - The enemy often: whether you are working, cycling, jumping or climbing a tree for a long time, do so with maximum intensity. Of course, this reduces the time you spend in the activity, but the general physiology of the activity will benefit you. Having said that, maybe I should explain that last statement. If you want to run a marathon or swim in Tahiti,

my previous statement is a direct lie. However, if you want to be strong, strong, energetic, vital and muscular, my affirmation is about money (give me five cents, another grape, please). The people who run as an essential part of their training are muscular, lax and strong.

If you do not believe me On the other hand, people who walk or are less intense (running, cycling, etc.) tend to be thin, less muscular and have a less general structure. If you wish, you can write "Sports Resistance" in Google Images.

Although I tend to appreciate the two types of physical activity and the two types of physical condition that I admit, these exploits are more like my idea of correct body image. So, if you want a functional and powerful body, strong, thin and vibrant, go for a run!

2* - Reduce cereals and dairy products: Fortunately, this indication starts at the root and becomes more acceptable in the world of fitness. Minimum: our bodies have not been designed to receive grain products or dairy products from non-human animals. Cow's milk, goat's milk, all milk other than breast milk is designed for children of this type, not for you or the first. While human milk was designed for us to drink, it was even supposed to be ingested at a young age. As soon as we can eat, chew and eat our food,

we pretend to eat the naturally nutritious things that the earth naturally provides us with. The grains are large quantities because our hungry descendants on the way to the day found that growing wheat or rye or oats in a bag was much easier than chasing rabbits or roots around the nut a snowstorm. Fortunately, we are not very difficult to feed these days. If you are hungry, then,

of course, continue with milk and bread. Hell, if you're really hungry, everything you can find! But if physical fitness is your goal and not just survival, cut the beans and milk. They are solid in the body, not easy to digest, many of them are addictive, they tend to create inflammation and the body reacts swelling, slow and oily.

There is evidence to suggest that cereals (wheat in the first place) can lead to verifiable brain damage and contribute to disorders such as ADHD, ADHD, and depression. Try to continue with skim meat, fiber vegetables, nuts, berries, and melons. These kinds of things are what our bodies are designed to eat, so try to try it.

3* - Work with a fitness coach - I know, I know, you think, "Jared, it's not a very original board", but this is one of the best tips I can give you. In my experience, less than 1% of most sports club members work with a personal trainer, while over 60% stop working and eventually lose their membership. You see every month!

Join our exclusive fitness program.

[missinghan]

aria of an assassin ⤖ lee minho

❖ genre : assassin au; fluff; angst

❖ word count : 6,2k.

❖ warning : mentions of blood & violence, explicit language 

❖ summary : minho hasn’t been fazed for decades throughout his bloodied career until the next target happens to be a black cat and he’s suddenly incapable of pulling the trigger.

❖ note : okay, so it’s been a year? this tiny, stupid blog is turning one year old today? yea I couldn’t believe it either. this is to all of my mutuals and readers out there, I don’t say it enough but I truly appreciate each and every one of you 🖤 I wish I could have written something longer but due to school, this random piece will have to do for now.

❖ the sequel : with felix is out!

one.

“Shit.”

Minho grits in a hushed tone although all that has been accompanying him is the pitiful moonlight and icy breeze dissolving into every fiber of his skin. Every minuscule movement suddenly becomes too irritating to his eardrums. The hustle and bustle life of the city at night. Terrible traffic. Even the sound of his own inhales and exhales. 

What is that thing?

He thinks to himself, proceeding to expand his eyesight with the pair of scopes; confusion soon flares into curiosity, then faint anger and dead silence. He swears his heartbeat just paused awkwardly like a broken record for a split second there. Such strange, or odd targets are no stranger to him; nor do they stir something inside the coldness of his rib cage. 

Not an easy kill, they say. And not easy it is. 

Because whatever he’s watching with his very eyes is a cat. A goddamn cat with a coat as sleek pitch as the dark canvas upon his head and piercing golden eyes. The peculiar animal walks with its head held high like it’s lording over everyone else—such self-reassurance, such radiance some humans cease to possess. 

It’s dangerous, they say. But it’s a fucking cat! Irritation bubbles up at the back of his throat, makes his skin crawl, and causes a bark of profanity to leave his lips once more. Has it not occurred to his client that he doesn’t kill children and animals? When it’s clearly been written on the contract? In bold, underlined, and everything?

They could have at least given him more details on what he’s getting himself to this time. 

An exhale. He packs up his things, pulls his black cap down a little, and leaves the top of the building without looking back. If he did, he would have seen those starry eyes boring holes onto his back. 

two.

The road Minho is walking through is more than familiar. For one, he takes the same path every day to grab a drink at his go-to place—a vending machine near an old, plain high school. 

It’s fair to say he knows every corner of the neighborhood like the back of his hand—from the dark alley where bullies beat up their classmates to the small stall of lemonade of a middle school girl who waves at him every morning. He never reciprocates though; it doesn’t feel right. The amount of apathy in his heart isn’t enough for him to act normally when taking lives is what he does for a living.  

For two, he used to have a part-time job at that particular high school for an old request. Due to his conscience, he did go out of his way to take the kill outside of the school—causing a catastrophe in such an environment makes him uncomfortable.

Just then, he stops. His brow raises. Isn’t that…

The black cat slinks through the crowd of nosy students in the direction of where he too is heading. It raises its nose and gives the air a rough sniff, making a face as though the general stagnant with exhaust fumes stench of the city disgusts the entirety of its existence. 

Watching it take a slight dip to avoid being hit with someone’s bag, Minho holds back every urge to come running at the creature and wrap his arms around its small figure. He wonders how long it’d take for the cat to reach its final destination because it’s definitely taking some sweet ass time to stride through the front of the main gate like a supermodel. Meanwhile, he’s stressed to the core as if the harmless high school filled with teenagers is nothing less than a battlefield. 

Is it testing him?

Something is oddly unsettling about an animal staring straight into his eyes. Paranoia fuels the forgotten irritation inside his chest, sets out to make him actually think those golden eyes are memorizing every inch of his feature. Then, they soften with what seems to be exhaustion, its tiny head turning and its tiny feet take it skipping gently away from the scene. 

Minho finally acknowledges the knot inside his stomach and the breath he’s been holding. With a harsh gulp, he no longer takes notice of the fact if his cap is hung low enough or if he’s walking too quickly. For the first time in long, a rush of adrenaline hits him hard enough to make him speed walk through the herd of chatty teenagers. 

Questions naturally pop up as his shoes kiss the ground, his shadow sprinting into a dark, though familiar alleyway. Was he hallucinating? But he’s been getting enough sleep and eating well. What makes him so certain that it was the same cat? Instincts or some sixth sense bullshit perhaps. If it was the cat that’s assigned to be killed off in a week, what’s so dangerous about it? And how long has he been running for? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? And to where? 

“You.”

Half-way through trying to keep his thoughts off of his face, Minho stops himself when a rather feminine voice echoes through the narrow space. Unsure of whether the voice was reaching out to him, his legs stop moving while his eyes are peering through the dark. Much to his heart’s dismay, shivers run up his spine when something comes in contact with the warm flesh of his neck. 

“What’s your name?” 

Slowly, with his hands on the back of his head, he turns on his heels. “Excuse you?”

You retract your gun-shaped fingers into the pocket of your jacket, phlegmatic eyes gazing at him through the thickness of the night. “I want to know your name,” you try to make your point clear, utterly unfazed. 

Minho stares you down for a good five seconds. Neatly dressed in the school uniform, an oversized jacket thrown over your body but no backpacks. There’s a name tag being embroidered onto the fabric in red “Shin Yuna - 1A”. Whoever you are, he’s certain that isn’t your name. That name doesn’t even suit you. That isn’t your uniform. 

“What’s the point?” he questions, hands dropped to the sides in slight relief. 

You tilt your head, expression neutral. “I have a habit of collecting names of people who tried or are trying to kill me. It’s quite relaxing to write it down on a list actually. You know, easier to keep track.”

He’s trying hard to not let any impulsive urges overthrow the rational side of his brain. Everything suddenly twitches in slow motion. His silence seems to bore you. Your eyes are more dead than angry, more done than irritated. Like you’ve been through this shit one too many times already to care. 

“At least say why you’re sent to kill me.”

That, Minho can answer within a blink of an eye. “They sent me because I don’t exist.”

Your gaze glistens with a glaze of boredom. “Everyone said so.”

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock. Where’s your house, kid? I’ll walk you back. It’d be a pain in the ass if your parents found out how you’re wandering alone after school,” he brushes it off like you’re a slight nuisance (which you are). His heartbeat spikes up once at the mention of family, one that you’ve acknowledged with ease. 

Your arms are folded over your chest now, to cover up the sudden stab of sympathy inside your chest. “There’s no need. I don’t have a place to go back to nor do I have parents who will nag me for staying out late.” 

His mind automatically blackouts along with his senses, blurred with such peculiar feelings swirling at the pit of his stomach. You make it sound like it’s not that big of a deal like you’ve utterly been numb for so long. It’s tragic but understandable. This isn’t the first time he has witnessed a story like yours—your parents, dead or alive, he does not know; by the sound of it, you’re an orphan. Another unfortunate being to graze this planet like himself. This means you can’t afford school, so that uniform really doesn’t belong to you. 

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

“It’s Lee Know. Call me Lee Know.”

“Don’t bother trying, Lee Know. No one has ever made it. They never did.” 

You didn’t mean to expose anything about your life to a total stranger, or specifically an assassin. However, nothing matters when you most likely won’t meet him again nor will he succeed in taking your life. Even the fact that he chose not to give you his real name amplifies how much shit he does not give about you. You don’t expect anything more honestly. 

“Alright, we’re done here,” you feign enthusiasm before clasping your hands together. “Go home. The sun is already going down.”

Strangely enough, Minho can only watch as your shadow shifts to the outline of a black cat before dipping into the depths of the starless night. 

three.

To Minho it’s always just another day in the office. Except his office is a windy rooftop overlooking the mark’s exact location. His tools—rather than a computer—is a state-of-the-art rifle with a telescopic lens. A silencer isn’t very important since traffic and people are more than enough to drown out any suspicious noises. Most will mistake it for a back-firing van. He takes aim with no more qualms than one would gossip about a colleague, then pulls the trigger while thinking about what to order other than Chinese for lunch. When the work is done, he carefully packs everything up into an inconspicuous rucksack. And leaves the scene, like a phantom. 

It’s always been the same boring, bloodied cycle. 

Yet something’s changed since Minho met you. 

He used to maintain a cool detachment to his targets. His conscience prefers not to think of them; whenever he does, it’s as if they’re already dead, mobile meat bags waiting to be laid on a cutting board. He doesn’t like to think merrily of his job, he doesn’t see it as helping them meet their destiny. None of that bullshit. To put it more nonchalantly, everyone will die one day. Minho considers it as a good way to go. Oblivious and in pain for one moment before completely gone the next. 

Simple. Convenient. Much less agonizing than this brutal world. 

Although that doesn’t mean he isn’t traumatized by the amount of blood that has stained his hands. On good days, he might get three to four hours of sleep. Bad days, few minutes to none at all. Terrifying nightmares gnaws at his soul every night, the ugly scar like a reminder of every single one of his sins. He can’t force himself to lose his sanity like any fools out there going down the same path. 

“Shit…” Minho mutters, running a rough hand through his hair. He didn’t sleep well last night—like every other night; hence the bad temper and bitter taste at the back of his throat. 

After a deep breath, he stares at his Hecate II with mischievous eyes—those of a hunter framed in the expressionless face of an executioner. His blunt hands are steady as they lift the shiny weapon over the concrete of a rooftop, drawing out a dry shot in his mind. 

Through his scope, he watches as you’re crossing the road in your human form before stopping abruptly in front of a random tree. You then proceed to squint your eyes and look up in the opposite direction. Minho unknowingly holds his breath, waits for you to release your iron gaze, and move on with your life. But his expectations don’t prevail. 

“What the fuck?” 

Without much patience, he curses before shifting his scope to the same direction only to find another shadow creeping around on the balcony of a nearby building. No time to think of a rational solution—killing them is an ideal one—Minho feels his palms growing sweaty when a small, peculiar object comes flying toward his way. His head quickly moves away before the bullet pierces through his scope, shattering the glass completely. 

“Son of a bitch,” he lets out a shaky breath. Crimson starts to drip down on the side of his cheekbone, but he can care less. 

Because that’s the least of his problem right now. 

Another subtle ‘bang’ can be heard in the distance, like a broken record scratching against his eardrums. Kid…! Minho’s heart collapses in realization. 

four. 

It’s not hard for Minho to do research on quite an amount of vital information about you. When he saw your body dropped to the ground lifelessly and an ambulance immediately drove by to pick up your body, he knew things weren’t going to end just like that. 

“Don’t bother trying, Lee Know. No one has ever made it. They never did.”

He isn’t a believer, has never been one. Yet when he managed to take out your kidnappers in that ambulance, your weak breaths startled his heart and shook his mind into awareness of how serious the situation is. After that, he tracked down the hitman who delivered the hard blow, put a bullet through his brain, and found an USB full of detailed information about your existence. Which just makes things a whole lot more complicated to understand. 

Apparently, you’ve been ‘killed’ one too many times before—there are photographs of your supposedly dead body in a bag, thrown into the deep, dark woods, other times into a nameless river. The thing about you is that you were once an experimental subject to your own biological parents who are sickeningly vile scientists. At the age of nine, you fell down the stairs and had a big gash on your head. They never knew because your wounds were quick to heal themselves. However, your whole life was flipped upside down when they saw you shapeshifting into a black cat while running around at the playground. 

From then, your life became a living hell behind cold metal bars with needles stuck in your arms and strange pills being forced down your throat almost every day. Their sudden change only nourished resentment through time until you managed to cut down the laboratory’s power supply and fled from your own home. 

You have no one to lean on. No place to go back to. No nothing. And you’re just a teenager. 

Minho feels awful. 

Usually, he isn’t the type to be empathetic nor does he have the energy to. It’s very out of character for him to let his emotions linger on a homeless kid with some supernatural abilities that will make his life that much more dangerous. Because to him, more often than not, people tend to give their condolences only to forget after brief moments of grieving. At the end of the day, it isn’t their own problem, it isn’t their own life. But now when it comes to you, Minho feels a strong sense of responsibility that if you end up dying, it’s on him. 

It’s stupidly conflicted, it really is. His job—blowing people’s brains out—is the sole reason why he makes a six-digit amount of money for every job. Therefore, he isn’t sure what picking a random kid up from a fake ambulance and bringing her back to his shabby apartment is going to do him any good. 

“Ah, you’re awake.” 

You hate the fact that you can recognize that voice. 

Just then, you wake as if it’s an emergency, as if sleeping has become a dangerous task. Your heart is pounding loudly inside your ears, the sound echoing listlessly to the pit of your rib cage. It’s always like this. It takes you some time to calm your nerves before gathering what exactly happened the moment you blacked out. 

Right, you think to yourself, groaning slightly while pushing yourself up. You were shot right in the chest, and your body was probably discarded somewhere. After that, you’d grab a hitchhiker so they’ll drive you back into town. Like always. The only difference, this time though, is Minho placing your limp body on his bed with a blanket to warm you up. 

His face appears within your eyesight when you’re done adjusting your vision to the bright room—you’re not used to this much light around. “You look calmer than I expected,” he mentions. 

Minho grabs your face and scans it over. “Let me see. Did your wounds close up properly?” 

The tender action, which has become weirdly natural to him although this is his first time, accidentally triggers something inside you. Your hand automatically slaps his away. It is an upfront refusal, but it doesn’t surprise him. He only offers you a comfortable moment of silence before placing a tray on the wooden nightstand. 

“Eat up. I’m not going to feed you,” he cocks his head toward the bowl of porridge with his arms crossed in front of his chest. 

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

You glare at him in suspicion. “Bringing me home. Giving me a bed to sleep on. And even food to eat. What are you trying to get at?”

“Nothing. I didn’t kill you only because you’re too young for my moral code,” he pretends to roll his eyes, voicing monotonously. 

A frown adorns your tired features. “So you’re going to kill me when I get older then?” 

“Probably,” Minho smirks faintly with a cock of his eyebrow. “That depends if you still remember my name, Y/N.” 

One thing after another, this assassin only continues to baffle you. He was just going to shoot you the other day and now he’s giving you food? Preposterous! To put it simply, you’re unprepared for such kind actions, such gentleness from someone who takes lives for a living. You’re unprepared for dealing with people in general because they detest anyone who’s different from them—your kind, the kind with supernatural abilities and all. Hence, you’re left unwilling to befriend anyone and would rather be alone for the rest of your life. 

Until such twisted moira pushes you to—what was his name again? Not his real name, the made-up one that he uses in the underworld. 

You speak up softly after feeling safe enough to let your guards down, “Lee Know, was it?” 

“It’s Lee Minho.” 

“Pardon?”

He only smiles, “My real name. It’s Lee Minho.”

five. 

“Y/N! A little help over here?”

“Coming.”

“Y/N, go check the fog machine!”

“Got you.”

“Y/N, can you put these boxes over there?”

“Alright.”

That’s all you’ve been doing for the entirety of your boring day. Getting yelled out at, having people ask for help nonstop, and responding with a two-word answer at max. You’re not complaining—they pay you well enough, the job is more on the down-low side because you’re nothing but a mere stage crew for an above-average theatre studio. So you simply hoist the three final plastic boxes into your arms with a jerk of your knees and place it where they asked you to. Thanks to your parents, their experiments along with skeptical-looking substances have efficiently enhanced your general strength and agility. 

Another crew member perks up when you plop the heavy stack of cardboard boxes down with a loud thud. “Oh, can you carry those lights to stage left too?”

“Sure.” You could have pretended to pick up one box at a time and to drag your feet across the stage with difficulties to avoid being used. But you’re too lazy to repeat the same cycle two more times, so you really don’t have any other choice here. 

Nevertheless, you suppose it’s not entirely bad to do all of this heavy handiwork. Because it keeps your mind off of unwanted things, such as Lee Minho for example. Lee Minho, the assassin, not the actor—you’d gladly fangirl over that certain celebrity rather than admit that you actually enjoy the hitman’s abrupt presence in your life. 

The fact that you know he will find you even if it means traveling to the ends of the Earth and back doesn’t help to ease your insomnia. So for the past few days, you’ve been working extra hours along with picking up a job at a florist in hopes of not bumping into him. Stupid. You know it is. But how can you deal with a self-esteem crisis because the idea of being a burden just irks you so much? 

It’s like you’re hopelessly proving that you don’t need anyone when you, in fact, want that kind of unconditional love that every other human yearns for. 

After helping your colleagues out with the lighting, you simply sit behind those thick curtains until the show is over. Then, you head out, find a place to sleep, and head to an old lady’s place to pick up new clothes to change into for the next day. Since she’s been treating you with nothing but kindness, you’ve tried to pass by and helped her out at her son’s antique store too. 

Your routine is supposed to go that way and stay that way. You won’t die because you don’t like overworking yourself. You’re doing just great. 

“Hey, Y/N! Your brother is here to pick you up!”

Throwing your crewmate a blunt wave, you find your way out of the school’s theatre through a back door without shifting the expression on your face. You don’t have any siblings. And your colleagues don’t know anything about your family background either. So it, unfortunately, boils your guesses down to one. 

Despite knowing who it is and why they show up, you open your mouth to speak, “How did you find me again?”

Minho shows up with a more casual version of his working attire—instead of the fully black, monochromatic outfit, he’s changing it up with a leather jacket, white t-shirt and jeans. He leans on his shiny motorcycle smugly like he knows something that you don’t, in which you very much dislike. 

“Young lady, I’ll have you know that being an assassin helps me appear at places to do things I’m not supposed to do,” he ignores the fact that your question was purely rhetorical and chimes. 

You attempt to throw him a glare which isn’t intimidating enough. “Call me ‘young lady’ one more time and I’ll put my foot where it’s not supposed to be.” Who are you kidding? He’s a hitman when you’re just a kid. Pigs would be flying by the time you managed to physically shoo him away. 

“Am I supposed to guess where that is?”

“Enough. Go to work. Get out of here. Leave me alone.”

“I’m sorry, are you encouraging me to kill people?” Minho gasps, acting shocked and appalled. Clearly, he’s not good at it despite sharing a name with a well-known actor. 

You can only retort harshly, “Don’t put words in my mouth, you ass.”

“Come on, kid. Let’s go get something to eat.”

“Why?”

His hand automatically reaches for your forearm. “Don’t people eat for pleasure? What’s wrong with you?”

Your heart leaps in, anger perhaps, pupils shaking when he closes in on you. Upon your reaction, Minho retracts his arm immediately. He should have thought better of it; you’re probably too traumatized to be dealing with him right now. 

At that, your eyes round at the remorse on his face and you could have glared him off right then and there. But somehow, your basic human manners overcome your usual snappy self, letting you think that maybe he means no harm. Maybe he’s checking up on you one last time before going on about his life. You shouldn’t be too riled up about it just because he tried to kill you once.

Minho catches the familiar anxious gaze and sighs, “Okay, we don’t have to get something to eat. I’ll give you a ride back. Do you have somewhere to stay the night?”

It’s rotten work, whatever he’s trying to do. So you shake the harmless tingle inside your chest away before pushing past him. “No,” you answer dryly and leave. 

six.

You go to work sick the day after because you couldn’t find a place to sleep in and had to make do with napping in front of a tattoo place. Yes, napping; because when you finally shifted into your cat form and allowed your eyes to rest, the sky started pouring waterfalls. The rain had soaked into your shiny black coat, making it frizzy and luring the sickness up your spine the moment you tried finding a different haven.

No one notices. No one.

Not even the mask, the extra layer of sweatshirt nor your hushed coughs every now and then. Despite downing the cold pills early in the morning, you’re only burning up harder by the second. Oh, you know! Maybe they just don’t care, that’s it. Because calling in off for work due to a minor cold isn’t a valid reason. However, you’re still shivering on the inside and burning on the outside. Enhanced genes or any of that bullshit isn’t enough to prevent you from getting sick like any other student. Perhaps something wasn’t complete, or they’d messed up somewhere. Perhaps that’s why they’re trying to get you back.

How foolish of you to think somewhere deep down, they still want you back. With a reason as blunt as you being their child. 

Drowning in deep thoughts, you almost crash into a pile of boxes filled with equipment when your foot gets tangled to a random cable. Your eyes automatically screw shut as you wait for the impact but it never comes. Only a gentle pair of hands on your shoulders did. From that point on, you can’t hear or see properly. You don’t even have enough stamina to register who’s holding onto you so reassuringly. Whatever is happening gets hazier by the tick of a clock. It’s either you’re hallucinating or Minho is giving you that mirthful scowl of his. 

Yep, you’re definitely hallucinating.

“Why didn’t you call in sick for work?”

“That’s a stupid fucking question.”

A frown adorns his perplexed features as his glassy eyes skim your face. He has a really pretty smile, he should smile more, you think. His hand latches onto your burning forehead, slides down on the side of your cheek with such grace as though he’s caressing you. A grumble leaves his lips at your dreadful state. This is why he should have never let you go in the first place. 

“Come on, kid. Let me help you,” Minho says before giving your arm a light tug.

You don’t like what you just heard. “I don’t need your help.”

“You can barely walk.”

“Who said so-” As if on cue, he lets go of your arm bluntly. Caught off guard, your legs go weak without any remaining strength. You stumble and would have most likely fallen on your face if it weren’t for his grip on your arm. A gasp comes out inaudible when he hoists you upright, not planning to let go any time soon.

Minho scratches the tip of his nose with his ring finger, sniffing lightly. It seems like he’s arguing with a younger version of himself. He now knows how it felt like for those caretakers back then. 

“You did,” he says with the same smirk when you woke up in his apartment for the first time.

seven.

That’s the only time you’ve ever allowed someone to help you with something. But Minho had to constantly check on you every two seconds, not wanting you to fall asleep on his bike while it’s speeding down the highway like a gust of wind. For a moment there, he really thought you would slip away into the night as he tried to find his keys because that’s just how you are. 

Minho is no doctor, but he doesn’t go to one for a cold or a really bad fever. He can manage, he tries to convince himself. 

After testing your temperature and giving you something new to change into, he slaps a cool gel patch onto your forehead before heading off to the kitchen to cook up something. You need to be full to be able to take your medicine anyway.

In the act of resting on his bed, you decide you can’t take staying in the same spot anymore so your body perks up in a sluggish manner. The aroma of home-cooked food wakes your senses almost immediately, causing you to look over at his busy figure by the marble counter. You think it’s endearing how he hasn’t bothered to change into something more comfortable. But he instead threw an apron over his working attire and dived right into the cooking process. 

You have always felt like you were missing out on something whenever you looked at Minho. Perhaps it was how his striking eyes stared at you, whether mischievous or else. Perhaps it was how his lips were turning down most of the time with less than affectionate words. 

Or it’s plainly how he has been trying to hide that he actually cares. 

“Hungry?” He tilts his head to the side playfully once his sixth sense starts kicking in. 

You can only nod. “Yeah.” 

It takes Minho a lot of convincing yet you won’t let him feed you. Like hell, you would. Therefore, with helpless eyes, he watches you from across the table. He doesn’t laugh or get annoyed when your shaky hand drops the spoon and splatters the soup all over the table. His hand simply reaches for a piece of paper towel to clean up the mess, tossing it into the trash bin later. The same cycle repeats in comforting silence until you finish the entire bowl. The soup definitely wasn’t five-star worthy. But it’s enough to warm you up inside and out. Of course, Minho chooses to let the dishwasher do the job—his hatred for doing dishes is always at its finest. 

Then, like the other night, he has already passed out on the table with a blanket draped over his body when you step out of the shower. Instead of plopping the weight of your exhaustion onto his bed this time, your legs stay frozen like cement on the floor while your eyes take in his reclined figure under the thin fabric. Minho is sleeping with his head buried in his arms, his glasses and messy files abandoned to the side. He’s definitely not a heavy sleeper because he doesn’t snore; only feather-like breaths can be heard through this endless beat of silence. The faintly blinking light from his laptop makes you feel exposed so you push yourself toward the balcony. 

A hiss comes out hushed and quiet when your feet come into contact with the cold tile floor, bringing you across the studio apartment with small tiptoes. You peer over your shoulder, gazing at the only available source of light. Unconsciously, you ball your fists. 

With a soft sigh, you slide open the glass door and step out to bathe yourself in the comfort of the moonlight. Despite the chilling air of the night, something warm fills up your lungs like an overflowed cup of wine. It suffocates you a little until the knots in your muscles and mind loosen; a sense of relief washes over you—you haven’t felt that in years. 

Nothing makes sense. 

A hitman hired by your parents shouldn’t be putting a roof over your head, tucking you into bed nor feeding you. Minho barely knows you; and your knowledge about him as a genuine person isn’t enough to convince you that this is reality. Because after years of wandering the streets, being tossed around like trash with plenty of a series of unfortunate events, you’ve made it a habit to sink into yourself. 

So the longer you stay here, the more you’ll get attached to him. And the more you get attached, the more he takes away your default instincts to turn your back on everything.

Guilt wells up inside your chest as though it’s an old habit, a setting by default. If you ever try to go over the moderate line, you will break. 

Holding back a croaked sob, you know that once you let it go, tears will only start flooding. With a push of your muscles, you effortlessly hoist yourself up the metal railings in one go. The wind combs through your hair like an empathetic hand but you ignore it, Minho’s sweater closing in on your skin. 

You should leave, you try to urge yourself. You should jump off and dive into the depths of the night, let the allure cradle you in its emotionless arms. 

Because after all, despite all those eyes on you out there, you’re ultimately alone within. 

A foot dips out into thin air once the slump in your shoulders goes weightless. Immediately after, an incredible force pulls you by the ankle, and to the ground with a loud thud. Minho falls onto his back harshly, groaning slightly with you on top of him.

He knew what you were trying to do, he saw it the other night with his own eyes. Even under the knowledge of your capabilities, Minho still feels a rush of panic rising inside his chest. It’s only until his arms fully have a hold of you does his racing heartbeats slow down. Supernatural abilities or none, you’re still sick. And he’d be losing his mind if he woke up to an empty bed tomorrow morning. 

“Don’t ever do that again,” he speaks with trembling vocal cords, in a tone you’ve never heard before. Strict but mellow. As though there’s a race inside his mind but he’s desperately trying to keep his cool. It’s fear. The moment he’s introduced to the idea of losing you—it’s genuine fear. 

“Minho, I can’t die. Didn’t I tell you—“

His grip squeezes you in a breath tighter, cutting you off completely. “The fuck were you thinking? You can’t just jump off the balcony like that!”

“I already told you. I can’t die. Minho, I’ve done that plenty of times before,” you furrow your brows in a troubled manner, unsure of how to react. 

Minho widens his eyes at you in sheer disbelief. Shock riddles his senses and gets the best of him. So now he’s fussing with his hands, incoherent profanity leaving his lips non-stop within the next thirty seconds or so. He’s usually very calm, collected, calculating, and cold. This is very unlike him. It makes you wonder why he’s acting this way. He knows that you can’t die from jumping off a building. So what’s there to worry about? 

“You’re such an idiot! Try doing that again and I’ll kill you with my own-“

You truly don’t know how important you are to him. Frankly, he hasn’t even realized that yet. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, pulling him closer. Since you’re bad at resolving any kind of conflict, you opt for the most rational solution—going with his flow until he’s calmed down. “I won’t do that again, promise.” 

His lips fall agape at your words. He wasn’t expecting that. And even when you see how he’s reacting to your sudden change, you decide it’s no time to back down. This might be the only time you could show him that you’re at least grateful for everything he’s done. 

He’s quieted down now. And when he manages to speak again without tripping over his own words, his voice comes out as a whisper. “Hey kid,” he looks down at you, wanting to stroke your hair but drops his hand in sheer defeat. “You didn’t answer my question earlier. Why didn’t you call in sick for work?”

“Who would do my job when I’m gone? Isn’t that irresponsible?” You exhale deeply before fluttering your eyes close, finding odd peace within the rhythm of his heart. 

Minho says pointedly, “Well, you could have asked someone to help you with it.”

“No one would help me.”

“How’d you know? Have you tried asking them before?” 

Your eyes shoot open and flicker around your surroundings, you’re at a loss for words for a split second there. Heat rushes to the apples of your cheeks in shame, your head hung terribly low. “I’m not used to asking for help. I’d hate to be a burden,” you confess. 

Innocence glimmers in your eyes when you look up at him, waterlines threatening to break any second now. Your lashes are slightly damped and how lost you’re looking right now can physically draw crimson on his heart. At the end of the day, you’re just a kid. You had to grow up the hard way, with no one by your side telling you what’s right and what’s wrong, even simple things like how to react to non-verbal affection. 

Don’t let her go, Minho. Not now. Not ever.

“Then fix it now.”

“What?” You pause. 

“If you need help, ask for it. If things are hard, say it. I’ll be there to give you a hand.”

Tears well up in your eyes, croaked sobs shake your body, only prompting him to pull your closer. It’s warm. Damnit, why is it so warm? “I-I can’t sleep. Sing me something?”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

Minho just knows that he would bleed with you even when the rain pours and the sky falls one day.

[kyoonqs]

iluso amor ; second part.

↬ summary: Cora has always considered herself elusive, easy to bore and adventurous to the last fiber of her body. One day for no apparent reason, she appears in front of the manager of a globetrotting circus passing through the city where she is temporarily staying to fill her life with magic. Baekhyun, as serious as he is handsome, has no intention of playing a role other than on the main canvas of the circus. He decides to separate Cora from her life of fantasies created by her travels and sets out to show her reality as raw and cruel as he knows it. Or so he believes.

Will time run out too quickly before love and passion devour him and he decides to risk everything for a love that lasts… Forever?

↬ pairing: baekhyun x cora fem!reader.

↬ circus!au ; illusionist!baek x hitchhiker!oc ; strangers to lovers au!

↬ genre: fluff ; romance ; angst ; drama.

↬ length: 3.6 k words.

↬ tag list: @changshapatrol @spacebyuns @fluffyhunnie @soos-goddess @hoho-cham @shadoukiti @sunbyun21​ @mangobaek​ @suhotly​ @pororodks​ @bbhbae​ @blahblahblah-boo 

If you’d like to be tagged for future chapters, please let me know!

↬ masterlist.

Baekhyun was giving orders, simultaneously lending a hand to the circus men and Cora noticed the tense muscles in his arms as he loaded seats into the forklift and pulled the rope. At that moment she remembered that when he had left her alone, she had roamed the caravan from start to finish, only to find one of his whips on the bed. Despite seeing his conduct at the show, she couldn't help but feel threatened. It was then that she realized she had no courage to sleep in the trailer, not even on the couch.

–“Come on, let's go to bed.” The last vestiges of the dream vanished and Cora was immediately on guard. The darkness was absolute, she couldn't see anything. Most of the trucks were gone and the workers with them.

–“I have decided to sleep here.”

–“Outside? I don’t think so. In case you haven't noticed, you're shivering.” He was right. It wasn't cold when she had first stepped outside, but the temperature had dropped since then.

–“Take this as a friendly warning. I've barely slept in three days. First we had a storm and we almost lost the circus cover, then I had to make two trips. I’m not an easygoing person in the best of circumstances, but I’m even worse when I don’t sleep.” He raised the arm at her side and she hissed in alarm when she saw a whip twisted into his hand. Cora gasped when Baekhyun grabbed her arm and pulled Cora to her feet without putting up much resistance. He opened the door to the trailer and turned on the light, gently nudging her elbow to enter. Was it just Cora's imagination or had the inside of the trailer shrunk since she'd first seen it?

–“Please don't touch me again.”

–“I'm too tired to think of anything you imagine I can do to you, if that's what you're concerned about.” His words did not reassure her.

–“Why do you carry the whip everywhere? Are you threatening me?”

He muttered something under his breath, closed the door and walked over to the bed to sit down. He dropped the whip to the ground, but the handle still rested on his knee. She looked at him apprehensively.

On one hand, Cora had promised to continue her journey, he hadn't hurt her or anyone else but on the other, there was no doubt that he scared her. She wasn't very skilled at fighting, but she knew what to do when the time came necessary. She steeled herself.

–“I think we should clear things up. I want you to know that I will not be able to live with you if you keep intimidated me in this way.”

–“Intimidating you? What are you talking about?”. Her nervousness increased, but she forced herself to continue.

–“I guess you can't help it. It's probably because of the way you grew up, although it's not that I believed that story you told onstage. Your lack of sanity?”  She paused. “Because it's fake, right?”. 

He looked at her as if she had lost her mind.

–“Yes, of course it is,” she hastened to say. 

–“What I mean by intimidating, I mean your attitude and …” she took a deep breath, “that whip.”

–“What's the matter with it?”. Cora shut her eyes. With a wrinkle of her nose she bit her lip and took a deep breath before starting again.

–“If you have that kind of inclination, I would appreciate you telling me now instead of giving hints.”

–“What are you talking about?”. He continued to stare blankly at her, until she screamed in frustration.

–“For the love of God! If you intend to hit me for pleasure, tell me. Hey, Cora, I like to whip people for pleasure, and you're next on the list. At least I would know what's on your mind”. 

His eyebrows raised, “Would that make you feel better?” 

She nodded.

–“As you wish.” Baekhyun looked at her with sparkling eyes and repeated the same phrase she tried to dictate to him seconds ago. He excused himself saying he was going to shower, went into the bathroom and closed the door. Cora nibbled on her lower lip. That hadn't exactly gone as planned.

Baekhyun chuckled as the shower water poured onto his body. Cora had given him more fun in the past ten hours than he'd gotten in the entire year before. Or maybe even more. His life was normally a very serious matter. Laughter was a luxury he hadn't been able to afford very often. But it was only natural when he had spent his whole life chasing something.

He remembered her comment about a fetish...maybe? But it would have spoiled the fun if he had explained that he always carried a whip when he knew the workers had been drinking. 

Traveling circuses were like a war zone when it came to solving problems –they had to be prevented before they arose– and the sight of the whip was a very dissuasive measure to alleviate the temper of some.

Despite how much the last confrontation with the girl had amused him, he had a feeling that the fun would not last long. This year he was putting him to the test, first a promise made to the circus owner on his deathbed: to do one last tour with the circus, and second the challenges that came with navigating one, including Cora.

As he let the water run off the shampoo, he thought about his past. Baekhyun had known the circus since he was eight years old and one of them spent the summer touring the towns of the Spanish coast. He would never forget that afternoon when he had accompanied his father to make the profit tally of imported products to Korea and the noise of a crowd gathered on the avenue caught his attention. 

He remembered how after begging his mother to convince his father to take him to a show –  it had become his absolute dream to become a circus performer. This dream would seemingly collapse at 18 when his father gave him maturity lessons during summer vacation. After that he’d traveled with the circus to earn money, and then much later, in adulthood, when every few years he left his life behind and spent a few months on the road.

Baekhyun's character had been shaped by his father's wise sermons and his always astute observations about the world and how hard it was for a man to survive. A man had to work hard, take care of himself, and maintain his pride.

Circumstances had made him that way, a tough and stubborn man who lived by his own code with no illusions about himself. And Cora... she lived in a dream world created from travel and tourist places.

He wrapped a towel around his waist, grabbed another to dry his hair, and opened the bathroom door. Cora gulped when the bathroom door opened and he stepped out. While he dried his head with the towel, she took the opportunity to look carefully at what seemed a perfect body, with well-defined but not excessively toned muscles. Baekhyun possessed a broad chest and shoulders, hips considerably narrower than said shoulders and his abdomen was flat, hard. Her gaze followed the arrow of hair that started at the navel and continued under the towel. Suddenly, she felt heated as she wondered what it would be like below.

–“I'll drop the towel in five seconds.” He deprived her of the vision of his chest when he turned his back on her and headed for the bed.

She quickly grabbed some clean underwear and a faded Kyung Hee University t-shirt that she had found on the same couch, surely belonging to Baekhyun – and dashed into the bathroom, slamming the door. 

Twenty minutes later, she came out of the shower fresh with his shirt on. She had decided that it was preferable to wear this over the only nightgown she had, a tiny pink silk babydoll with lots of lace that her aunt had given her in case she "conquered" European men.

He slept on his back, the sheet covering his bare hips. It wasn’t right to look at a person while they were sleeping, but she couldn't stop doing it. She walked to the foot of the bed and watched him, looking up from his abdomen to his chest to admire the perfect symmetry of the male torso. Asleep, he didn't look the same. 

Cora's hands tingled with the urge to caress his cheeks and comb his hair. She didn't understand how it was the same man who had scared her to the point of wanting to bolt out of there, she wanted to understand what was going through his mind, she wanted to approach him and tell him that she wasn’t as dumb as she seemed. 

She stared at him for a few minutes more, swearing to herself that she would do her best to figure out and ease the weight on his shoulders. She lay back on the sofa and tried to fall asleep as soon as possible. Starting tomorrow, a new chapter of her life will begin.

–“Wake up, dulzura. We have a long day ahead of us.”

She rolled onto her stomach. He tugged on the sheet and Cora felt the cool air brush against the back of her bare thighs. She refused to move. If she did, she would have to face a new day. She buried her face deeper into the pillow. She felt a soft and warm hand rest in her hair, curling it back softly, clearing her face so that the Sun –which was barely peeking out– would illuminate her face. She rejoiced in the caress. Baekhyun was grinning widely but she missed it by putting up resistance to getting up.

Only when he pulled his hand away did she slowly open her eyes to see that he was already dressed and shaved at that unholy hour. Baekhyun glanced at her body, reminding her that she was actually practically naked under the sheet, just dressed in an old t-shirt of his and some rather compromising panties. When she realized it, she rolled onto her back and pulled the sheet up to cover herself with it.

–“We have almost three hours of travel ahead of us and we will be leaving in ten minutes. Get dressed and do something useful.” He turned away from her and went to the sink.

–“It's still night.” Cora and squinted at the gray morning light streaming through the dirty little windows.

–“It's almost six o'clock.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and raised the mug to his lips.

–“I'll stay in here while you drive.”

–“It’s illegal.” Baekhyun set the coffee cup on the table, then reached down to quickly pick up the clothes from the floor. He examined her critically and handed her a pair of jeans that had been hanging over the armrest of the chair.

Cora wanted to say something funny but was sure he would not be amused, so she reluctantly went to the bathroom. Ten minutes later she came out dressed and noticed that he was in front of the open kitchen cupboard, somewhat indecisive and it could even be said that a certain sadness claimed his face. She noticed that on the sink was an apple, a packaged cupcake, the last of the oatmeal frosts from the jar that contained them, and a recyclable bottle of what looked like yogurt.

–“Um... this morning you can eat whatever you want, you don't have many options but I know you can satisfy your stomach with this. From the next purchase we’ll have to divide the food between us. The circus is beautiful but it doesn’t leave much profit.” It was the first time she had heard him so dejected, almost regretful and that confirmed Cora's suspicion: his gruff behavior possessed a reason so she would try her best to not be another burden. She just hoped that Baekhyun would build the confidence to share his troubles.

She murmured a "thank you" as soft and delicate as she could when he stepped past her, scratching the back of his neck as if the situation had made him more uncomfortable than it should. She decided that from now on, she would try not to feel scared in front of him and that she would be the strong woman her mother had instilled in her to be.

They barely spoke during the first hour of travel. Since he hadn't given her enough time to get ready, Cora had to finish “putting on makeup” –she was only able to apply lip balm and blush– in the truck and comb her hair as best she could despite the bumps on the road, holding her hair in a high ponytail which she braided first then decorated at the end with a patterned fabric bow. Baekhyun observed her as much as he could from the corner of his eye, avoiding a smile that would give him away and enjoying how her hair twisted when she moved her fingers from side to side. He thought that with her washed face she looked prettier than the day before. The shadows in her eyes distracted from the color and spark they possessed and the lipstick widened her lips to the point that they appeared be swollen.

Around mid-morning, Baekhyun bought orange juice, some cereal bars and two packaged sandwiches. He stopped the truck in a place decorated with flags and logs cut to a length that suggested they were to be used for seating. After eating, Cora went to the bathroom and tried to find money with which she could return the favor to Baekhyun, but she only found some coupons from a previous job and some tokens for the spreading machine. 

When she came out she realized two things: one, an attractive waitress was flirting with Baekhyun and two, he was doing absolutely nothing to discourage her.

Cora watched him tilt his head and smile at something the girl had said. She experienced a twinge of jealousy as he seemed to be enjoying the waitress's company more than her own. She made up her mind to ignore what was happening but then it came to her recollection she’d never explicitly let on to having feelings for Baekhyun. Cora feared that if she came on too strongly, crossed barriers he wasn’t ready to do away with just yet, she’d never have the opportunity to get closer. Though he had been fairly hospitable, there was always an air of reluctance that clouded his every  interaction with her, a sort of underlying anxiety she couldn’t quite place. With resignation, she straightened her shoulders and approached the table where she gave the clerk her most radiant smile.

–“Thank you very much for keeping this dulzura company. Most of the time, he doesn’t like talking.” The waitress seemed somewhat surprised by Cora's friendly demeanor. She then lowered her voice to a loud whisper. “It was very kind of her, wasn't it, mi amor?”. 

Baekhyun choked on his coffee. She leaned in to pat him on the back while giving the girl a beaming smile.

Controlling his cough, he stood up from the table with an expression even angrier than was usual for him. Before he had a chance to open his mouth, Cora reached out and brought it to her lips so he wouldn't say anything. He looked at her like he was going to strangle her, but he just tossed several bills on the table and shoved her out of the restaurant.

–“Are you going to get mad about a little joke? Haven't you gotten used to clowns yet?” Cora's shoes slipped on the gravel as he dragged her toward the truck and the ugly trailer.

–“I already told you, you’re the grumpiest man I have ever met. And it doesn't suit you, not at all, Baekhyun. Let me tell you something, I was right, you look much more handsome smiling.”

He halted in his tracks and although she hoped he would say something to her, perhaps return the compliment, he continued his accelerated march to the truck. Disappointed, she grabbed the door handle, pulled and seated herself on the passenger side. Moments later they were back on the road.

The morning was sunny. The warm air coming in through the ajar window was not yet suffocating. Cora couldn't find any reason for him to sulk on such a perfect and beautiful morning, so she finally broke the silence. 

So far Baekhyun had been cooperative, he had commented that they were going to Fraga, they would spend two nights there and then they would continue traveling through the rest of Huesca. They had 4 months ahead of it, a life of trips and tours that were only missed once the season was over, exhausting but full of colors and renewed illusions in the face of each person who made up the audience during their performances. She wished they’d already given a place in the show. She still had little clue as to what she would have to go through first.

–“This will be the last season of the circus. So we will put in our best efforts. The owner passed away at the beginning of the year and his wife, Algeria, has inherited the circus and has put it up for sale.” He said, pressing his lips together almost imperceptibly. Cora noticed anyway. 

–“Have you been at the circus a long time?” she asked, determined to find out more about him.

–“I go and come. I traveled with the circus from my teenage years until I was twenty. Since then I’ve come and gone.” She took the time to appreciate him better than she could the night before, surprised that he was speaking so "openly" and that he wasn't growling in the middle of her questioning. 

The questions didn’t stop there, Cora would take her time asking him as much as she could but she had been somewhat disappointed when he didn't ask her any in return. Suddenly she remembered that she was there for work and decided to inform Baekhyun that she had never set foot in a job as artistic as the circus.

–“I just wanted to say that I don't know anything about the circus world.”

–“You'll learn. Gael, the guy who normally runs the locker, has to be away for a couple of days. You’ll be taking his place until he returns, and then you can join the show. We open the function with the parade presentation. Later we can look for the act you’ll be joining.”

She only made an approving sound. For now she was only counting the moles that were spread evenly and in isolation from his face to his ears and even fingers.

They continued traveling several miles in silence while she pondered what he had told her. But it was what he hadn’t said that worried her the most. Unknown to her, the word "love" –amor as she had called him in front of the waitress– had been bouncing around inside his skull. Baekhyun had been thinking that perhaps Cora wasn’t as empty-headed as he initially believed and perhaps he liked the nickname more than he expected.

↬ author’s note: today's chapter has been a little longer, hope you enjoy it! as you know, any feedback is welcome ♡ and must tell you something important, pay attention to the small details, they will play an important role in the plot! last but not least, thanks to Oliv for her help and time invested in helping me get each part correctly narrated.

[pastelwitchling]

Based on a prompt request by @moviesbuff. (I am not currently taking prompt requests, please don’t send them in!)

***

Michael’s bones were vibrating, his heart hammering painfully in his throat, his hands clenched to fists no matter how hard he tried to release them. He didn’t think he could, not until he got the answers he wanted.

His brother’s house was quiet, but his car was still parked outside, so Michael knew he was home. If he hadn’t been, Michael would’ve tracked him down through all of Roswell. After what he’d heard, after what he’d discovered, he wasn’t taking chances leaving this alone.

He banged his fist on the front door. “Max! Open up!”

Max opened, his brows furrowed. He had a journal in his hand, his finger bookmarking the page he’d undoubtedly been writing on before Michael came barging in.

“Michael, what the hell –” he managed before Michael swiped his journal, flipping through the pages.

“Were you writing about him?” he demanded. “This – this passage, who’s it about?”

“What are you doing?!” Max snatched his journal back. He gripped Michael’s shoulder, stilling him, searching his face. “Are you drunk?”

Michael yanked his arm free, and pointed a threatening finger. “I’m gonna ask you just once, and I want you to tell me the truth.”

Max frowned, shaking his head. “Ask me what?”

Michael swallowed through clenched teeth, every fiber in his being on edge. “Do you . . . want Alex?”

Max faltered. “What?”

The answer was not what Michael had wanted. He licked his lips, hesitance creeping into his own ears as he asked again, “Do you want Alex?”

He scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “What’re you talking about?”

Something like a growl or a sob rose up Michael’s throat. “You used a handprint to save Liz. Your feelings transferred to hers –”

“Yeah, so?” Max said. He was trying too hard to pretend it didn’t matter. He wasn’t fooling anyone. “D-Did she say something?”

Michael shook his head. “She wants Alex. She’s wanted him since you saved her.” He took a slow step towards his brother, and saw him glance up warily. When he asked again, his words were quiet and strained. “She thinks it’s funny. Doesn’t know that it’s only an echo . . . of what you feel. So. Do you want Alex?”

Max tucked his journal into his back pocket before he spoke, which was his mistake. “Michael, come on, I could never –”

“DON’T LIE TO ME!” Michael screamed, and both his truck and Max’s car levitated several feet off the ground before crashing back down to the ground. “She’s talking about how – how sudden it all is, and you’ve been weird since you knew about me and Alex.” Max flinched. “See? See? Y-You’re different when it comes to him! Why?”

Max had been staring at the ground as Michael yelled, and only when his brother stood panting, waiting, Max looked up. In a quiet, pained voice, he said, “You know why.”

Michael turned silent, stumbling back like Max had shot him. He felt before he saw the ground shaking, and Max held onto the wall to steady himself. His heart thudded painfully, his eyes burned.

“But, Michael,” Max tried, “I – I’ve never gone near him! I’ve never touched him!”

“Does he know?” Michael demanded. “DOES HE KNOW?!”

“NO!” Max snapped. “No, he has no idea!”

Michael searched Max’s face as if to decide whether or not he believed him. The ground barely stopped shaking before he warned, “If he finds out –”

“So you’re gonna tell him?” Max said. “How you feel, I mean? Wait, hold on, will you do it before or after you break up with Maria? Because you’re still with her, right?”

“What the hell’s your point, Max?” Michael demanded. “If I don’t tell him how I feel, you’ll go after him?”

Max clenched his jaw. “I’ve thought about this a lot, brother. And . . . if you really loved Alex, you wouldn’t have given up on him. You wouldn’t have chosen someone else.”

Michael flinched. “What, like you?”

Max held his gaze. “I stayed away because I knew that you loved him. But – God, Michael, after everything he’s done for us, you can’t even be honest with him! You’ll fight for everyone else before you fight for him, and he doesn’t even expect you to anymore! Doesn’t that kill you? He won’t look twice at me, and it rips me apart! But he loves you so much, with everything he has, and you don’t even care! You can’t see what you have right in front of you!”

“So, what?” he said darkly. “You’re gonna tell him how you feel?”

Max looked around helpless, and exhaled sharply. “I want to. Michael, I want to. I want to see . . . what happens –”

“What happens?” he breathed. “What do you think is going to happen, Max? He’ll be your boyfriend? Is that it?”

He hesitated. Then – “I want to find out.”

Michael shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. His voice when he spoke was hoarse. “He won’t love you. Not more than me.”

Max nodded, like it hurt him to do it. “I know. But maybe he could love me just enough.”

               *

               Michael had not left happy. Max hadn’t expected him to. But he would forgive his brother someday, because if Max had a hair’s chance at being with Alex, then he planned to make him the happiest man alive.

               Not that Max actually thought he had a hair’s chance, and Michael had been sure to remind him of that before he’d left, angrier and darker than Max had ever seen him. Max had carried that with him as he’d finished writing the last lines in his heart, the last lines of his love for Alex, and got in his car. He’d spent years holding back his feelings for Michael’s sake, knowing that the pain of being away from the airman and not getting to explore these very strong feelings that he had for him would all be worth it when Michael finally got his happiness.

But years had passed, and Michael had found every excuse not to tell Alex the truth. Even when he’d come back. Even when he’d been right here, in front of him, wanting. Michael had still said no and chosen someone else.

Max promised himself he would never take Alex for granted like that. He’d look after him, he’d make him laugh, let him know how appreciated he was.

Then Max neared Alex’s house and found him working in the garden, and all the old doubts returned. All he could think about was Michael, and how betrayed he must’ve felt, and how much happier he could make Alex.

But it was too late to abort. Alex had glanced up the second Max’s car had come in and was starting to stand, his brows furrowed in that way they did when he was preparing for an attack. Max half-wondered if that was how he usually looked when Michael came and was expecting the same of his brother, or if it was a natural reaction he’d come to have to everything.

Then he wondered how anyone could survive with that mentality for so long, and stay as strong as Alex was. His heart leapt slightly.

“Hey,” he said tentatively as he stepped out.

Alex was still watching him warily, dusting his hands off. “Hey. What’s going on?”

Max swallowed. Alex wore nothing but a pair of jeans and a white tank top, sweat lining his chest and making the dark patch of hair visible. His straight, damp hair fell over his eyes, and a bead of sweat rolled down his temple. Max briefly imagined licking it away, and had to clear his throat.

“I – uh – I wanted to . . . talk to you . . . about something.”

Alex’s eyes sharpened. “Did something happen to Michael?”

The question made Max step back, shame and embarrassment crawling up his spine. Of course Alex would ask about Michael.

“N-No, uh,” he huffed, “I just need to talk to you.”

“Okay?” his shoulders rested. Max noticed Alex wouldn’t look anywhere but his eyes. What a difference, since Max wanted to look everywhere but Alex’s eyes. “Talk.”

He blushed. “It’s kind of important, Manes.”

Alex raised a brow. “Right. You better come in, then.”

And he led the way into his house. Max smelled wood and vanilla the second he walked in. The fireplace wasn’t lit, but the small space was warm, there were carpets on the floor and deep navy couches. He spotted a journal open on the coffee table, and blinked when he saw his name scribbled in delicate writing.

He reached for the page, but Alex seemed to realize what he was doing and closed the journal at the last second.

“Sorry,” he muttered, hiding the journal from view as he hid it away in a drawer and locked it. “That shouldn’t be out here. Look,” he sighed, “f you want to ask me about Liz –”

“No,” Max said immediately. “No, I’m definitely not here to ask you about Liz.”

Alex frowned. “Uh – please, take a seat.”

So he did. On the couch. And Alex sat at the far end of it, waiting.

“Okay . . .” he took a deep breath. “There’s no real way for me to start this, but I – I want you to know that I’m not expecting anything in return, o-okay? You can kick me out if you want –”

“Max,” Alex cut him off, an amused smile tugging at his lips. Max hated how cute it was. “Spit it out.”

“Right,” he huffed. Then, without time to think, blurted, “I want you.”

Silence. Alex stared at Max, still waiting. Max could hear his own blood rush in his ears, his heart pounding so loudly that he worried Alex might hear it, too. He was just starting to wonder whether Alex had even heard him when the airman began to nervously chuckle.

“What?” He blinked, and shook his head. “Sorry, could you say that again? I don’t think I heard you right.”

Max’s nails were digging into his palms. “No,” he said. “No, you heard me right.”

Alex’s smile fell away. He didn’t look angry or confused or like he pitied Max. He didn’t look anything like Max thought he would. Instead, he looked nervous.

“You . . .” he cleared his throat. “You want me to do what?”

“N-Nothing,” Max said. “I just . . . want you.”

Alex was blinking way too quickly. “Uh – l-like . . . sexually?”

He exhaled shakily. “Yeah.” A pause. “Please say something.”

“I-I’m thinking, this is just a little . . . unreal. What about Liz?”

“I tried with Liz,” he quietly confessed. “I really did, but . . . there’s something about you – I – I’ve never been able to get you out of my head, Alex. Not since high school.”

“High school?” Alex stood and started pacing. “Uh – s-sorry, I just – I need a second –”

“Take your time!” Max was quick to reassure him. And so they spent the next few minutes like that, with Max staring at Alex’s carpet, glancing up at the airman every so often to find him rubbing the nape of his neck or muttering to himself. Max almost asked him to sit down, to go easy on his leg, but caught himself. Advice from him was definitely not something Alex wanted now.

Finally, Alex sat down right in front of Max, so close that their knees touched.

“Are you saying,” he said carefully, his eyes dark, “that you . . . you want to . . . sleep with me?”

“Yes,” Max said at once. Then, “No.” He shut his eyes and stood. “Damn it, Alex. I want to sleep with you, but I don’t want to just sleep with you. I – I want to make you breakfast, and fall asleep with you on the couch watching tv, and – and protect you from homophobic assholes in town. I . . . I want to . . .”

“To be with me,” Alex finished, realization dawning. He stood. “That’s what you’re trying to tell me? That you want us to be boyfriends?”

Max couldn’t look away from him. “Is that so bad?”

               “Bad? No. Shocking? Hell yeah.” He turned away, running a hand through his hair. Max’s eyes fell to the nape his neck, the line of sweat down his back.

He clenched his jaw. “I know I’m not Michael,” he said, his voice low. “I know you could never love me like that –”

“Love?” Alex breathed, turning around. He shook his head. “You love me?” Max didn’t answer, but he didn’t seem to need to. “This can’t be happening,” he muttered, sitting down. “This isn’t happening.”

Max’s heart was in his throat. He knelt in front of Alex, but didn’t dare touch him. “Alex, I’m – I’m sorry. I told you, I’m not expecting you to do anything, I know you couldn’t love me, I know that, but –”

Alex suddenly crashed their mouths together, cutting Max off. Max managed a whimper before Alex slid from the couch and onto his lap, his own hands coming up to instinctively grip Alex’s hips.

When they pulled back to breathe, Max managed one word, “Alex –”

“Don’t, just –” Alex kissed him again. “Just touch me. We can hate ourselves later, just – please.”

Max should’ve argued. He should’ve told Alex that they couldn’t hate themselves for how they felt, what they wanted. But he couldn’t be sure how Alex felt. Maybe he just needed to be touched. Maybe, worst of all, he just wanted Michael, and Max was as close as he was going to get. It didn’t matter if this was the one time Max would be allowed to have him. He wanted him. He’d take sex over nothing.

“Okay,” he breathed, slipping a hand under Alex’s shirt, his mouth watering at the soft, hot, damp skin. “Okay.”

And he pulled Alex in again, kissing him roughly, eagerly. Alex’s mouth opened against his and he slipped his tongue in like it was something he’d been used to doing. He slid a hand into Alex’s hair, moaning at the soft strands between his fingers.

It felt strange, pressing his mouth to another man’s, but knowing it was Alex, the same Alex he’d never been able to help but glance at even when they were younger, excited him in a way he’d never felt with anyone else. He wanted to tear off Alex’s clothes, push him onto his back, and thrust into him until he had nothing left. Until Alex said no one else’s name but his.

He did as he wanted, resting Alex down on the carpet. He kissed down his throat, and grinded their hips together. Alex’s small moans made him groan, fueling him on. He sat back enough to slip his jeans down, and came down into Alex’s waiting arms, their chests pressed together. Neither of them looked down at what was happening between their hips as Max thrusted into him, but they each held on. Alex pushed his hips up in rhythm to Max’s thrusts, panting into the crook of his neck.

The hours passed, and Max and Alex didn’t stop touching each other. They couldn’t. Alex held onto Max like he never wanted to let him go. There were a million different reasons for it, Max knew there had to be. But for that time that they spent together, before exhaustion came, Max wanted to fall asleep with Alex on his chest, believing that they were, just for a short while, both in love.

*

Alex woke first, because he always did. He’d found himself face-to-face with Max, sleeping and rested in a way he didn’t normally look. Alex figured they should really move to the bedroom at some point – the clothes on the floor and the carpet not the softest surface for his leg – but at the moment, he was too busy tracing Max’s cheek with his finger, his nose, his lips.

He smiled, though something nagged at his heart in a way he couldn’t explain. His answer came as a knock at the door.

Carefully, he moved Max’s arm from his waist, biting his lower lip as he quickly, and as quietly as he could, pulled on his prosthetic and jeans. He opened his front door as he pulled on his shirt, just pulling it down over his eyes as Michael met him on the porch. The cowboy stared at his naked skin until it was covered. Alex blushed.

“Hey,” he said.

“Alex,” Michael greeted, looking over Alex’s shoulder into the house, but Alex was already closing the door. He clenched his jaw. “Why is Max’s car here?”

Alex licked his lips, crossing his arms. “Because he’s here.”

Michael’s eyes flicked back to his stomach, as if remembering what he looked like without his shirt on. “Why?”

His tone indicated he knew exactly why.

“Leave it alone, Guerin,” he said. “Walk away before you do something stupid.”

“He told you,” Michael smirked, but there was nothing remotely funny in his expression. “He told you about his crush, and you caved.”

“I’ve wanted to kiss him for a long time,” he quietly confessed, and Michael faltered. “I finally got to. This was as much for me as it was for him.”

Michael began to chuckle, disbelieving. “This is – this is a joke. You and Max?”

“Please, stop it –”

“Why you?!” Michael demanded, his eyes glistening with tears. “Why, of everyone on this damn planet, did he have to pick YOU?!”

Alex waited until Michael was done panting to say, “Because you wouldn’t.”

Michael stilled, the world stopped shaking, and Alex was able to stand without holding onto the doorframe. “That’s not true.”

Alex shook his head. “I tried, Michael. I really did. But nothing was ever enough. And – and Max was the first person after Kyle changed who was ever kind to me. I – I’ve wondered what it would be like to be with him, and you know what? I want to try.”

“I want to be with you!”

“Is that why you’re still with Maria?” Alex demanded, his own eyes burning. “Or why, even after I broke up with Forrest, you still wouldn’t come talk to me? Or why you left me alone while I was pouring my heart out to you in a bar full of cowboys?”

“Alex . . .” Michael looked lost, like he’d never expected the kind of damage he’d caused on Alex. It made things so much worse. He’d never cared about Alex long enough to see the way he was hurting him.

“You have no right to be here now,” Alex said. “You have no right to want me, Guerin, or to touch a hair on Max’s head for having the guts to do what you never did. Go back to your girlfriend, and leave me alone.”

“Alex –”

“Leave, Guerin,” Alex said, turning away from Michael as he opened his door to head back in. To keep Michael out. “I don’t want to see you again.”

“ALEX!”

Michael sat up in his bed, grasping at the air. He was breathing heavily, his heart hammering painfully. The sky outside was black, the night air cold, but Michael was sweating. His nightmare flashing in his mind, repeating the words “I don’t want to see you again” in Michael’s ears, he fished his jeans off the floor quickly, pulled out his phone, and dialed Alex’s name.

The phone rung three times, and Michael clenched his jaw, already imagining driving down to the airman’s house to see him for himself.

Then the call connected, and Alex’s sleepy, but alert voice sounded. “Guerin?”

“Alex,” Michael breathed. “My Alex. Are you sleeping with Max? You’re not, right? Y-You’re not?”

A moment of silence. Then –

“Are you drunk?”

Michael huffed a chuckle, the bad dream already fading away to the back of his mind, disintegrating to ash and flying away in the wind. Good riddance, Michael thought with no small amount of relief.

“No,” he said. “No, I – I thought . . .” he shook his head. “Bad dream. Really, really bad dream.”

Michael heard some rustling on the other end, and pictured Alex sitting up against his headboard.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Michael said, wiping a tired hand over his face, but unable to stop smiling. “Yeah, I’m okay, baby.”

More silence. Alex and Forrest had only broken up two weeks ago, after all. He and Michael definitely didn’t call each other baby.

Michael worried he’d frightened Alex off for a minute, but then Alex asked, “You want to tell me about it?”

“No,” he said right away, and slumped against his pillow. He clenched the blanket in his hand, and confessed, “I just want to curl up with you in bed and go back to sleep.”

A pause. Alex sighed. “You know how to get in. I’ll keep the hallway light on for you.”

Michael sat up straight. “R-Really?”

Alex hummed, and Michael swung his legs off the edge of the bed. He scoffed. “Am I sleeping with your brother – are you kidding me?”

Michael groaned as he rapidly pulled his jeans on and pushed his feet into his boots. “Don’t talk about it, please.”

Alex giggled, the sound bringing a warmth to Michael’s chest and erasing the last of his troubles.

“Whatever you want, baby.”

***

I had to 😂 I don’t write outside of canon, so I had to adjust it to fit my style. But there ya go!

[hopetwink]

Fic Analysis: Yellow Somethings

Yellow Somethings by @kidcarma

I’ve been in a creative rut lately, so one of the things I’m doing in the meantime is analyzing my favorite fics written by friends and/or acquaintences. This work was one of the first that came to mind, so it’s the first one I wrote an in-depth character analysis for. 

Some people tell me I’m scarily good at psychoanalyzing both fictional characters and authors, so I’m harnessing that ability here in hopes it’ll give both you guys (and maybe also me) a greater appreciation for these well-written works. 

So yeah, enjoy!

When I first read this work, one thing that immediately stood out to me was the dialogue. Good dialogue can stand on its own. If we cut out everything except the first exchange of dialogue between Hinata and Komaeda, the strength of this dialogue becomes evident.

“I hate you.”

“I can live with that.”

As any skilled writer knows, well-written first lines are crucial to the allure of a story. The first line must not only be an enticing hook, but an informative and non-expositional string of words that give the reader a strong sense of the work as a whole. It instantly sets the tone for a piece, allowing us to get a sense of where the characters are now, and what direction they’re going in. 

The author’s choice to make the first line a piece of dialogue tells us they want to plunge us headfirst into the story. In fanfiction, which cannot exist without source material to draw from, it’s safe to assume one’s audience already knows a great deal about the canon lives and fates of the characters the story explores. It’s a nice shortcut that lets writers avoid having to excessively recap the events of the canon storyline, but the way this particular author makes use of this shortcut is significant. The intensity of the language they chose to use serves another purpose--to give the reader exactly what they promised the fic would contain in the summary, notes, and tags, and knock anyone who isn’t ready to read it off balance. 

In less than a hundred words, Komaeda confronts Hinata with intensely negative feelings that most people wouldn’t hesitate to take at face value, and Hinata makes it clear that regardless of if Komaeda truly hates him, he has no intention of abandoning him. 

‘Hate’ is a funny emotion; you can’t hate someone and be indifferent to them at the same time. To hate someone is to care about them, though even the mere suggestion that we care for the people we hate on some level is uncomfortable and counterintuitive. So yes, Komaeda’s telling the truth, he does hate Hinata. I don’t think he holds Hinata’s past against him; that would not only be unfair, but go against Komaeda’s efforts to promote and embody hope. Lingering on a past full of despair instead of looking towards the future does nothing to further the great cosmic goals of hope. 

Komaeda wouldn’t hate Hinata over something so broad and vague; no, the reason Komaeda hates Hinata is simple: Hinata’s the only one who isn’t fazed by Komaeda’s delusions, and he refuses to give Komaeda the dignity of rotting away in peace. 

In taking care of Komaeda, Hinata forces him to confront every last ounce of shame in his body, because somebody decided he was worth keeping alive, worth helping to heal and protect, when that goes against what he thinks with every fiber of his being. He has to sit helplessly and watch as Hinata emotionally strips him down and sees what he believes to be the ugliest parts of himself, the ones that he genuinely would rather die before willingly showing them to someone else, and being subjected to such humiliation at the hands of someone with good intentions is too much for him to bear. 

The only remotely empowering emotion he can cling to at the moment is bitterness, which enables him to find little ways to resist Hinata’s attempts to nurse him back to health at every turn. 

We see him try to reclaim some leverage in their power dynamic when he attempts to psychoanalyze Hinata and determine the reason he hasn’t given up on Komaeda yet through quips like “you do this because you feel bad” and “is it because the image of my dead body lives on in your mind.” Komaeda cannot allow Hinata to see him be vulnerable, because if he does, all the effort he put into building an impenetrable wall around his heart over the past fifteen or so years will have been for nothing. 

This feature of the fic is only made more poignant by the fact that it’s written from Hinata’s perspective--we don’t see what Komaeda is thinking or feeling, only his words and actions. But we see Hinata’s, which brings me to another underlying message: sometimes love isn’t gentle. Sometimes love isn’t soft and sweet, or pretty. Hinata loves Komaeda, even if he himself doesn’t realize or understand it. Because if he didn’t, he wouldn’t bother. He would’ve simply walked out of Komaeda’s hospital room the first time he refused to take his medicine. And he didn’t do that. He would never do that, not to Komaeda.

Hinata’s love for Komaeda is reflected in the yellow flowers he leaves next to his hospital bed, and that is why we catch a glimpse of his frustration when Komaeda breaks it. But in a way, this is a good thing--as Hinata begins to open up about his emotions, the pair move further away from their cycle of codependency and towards something closer to a symbiotic relationship. Perhaps someday, instead of needing to need each other, they will be able to love each other with no strings attached. 

This is what makes Komaeda’s decision to replace the flowers in Hinata’s vase much more significant than it appears on the surface--not only is it a gesture of goodwill and apology, but a sign that Komaeda is finally taking initiative in their relationship. No longer will Hinata have to carry both of their burdens; Komaeda is willing and able to reciprocate the love and effort Hinata has selflessly given him. 

The fic ends on Hinata doing some much needed introspection, and eventually coming to the conclusion that he isn’t happy with the way his life has turned out. Because, despite everything he’s been through, all the knowledge, talent, and skill he’s gained, and the external validation he’s received from his friends, it’s not enough. What Hinata wants is a purpose beyond caring for Komaeda. One day Komaeda will be fully recovered and then Hinata will have no other meaningful task to do, and nothing to distract himself from his inner turmoil. 

What Hinata needs is to see himself as inherently valuable, and he’s incapable of doing that until he learns to forgive himself. Right now, he’s not ready to accept his or Komaeda’s forgiveness yet, but deep down he knows that’s the only way to pull himself out of the pit of self-loathing he’s buried in.

Perhaps I’m reading too deeply into this clean, clear-cut fic, but I highly doubt the author went into this scenario with little to no knowledge of both Hinata and Komaeda’s mental predicaments. The underlying whispers of each character’s desire to love and be loved, to feel something--anything--when they’re too numb to care, is not a dynamic that an unskilled writer would be able to execute so gracefully. 

At the very least, Carmen has quite the natural aptitude for extracting the real life emotions they and others around them experience, and at the most, they have done extensive research involving both outside sources and (multiple) character studies. Regardless of whether either or both are true, I’m extremely impressed at how well they’ve managed to nurture the seeds of creativity in their mind, and I look forward to more opportunities to explore their works with in-depth analyses.

[penguiduck]

The Kurama Duality: My Very First Official Headcanon!

Ah, the Kurama duality.

I've been asked this a lot, and people seem to like my interpretation, so I figured I'd list my official headcanon here.  I’ve gone into far more detail in my Kurama x Reader fic, Embracing the Seasons, specifically chapter 25, if you’re interested, but here’s a summary.

Let's get something out of the way: Kurama does not have a split personality disorder.

Yoko Kurama and Shuichi Minamino are not two different beings.  They are one and the same.  Kurama explicitly says this in the English dub: “This is a merger, not a possession.”  In other words, when Yoko Kurama escaped from certain death, he fused his soul with that of Shuichi Minamino, and they became one.

I think there are three aspects of this duality.  I know, I know.  It's confusing because the word "duality" implies that there are specifically two opposing sides, but hear me out.

There is Yoko Kurama, the ancient demon, who was cold and cruel, and did all sorts of morally reprehensible things.  He plotted and thieved, and probably killed anyone who stood in his way.  While the dub isn’t explicit about the crimes he committed in his demon days, aside from stealing artifacts, I think, given Kurama’s feelings of regret, he likely made some horrible choices.

Then there is Shuichi Minamino, the human boy with whom Yoko Kurama fused his soul.  As a result, Shuichi grew up with a soul that was at least half demon, and as such, he was probably not an easy child to raise, influenced by his demon heritage.  Yoko Kurama’s intention, after all, was to leave Living World after he recovered from his encounter with Spirit World’s Special Defense Force.  His mother, Shiori, showed him unconditional love and compassion, and it was through her tenderness that he came to love her.

But having these two disparate identities is a lot to handle.  Here’s Yoko Kurama, who has a very demon perspective — no doubt, in Demon world, sometimes you just have to survive, and as such, Yoko Kurama is ruthless, vindictive, and cunning because he was successful at being just that.  It is how one survives as a demon — on brutal instinct and carnage.  On the other hand, here’s gentle Shuichi who was raised to be polite and empathetic with his fellow humans, who loves his mother and cares deeply for his friends.  Shuichi is not Yoko Kurama, and even though their souls are fused together, Shuichi still has a childhood innocence, a naiveté about him.  As he was growing up under the tender care of Shiori, Shuichi may have loathed her without completely recognizing why.  And Shiori, bless her heart, may have attributed his misbehavior to childish tantrums.  It wasn’t until he understood her selfless devotion that even the cold-hearted Yoko Kurama learned to love her, too.

These two equally valid pieces of himself are so different, their values and methodologies conflicting at times. They are impossible to consolidate.

To strike a balance, it was a third identity, Kurama, who surfaced to mediate between the two.  He is able to harmonize Yoko Kurama’s ruthless and calculating calm with Shuichi’s kind-hearted, reflective nature.  This is the Kurama with which the main YYH cast is familiar.

Again, Yoko Kurama, Shuichi, and Kurama are not different people, per se.  They are one and the same, sharing the same soul.  However, they can have wildly different tendencies, ambitions, and motivations.  

In the English dub, Kurama refers to these aspects of himself as personalities or identities, which is perfectly fine, but I think such verbiage can lead people to think that he has a dissociative personality disorder.

I like to think of them as perspectives, and I use a glasses lens analogy to help interpret them.  In Embracing the Seasons, chapter 53, Kurama explains to the reader character, his girlfriend, why he is so cold to her when he takes on his demon form:

“_____, I love you with every fiber of my being, as I’ve never loved anyone before. I promise you that. And thus, every component, every piece of my soul loves you as well. Even Yoko Kurama loves you. When I take his form, I may behave differently. It may help to think of each identity as me looking through tinted glasses of varying color. These lenses do not define my sight, but my mindset, my method of thinking.

“When I must be Shuichi, I see the world through a very human perspective. I live each day, waking up, going to work, doing my research, writing financial publications. I pay the bills, I shop for groceries, I spend time with friends. I live for my mother, for my stepfather, for Kokoda.

“When I must be Yoko, the glasses are tinted with another perspective. I see through the lens of a demon, guarded by instinct and ruthlessness. I am less concerned for the personal feelings of others, more focused on ambition, whatever goal is most prevalent. I have to be — this is how Demon World functions, ruled by the iron fist of power.

“And when I am Kurama, as you see me now, I understand both interpretations. I appreciate both perspectives and realize each have their strengths and opportunities. Right now, in Demon World and given the circumstances, Yokoʼs strength may very well be a necessity. Please understand that.”

In other words, when Kurama taps into Yoko Kurama’s strength and shifts into his demon body, he doesn’t magically lose everything that he learned as a human.  Yoko Kurama and Shuichi are the same person, after all.  He doesn’t forget what it means to be compassionate or understanding, but he may choose to disregard that piece of himself.

A really good example of this is in the Kurama vs Gamemaster episode.  Kurama consciously made the choice to manipulate Amanuma, literally causing him to have a breakdown, and thus lose the game.  He was crushed by this decision, riddled with guilt that he killed a child, but he knew he had to do it — otherwise, he and his team would have no chance at defeating Sensui.  

Upon reflection, as confirmed by older Toguro/Gourmet who had stolen the mind-reading ability from Murota, Kurama was upset with himself because Yoko Kurama would not have even contemplated hesitating to kill Amanuma.  He would not have wavered and potentially ruined his team’s only opportunity of escaping the Gamemaster’s territory.  In other words, if it was Yoko Kurama who was in the same position, his demon perspective would have prevailed.  He would not feel guilt or shame in making the decisions necessary to secure victory, not because he is heartless now that he knows what it is to be human, but because the existing goal was far more valuable to achieve than sparing a child’s life.  Yoko Kurama can apply logic in a way that is so cold, so void of emotion that even Kurama may be rendered uncomfortable.

I could talk and write about the Kurama duality forever because Kurama is one of the most beautifully complex characters I’ve ever had the pleasure to come across.  But, alas, I prefer not to bore you, dear readers. I hope you enjoyed this headcanon of my very favorite fictional love of my life, and please feel free to reach out if you have any questions or requests! 

If you would like to reblog or refer to this headcanon in your own fanfiction writing, please feel free.  A reference back to this post would be nice so others may enjoy it. <3

Pictures are obviously shots from the anime. I do not own them.

[vannahfanfics]

Cat’s Cradle

Category: Friendship Fluff

Fandom: Noragami

Characters: Hiyori Iki, Yukiné

The tip of Yukiné’s tongue poked out of his lips as he concentrated on the pixelated figures dashing across the screen of his handheld console game. Little grunts and chimes floated out of the small speakers in tune with the frantic mashing of his thumbs and forefinger against the buttons and trigger buttons. His face screwed up tight in determination; then, a pout overtook his boyish features when a bright red “You died! ” splashed in grotesque, bloody font across the screen. With a groan, he dropped the console down into his lap and pushed his cheeks into his hands. 

“Dumb game,” he muttered under his breath. Yukiné’s rose-gold eyes wandered around Hiyori’s bedroom to drink in the dainty charm of her decór- a simple queen-sized bed with a pillowy comfortable, some wrestling posters plastered on the walls, her cute little lamp perched on the side table. As his eyes drifted to her desk laden with papers and textbooks, he found her hunched over a book highlighting almost every sentence on the page. For a moment, he considered leaving the girl to her own devices. However, the videogame was no longer fun, and there was almost nothing Yukiné hated more than boredom. 

“Hiyoriiiiii,” he whined loudly. The girl swept a swathe of her hair over her shoulder, pencil grazing a line of lead over her cheek, as she peered out of her peripheral vision at him. He puffed out his cheeks and watered his eyes to appeal to the girl’s motherly instincts. “Hiyori, I’m bored. Play with me.” 

Hiyori’s lips curled into a smile, half-amused and half-chastising. Yet, she pushed herself away from her desk and turned her rolling chair towards him. Yukiné wriggled in happiness and straightened up in the bean bag chair, already eagerly anticipating whatever delight Hiyori had in store for him. She was a unique young lady with many niche interests, and- though he’d never admit it- her quirky little games and suggestions for fun thoroughly amused him. He suppressed his excitement, painting a bored look onto his face and plopping back down into a slouch. He had a reputation to maintain, after all. Hiyori was too busy stretching her arms above her head to notice his slip-up. 

“Ahhhh,” the girl sighed pleasantly before dropping her arms down onto her thighs with soft plops. Yukiné blinked expectantly at her. Her already friendly smile widened to crinkle up her eyes. The small and probably unconscious act made Yukiné’s heart flutter in his chest and brushed rose across his cheeks; Hiyori’s kind, motherly nature always stirred him this way. He hadn’t the foggiest idea why. 

“Okay, Yukiné,” she chirped. “I needed a break from studying anyhow. Now, let’s see, what should we play today?” She tilted her head to the side as she tapped the pad of her index finger against her pursed pink lips. “Oh! I know!” she declared, holding up her index finger as an idea sparked in her head. “Have you ever played the cat’s cradle?” 

“Cat���s cradle?” he echoed. It sounded vaguely familiar, so it was probably some popular goofy kid’s game (which explained why Hiyori would enjoy it). Still, he couldn’t directly recall ever playing, so he shook his head. 

Hiyori’s eyes sparkled with delight, and she trilled while wrenching the chair back around so she could rummage through her desk drawers. 

“Eee! This is gonna be fun. It’s really simple,” she hummed happily while rifling underneath some stray papers in a deep drawer. “Ah-ha! Here we go.” Yukiné cocked a skeptical eyebrow as she procured a long piece of red yarn from within the depths of the desk. His reluctance went unnoticed to Hiyori, who merely whirled back around and wiggled excitedly in the rolling chair. “Okay! Here’s a piece of yarn for you, Yukiné,” she said as she snipped the string in half. 

“For me?” he asked, dumbly watching the woven fiber twist and turn to puddle on the carpet. He pinched the end of the twisted strand between his thumb and forefinger and held it up like he was holding some sort of writhing snake. “This is… yarn.” Hiyori nodded jubilantly. 

“Yep! Now, just watch me.” Yukiné began to wonder if all the cramming for her exams had fried Hiyori’s brains. Still, he observed as she tied off the end of the yarn to form a loop before winding it around her fingers. It was clear she’d practiced the maneuver many times, as her fingers slipped seamlessly through the yarn to draw it in taut straight lines. When she displayed her handiwork for him with a beaming smile, Yukiné did his best to appear impressed. 

“Looks… great.” 

“You see that hole in the middle? Stick your hand through!” 

“What?” Yukiné exclaimed as the game took a turn for the ridiculous. Hiyori continued to smile brightly down at him, making his cheeks burn with embarrassment. He muttered something unflattering about the cat’s cradle game under his breath but stuck his hand through the hole in the threaded yarn, not wishing to upset Hiyori by refusing. All that would happen is that the thread would knot up around his wrist. Hiyori giggled mischievously, making him momentarily question the game’s simplicity, and tugged her hands apart. Much to his shock, the yarn sprung apart in such a way to leave his wrist completely free. It now rested back in the loop, no tangles in sight. 

“Whoa! How’d you do that?” he cried and jerked up his piece of string to critically inspect it. He had no idea how trick string could be made, but surely there must be some trick involved with the yarn, right? Hiyori laughed spiritedly at his confusion. 

“There’s no trick, Yukiné,” she purred, tickled by the ghostly boy’s confusion. He glanced up at her with marveling rose-gold eyes. “Come here; I’ll show you how to make it.” 

Yukiné obediently scooched a bit closer. He watched in wonder as she talked him through the steps of how to place his fingers just so around the string to form the lines in such a way they’d spring apart upon stretching. After her explanation, he attempted to replicate the steps only to find them much more complicated than they appeared. He scowled as the red yarn knotted up, tying his index and middle fingers together. 

“Hiyori! This is hard!” Yukiné complained indignantly. Hiyori had resumed studying, allowing Yukiné to riddle out the intricacies of the cat’s cradle for himself. She paused to rest her hand in her cheek, dotting her face with yellow highlighter ink as she gazed amusedly down at him. 

“Yukiné, most things in life that are rewarding are hard,” she told him poignantly. “If you live life only taking the easy way out, you’ll find at the end that it’s been pretty dull and meaningless.” The blond boy’s face contorted into an accusatory glare. 

“Hiyori, did you do this to teach me a lesson?” 

The high school girl laughed airily and dropped her hand back down to her desk. She wiggled the end of the highlighter in time with the side-to-side motions of her head as she sang mysteriously, “Oh, I dunnooooo~!” Yukiné’s scowl deepened as she all but confirmed his suspicions. He should have known better than to nag her to play because he was pissed off at losing his videogame; of course she’d cook up a scheme like this! “What?” she cooed challengingly and flashed him a wink. “Gonna give up now?”

“No!” he snapped and wrenched his tangled hands away from her as if to protect them from any harm she may bring to his efforts. Huffing, he used his feet to turn his body in a circle across the carpet. He boldly presented his back to her. “I’m gonna do it! Just get back to studying!” he cried with a toss of his head, the little poofballs at the end of his hat jumping with the exaggerated motion. He hunched his shoulders as Hiyori chuckled again. Damn woman. I’ll show her! he thought grumpily. He pried his finger free of the red yarn to try again. 

The afternoon passed without him noticing. The only reason he looked up from the mess of red string around his fingers was that Hiyori’s soft snores finally drifted into his ears. The girl splayed across the desk. Her gaping mouth seeped drool across the already sodden page of the textbook, and her hands dangled by her sides. Part of Yukiné regarded her with slight disdain, but the great majority of him admired her with affection. 

“Silly Hiyori,” he sighed, allowing the yarn to slip from his fingertips as he rose from the floor. “You work too hard.” He crossed the room to pluck the throw blanket from the end of her bed. As he walked back, he unfurled it, and the stitched hem dropped down to his feet. Carefully, he draped the blanket over the girl’s shoulders. “G’night,” he whispered before flipping off the lamp on her bedside table. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Yato was waiting for him at the usual place, sprawled out on his back on the park bench to stare up at the starry night sky like he was trying to riddle the world’s secrets from it. The god turned as Yukiné approached, giving him a curious look. 

“You stayed pretty late at Hiyori’s today,” he commented. “Don’t tell me you’ve taken on a new appreciation for her tutoring.” He had neglected to tell Yato that Hiyori had given him the day off to study for her examinations and allowed Yukiné to stay because she enjoyed the pleasure of someone else’s company. 

“Pfft. Whatever,” Yukiné evaded. Much used to his punk attitude by now, Yato only shrugged and returned his contemplative gaze to the landscape of black pinpricked with white stretched above them. Yukiné paused a few feet away, chewing on his lip and fingering the loop of red yarn stuffed into his coat pocket. “Actually… Hiyori did teach me something today. Not school-related, but something else. Can I… can I show you?” 

This time, when Yato looked over, he slipped his legs off the bench to roll himself up into a sitting position. With glinting sky-blue eyes like chips of aquamarine, the god regarded him eagerly. Yukiné took it as an invitation and plodded over. He pulled the red string out as he did. 

Yato’s gaze dropped down to the yarn. If he recognized what Yukiné was about to do, he said nothing; he only silently watched as his Regalia threaded his fingers through the string to form a pattern of lines. When Yukiné thrust out his hands to silently indicate to Yato to put his hand through, the god did so with no comment. Yukiné couldn’t help but smile triumphantly as he pulled the string apart, and it threaded back into the loop as intended. 

“The cat’s cradle,” Yato smiled as Yukiné retracted the yarn and slipped it back into his pocket. 

“Yeah!” The young boy shoved his hands in his pockets, twisting the string around the tip of his index finger as he held it in his hoodie. “It took me a long time to learn… That’s why I ended up staying so late.” 

“You? Work at something tirelessly instead of giving up? I’m shocked. I must finally be having a good influence on you,” Yato declared haughtily. Yukiné scowled and kicked him in the shin, causing the skinny god to whimper. “Ah, Yukiné, you’re so mean… Why do you wound your master so…?” 

“Because you’re an arrogant idiot!” the blond seethed, stomping to the other end of their outdoor abode to plop down. He twisted the string around in his pocket. The anger bubbled away, especially when he thought about how he could show the completed cat’s cradle to Hiyori tomorrow. “Hiyori said… Hiyori said that most things in life are hard but still worth doing. It’s just a cat’s cradle, but…” A small smile graced his pale face. “I worked hard, and now I get to surprise Hiyori with it tomorrow, so… I guess she was right.” 

Yato was quiet for several seconds- so long that Yukiné wondered if he even heard him in the first place. Just as annoyance began to boil up in his blood, Yato spoke- softly, just a breath on the wind and more as a self-reassurance than as a response to Yukiné. 

“Yeah. Yeah, they are.” 

The wind swept across the landscape with a small howl. It plucked at Yukiné’s clothes with eager fingers and nipped at the blond curls of his hair poking out from beneath the rim of his woven wool hat. It was chilly; such was the price to pay for living outside. Someday we won’t have to, he thought, smiling slightly. Most things in life are hard… But they pay off in the end, don’t they? They have to, otherwise… What are we doing all this for? 

As Yukiné laid on his side, he procured the string again and began mindlessly weaving the cat’s cradle. The fibers reflected the moonlight streaming down from above to shine like woven red coral. He fell asleep with a tiny smile, hands tangled in the red string. 

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

[makaylajadewrites]

Muted Blue Chapter 3

and i was never sure whether you were my home or just a stop along the way

-Christiane Starl

~

After a day and a half in the hospital, Spencer was deemed ready to go home — wherever that was. Throughout those days, Spencer had told them more about the operation, but it wasn’t nearly enough to help them deduce any new conclusions or even reveal anything they didn’t already know. Reid sat through a cognitive with Prentiss in an attempt to recall details from the day he had been abducted, but halfway through, they had to stop and Spencer cried for Morgan to come back, which he did without any hesitation. Prentiss hadn’t been able to gather much from it, and they honestly hadn’t expected much anyway since it had been over a year ago when he was first abducted.

Reid was scared though; how was he going to live on his own again? Everything had been taken away from him, and he had absolutely nothing. His apartment had been cleared out, all of his belongings gone, and he almost certainly couldn’t go back to work right away. He had only been a teacher’s assistant, but it was just a stepping stone on the way to his true calling; an FBI agent, specifically within the BAU which he was guaranteed a spot if he passed the academy — which he had no doubt he would, considering so many requirements had either been waived of dismissed. But that dream was long gone now. Maybe in another life, he would have that opportunity.

He currently sat on the edge of the hospital bed, dressed in a pair of gray slacks and a purple button-up shirt that JJ had supplied him, a pair of converse on his feet. It was so utterly him and he wondered how she had managed to provide him with such fitting clothing. It was his style, something he wore almost everyday, and now that he thought about it, she probably picked up on his wardrobe choices through pictures of him, before all of this. The shirt was clearly not one made for avians though, since two slightly small slits had been cut into the back of it. It was a little tight around his scapulars, but it would do for now at least. He was alone right now; Morgan had left the room to meet up with his team, and now that Spencer was thinking more clearly, he knew he couldn’t rely so heavily on Derek. Derek was an FBI agent, and as much as he wanted to cling to him, he simply couldn’t. It wasn’t anything personal between he and Derek Morgan, as much as he wanted it to be. Derek was simply doing a job, and Spencer happened to be the unfortunate victim.

“Hey, are you ready, Kid?” He heard Derek’s voice filter through the room from the partially opened door, and he looked up with a small smile, both nervous and confused.

“For what?...” He questioned, rising to his feet. Derek didn’t realize it before, but Spencer was about the same height as him, although their body types couldn’t be more difficult. He was large and muscular, often spending most of his free time working out or running. But Spencer was delicate like an orchid, requiring specific care needed for him to flourish. He was tall as stated, willowy and slender. God, he was so gorgeous… He had been beautiful before, but after just a day of recovery, he was already radiating a warm glow of pretty youthfulness.

“To leave,” Derek said with a little chuckle, watching as those wings seemed to be a telltale sign of his emotions. That had cocked slightly, the right a bit more than the left, when he questioned Morgan, and now, they had lifted up, just slightly, as if to demonstrate a rise of joy within him. Well, the brightening smile on his face could also be a bit of a sign too…

“Where am I going?” He asked, following along with Derek as he guided him out of the hospital room, not missing the subtle brush of Derek’s large hand against the small of his back. In the hospital, he made sure to keep his wings tucked close to his back to avoid hitting something or someone — it was simply a natural reaction for avians to do as such in social situations, more as a common courtesy to others since their wings were more powerful than most realized. Speaking of Spencer’s wings… They already looked a bit healthier too, although it was mainly because of Reid’s nearly two hour long pruning session the night before. Morgan had watched him with utmost fascination as his slender fingers dipped into his feathers, effortlessly plucking those that didn’t belong and fussing up the ruffle of his plumes. It was quite cute, honestly, and he would never forget the satisfied hum that passed Spencer’s pretty lips when he felt more comfortable with himself.

“Home. Well, not your home. My home. Until we’re able get you settled somewhere on your own,” Derek said with a slight shrug of his shoulders. Spencer looked somewhat taken aback, but he didn’t have the chance to respond before he was surrounded by Morgan’s team, those he now recognized as the famous David Rossi, unit chief Aaron Hotchner, SSA Emily Prentiss, police and media liaison Jennifer “JJ” Jareau, and technical analyst Penelope Garcia. They instantly looked to him with smiles on their faces, and he blushed both out of embarrassment and the excessive attention he was getting — good attention, anyway.

“Hey, Spence, are you ready to go home?” JJ asked him kindly, obviously taking a liking to the boy even if they were right around the same age. She had grown to be quite protective of Spencer, possibly just as much as Morgan, but it was clear that Spencer depended on Morgan a bit more simply because he was his savior. Spencer looked a bit anxious, but he quickly bobbed his head in a nod since he was in fact ready to live in a house again.

“Y-Yes,” he answered quietly, a thin-lipped smile on his lips. He relished in the feel of Morgan’s hand on his back, but when he went away, he suddenly felt alone again and looked towards him with a muted expression of confusion and hurt. But Morgan didn’t seem to realize, since he was now talking with the plump blonde woman, or Penelope Garcia, as she had introduced herself. They seemed to be flirting, talking in cutesy riddles and nudging each other, and Spencer realized that they must be a couple. Their body language suggested as such, and the near permanent smiles on their faces did too. He sighed softly, feeling a sense of loneliness that he hadn’t realized was there before now. He didn’t understand where the sudden disappointment came from, but perhaps he was in too deep with Derek already.

The psychologically sound part of his mind tried to reason with him by reminding him that this was just a defense mechanism because of everything he had been through. Freud’s theories on homosexuality to gender to human development had been discredited, but his theory on defense mechanisms was sound, and they had been expanded by greater psychological minds like Adler and Jung. This was reaction formation — it had to be. He had been so utterly devastated, defeated, torn apart by the very fibers of his being, yet he was converting that trauma into infatuation with Derek Morgan, simply because he was the figure he associated with his freedom. No matter how desperately he tried to convince himself of that though, it would never reach him thoroughly. It was already too late, and he already craved that sense of dependency he had towards Morgan.

In the mid evening, they arrived at the man’s house, a single story cottage with a cute mahogany porch and a burnt orange door. It was nice, cozy, and when he stepped foot inside, he had nearly forgotten how comforting a home could be. It wasn’t his own of course, but the touches of familiarity and belonging were hard to miss. Traces of Derek were spread all throughout the home; from the diet regimen and workout calendar on the front of his fridge to the dark blue comforter neatly spread over his king size bed. He had been given a tour of the house, happy to know that the guest bedroom made up for him was right across from Derek’s room. It would luckily him a greater sense of safety, although he still feared his inability to sleep.

“I hope you find it comfortable. If you need or want anything at all that will make you more happy here, please let me know,” Derek said, standing in the doorway of the guest room as Spencer slowly wandered inside, his wings drooping a bit as he spread his hands over the bed, letting himself sink down into the mattress. He felt tears burn in his eyes, since he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so comfortable — well, he could. But he rather not

“It’s so soft,” he nearly sobbed, pressing his feathered cheeks into the comforter. He heard a soft hum behind him, and he lifted his head just in time to see Derek sit himself down at the foot of the bed, his upper body turned so that he could see Spencer. The avian looked up with wide, watery eyes, and he smiled. Derek swore his entire world stopped in that moment, when he saw such a beautiful sight that had been vacant from Spencer for far too long. If he had his way. He would make sure Spencer never hesitated to smile again.

“I’m glad you like it,” he said softly, and he watched with somewhat disbelieving eyes as Spencer’s wings extended outwards, the one draping itself over Derek’s lap. Spencer kept their eyes connected, that small smile never leaving his face. This was an act of confiding, of complete and total trust that Derek had not been expecting, but he certainly wasn’t going to take that for granted. So, to accept that offer of trust, Derek’s hand ran over the speckled primary feathers, and now that he was close enough to appreciate his wings, he could definitely see the resemblance Spencer had to a barn owl. The auburn feathers splashed with rustier browns and snowy whites were incredible, and over the crest of them, he swore they almost shined blue. Those sweet chocolate brown eyes held an infinite amount of majesty and the drew Derek in and then slowly let him go, although he wasn’t sure if he wanted to go. Avians were such magnificent creatures, and to this day, Derek would never be able to understand how they had been treated so miserably over the years. Spencer didn’t deserve that — no one did, regardless of species.

“In captivity,” Spencer started softly, sitting up slowly and crossing his legs, his wings coming up and around their bodies like a shield that encapsulated them from the rest of the world until they were alone together, “I remember thinking ‘I wonder if I’ll ever see the outside world again.’”

“Spencer…” Morgan said, almost as if it were a warning. He didn’t want the boy to push himself, but Spencer shook his head, determined to get this out.

“Whenever they would hurt me, or forced themselves on me, I would think of the last time I saw the moonlight and how utterly complete I felt flying beneath it. I want to do that again, Morgan. I want you to be there with me when I gain the strength and courage to fly again,” Spencer said in a near whisper, and Derek couldn’t resist the urge to touch him just once more. His hand cradled that face like it were the most precious thing in the world, and Spencer didn’t seem to doubt that either.

“Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be there with you every step of the way, Angel.”

Derek gave Spencer something no one had before. He gave him peace, like a calming flight under the moon and stars, even though he would never be whole again. Derek found him in the midst of a storm, and he drug him out and promised to stand him upright again. The world had not stopped for him, but Derek had, and that was all he needed.

And Derek would forever see him as an angel, soaring beneath skies of muted blue.

fin

~

<-Chapter 2

[writers-block246]

Bucky Barnes x Reader Fanfiction - The Light Amidst My Darkness

Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

Warning: Mentions of mental illness. I tried to present Bucky’s challenges as accurately as possible. However, if anyone has some suggestions as to better portray his illness and resulting therapy, please lmk! (I researched to depict his struggle with mental illness and the type of therapy he would recieve as accurately as I could). Curse words are also included.

Notes: Italics are thoughts and emphasis. Set before Infinity War and Endgame. Slow burn.

——————————————————————————

Chapter 1:

Your heels clicked on the cold marble tile as you strode towards your office. You unconsciously took a sharp turn down one of the compound’s hallways, caught up in your own little world. Thoughts swam in your head as you tried to make sense of the day’s tasks. I have a session with Wanda at 9:30, a meeting with my boss at 11, another session at 3. Did I mention lunch? What am I doing for that? A salad? A burge-

Your thoughts were interrupted by a cacophony of sounds floating down to you from the second floor’s overhang. Reflexively, your head shot up to determine the source of the ruckus. Almost immediately, your eyes met with cold icy blue ones. The Winter Soldier. Or the White Wolf, whatever they were calling him these days. Throughout the past few weeks, you had only come across the man (super soldier?) a few times. But now, in the middle of the hallway, his stare had stopped you right in your tracks. Suddenly, you recalled the details on his file. You had been given the information, which you had placed with the rest of the teams’s files, when he first officially joined the team and came to stay at the tower. Credited with over 100 assassinations of government officials, ranging across various countries. Charged with multiple war crimes. Cybernetic left arm. Enhanced abilities, including superhuman strength. Russian spy skilled in hand-to-hand combat and the use of many weapons. Simply put, the man was deadly. A shiver ran through you, images of the acts he had committed flitted through your mind. You couldn’t help but feel a sense of trepidation toward him. Enough in fact, to make you want to exit the area as quickly as possible.

You caught yourself. It wasn’t professional for you, a psychotherapist, to let emotions take over your rationale. Nor should you make judgments without having even truly met the man. Not to mention, Steve Rogers, a.k.a. Captain America, had defended James Barnes multiple times. And if there was anyone you trusted completely, it was the Captain. So, you would trust his judgement of character here. Steeling yourself under the assassin’s intense gaze, you nodded to him and continued on your way to your office.

As you walked along, you thought about all James Buchanan Barnes had went through. Flung from a train, captured by Hydra, and brainwashed to become the exact thing he had fought against. You wondered what it felt like to be at someone’s mercy with the mere utterance of a few words. Forced to commit deeds you never would on your own, awakening to the aftermath. Even worse, you thought, to be pitted against your closest friend, facing off from different parts of the battlefield. To be a twisted version of what made Captain America so great.

You decided to cut Mr. Barnes some slack. He had been through enough.

With that final thought, you stepped into your office.

Wanda Maximoff sat in her usual chair, patiently awaiting your arrival. Upon hearing you enter, she looked up from her phone and gave you a smile. “Heya, Doc.”

You couldn’t help but grin in response. “Hello, Wanda. How are you today?”

And with that, your first session of the day began. However, your mind kept wandering to those piercing blue eyes. You couldn’t deny that the soldier was handsome, incredibly so, actually. Tall, strongly built, and with those pretty blue eyes and dark hair. No matter how many times you tried to prevent your mind from replaying the scene in the hallway, you still found yourself getting distracted.

Wanda seemed to notice. “Are you okay Y/N? You seem a little off today?”

Shaking your head a little to relieve yourself of those distracting thoughts, you replied: “I’m fine, Wanda. I appreciate you asking, though.”

Its not like me to get distracted, especially during my job.

“Of course. We are friends, you know.”

You chuckled. “I know. But right now, I’m your therapist. So keep talking.”

“If I do, will you listen this time?” She said with a smirk.

You decided to ignore that comment. “So how would you describe your state of mind these past few days?”

Wanda gave a slight laugh, knowing what you were doing. However, she cut you a break and continued your conversation.

The minutes passed by with little to no thought of James Barnes, and soon, your therapy session had ended.

“Alright, that’s it. I’ll see you again at 3pm Thursday.”

She smiled. “Sounds good, Doc.”

You said your goodbyes as you walked her to the door of your office. Once she left, you sighed and sat down at your desk. You checked the clock: 10:42. You groaned. Eighteen minutes until your meeting. While contemplating the advantages and disadvantages of faking an illness (the flu? Chicken pox? The plague?), a notification popped up on your phone. Checking it, you realized it was an email from your boss:

Good Morning, Y/N!

I just wanted to let you know that our meeting has been cancelled. Director Fury said he needs to speak with you. 11 sharp.

Have a good day!

-Katherine Newman

Dread settled in the pit of your stomach. What could Fury want with me? You hardly ever spoke with the Director unless it had to do with one of your clients. Was this it? Am I getting fired? Is this because of me zoning out today? Did Wanda say something to him? No, no she would never sell me out like that.

You tried to calm your racing nerves. You were overreacting, you knew, but Fury had a way of intimidating people. Unclenching your fists, you swallowed and checked the clock once more: 10:45. 15 minutes. 15 minutes until you had to see Fury face to face.

15 minutes to make yourself presentable and cross the entire tower.

Shit!

Grabbing your things quickly, you made for the door. Heels clacking loudly against the floor, you began a fast pace toward Fury’s office. There was no way you could be late to a meeting with him of all people. The minutes it took to reach his workplace felt like hours due to your frantic worries. Finally, your eyes met with the name plaque on his door: Nick Fury.

Smoothing down your skirt, you took a deep breath and knocked. A muffled ‘enter’ was your response. Another deep breath and you were opening the door, only to be met with the same icy blue eyes from earlier.

There, sitting in front of Fury’s desk, was the object of your obsession for the past few hours: James Buchanan Barnes. The Winter Soldier.

Once more, you found yourself floored by the man’s intensity. This time, however, it was Fury’s voice that brought you back to the present.

“Have a seat, Miss Y/L/N.”

Only hesitating slightly, you closed the door behind you and headed to the seat next to Bucky. You made sure to not balk when taking the seat next to him, however, as you did not want him to think you feared him.

Once you were settled, Fury cleared his throat. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I had your meeting cancelled today.”

“Yes, sir,” you hesitantly replied.

“I’ve called you here to introduce you to your new patient.”

. . . new . . . patient?

Despite your confused appearance, Fury continued on. “He has to be cleared before he can go on any missions. Your sessions with Mr. Barnes will begin Friday.”

You felt James’s gaze on you. An unnamed feeling spread across your body.

He’s waiting for my reaction, you realized. He wants to see how I’ll respond to having to work with him.

Drawing strength from every professional fiber of your body, you prepared yourself and smiled. “Sounds good to me, Director Fury. Do you have a specific time in mind?”

His response was curt. “2:30pm.”

You smiled again, desperate to hide your nerves. “I’ll schedule it right away, sir.”

“Good.”

Ignoring Fury’s usual bluntness, you turned to James. “I look forward to working with you, Mr. Barnes.”

There was a hint of surprise in his expression, but he schooled himself quickly. Nodding, he turned back to Fury.

You didn’t take offense at his brusque nature. It was commonplace, you knew, for those that struggled with mental illness to behave in a blunt or off-kilter way. Instead, you made a mental note to express happiness at being around him. It would do him good for him to know people can be comfortable, and even look forward to, him being around.

(Even if I’m not totally comfortable).

Fury turned to look at James. “That’s all, Mr. Barnes. Remember your appointment, and I know you are aware of her office’s location.”

Was that . . . a . . . teasing tone of voice?

Even better, you could have sworn a light blush had settled on the soldier’s cheeks.

Nodding once more, James rose and strode out of the room.

Again, you were not put off by his behavior, as you had seen similar conduct from your other patients. Instead, you wondered about the odd exchange between Mr. Barnes and Fury. Am I missing something?

Your gaze settled back on Fury. “Was there a reason you had my meeting cancelled, Director Fury? Not to be disrespectful, but couldn’t you’ve just had me meet you later, sir?”

He chuckled. “Well sure, but that wouldn’t get you out of your meeting would it?”

You laughed, and felt the tension that you hadn’t even realized was still there release from your shoulders.

“It’s much appreciated, Director Fury.”

“No problem. And kid?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Get back to work.”

You scrambled for your things. “Yep, sure thing, sir.”

Headed toward the door, you gave one last look behind you. “Have a good day, sir.”

“Goodbye, kid.”

“Y-yep. Goodbye,” you stuttered.

You stepped out of his office and shut the door behind you. Breathing a sigh of relief, you made your way back to your office.

-Admin Cheyenne

More to come!!

[thewritingdungeon]

Discordancy #2

SUMMARY: Clint and Eris attempt to get some answers. Whether they succeed or not is really up to a matter of opinion.

CHARACTERS/PAIRING: Clint/OFC

WORD COUNT: 2,214

WARNINGS: gun violence, alcohol use

A/N: Apologies for my terrible posting tendencies. ADHD is a bitch, y'all.

Tag List: @carissime72

Okay... This looked bad.

Clint slipped as he skidded around the corner of the old building, nearly crashing into a dumpster. Bullets whizzed by, embedding themselves into the brick wall where his head had been a split second before. He popped up for a moment to look around, then ducked and shot off a round. A pained cry and the soft thump of a body told him he’d hit his mark.

“Come on!”

Thin fingers wrapped around his wrist to tug him up and forward with surprising strength. Clint looked back quickly as Eris led him around another corner into shadows, but he saw nothing behind them.

In the back of his mind, Clint wondered how a simple meeting to see what he could wheedle out of the last tech monkey Eris had gone to with the flash drive could have gone so wrong. Warning sirens had started blaring in his gut when she had given a non-committal answer to whether she trusted the hacker, and really, Clint knew he should have listened, but common sense had never been his forte. Throw in a pretty face, and Clint was likely to walk blind into any danger so long as he could help.

So really, he shouldn’t have been surprised when—shortly after refusing to rat on the mysterious “them” that had left their signature in the file’s encryption—several dozen rather unfriendly men greeted them at the door and began showering them with bullets.

Ragged breathing filled the narrow, darkened alley. He didn't know if any of their pursuers were still alive after that car bomb Eris had set off, but Clint knew that neither of them would last much longer. He leaned a little heavier against the rough brick, mindful of the small woman trapped between himself and the wall.

“Those were trained soldiers, Eris,” spoke Clint in a harsh whisper. “Why are trained soldiers trying to kill us?”

“I don’t know; I swear!”

A split-second catch of clambering boots was all the warning Clint got. Diving to the ground with Eris in tow, a shot rang out, and brick exploded above them.

“There! End of the alley!”

Clint didn’t bother to look at what Eris had noticed—only scrambled to follow her lead as he changed out his magazine and shot down the three enemies that had made their way into the mouth of the alley. So naturally, when Eris stopped abruptly and started climbing a fire escape, Clint skidded to a halt only to stumble into a pile of old trash bags.

Eris poked her head down from the first landing of the fire escape. “Come on! They’re catching up again!”

Groaning, Clint groped for his gun and aimed blindly behind him, firing off two shots that—according to the low whistle of appreciation earned from Eris—met their marks. He grumbled as he got to his feet, brushing off bits of off-color leftovers. Handing his gun up to Eris, Clint grabbed onto the bottom rung and began the ascent to take their chase to the rooftops.

The pair nearly collapsed as they entered the front lobby of the hotel, too exhausted to bother caring about the looks they were receiving from less-informed guests. Whoever it was that had been chasing them, they had continued to make their presence known even from the rooftops, hunting them right up to the gates of their sanctuary.

Lucky for them, even these crime lords respected the power of Hotel Soteria, and as soon as they had crossed over the threshold, all signs of their pursuers had disappeared. Still, they had gotten close today; but now Clint had something to work with. Now, they knew it was an organization, and not just a lone person out for revenge. Eris was one step closer to being free from danger.

Or at least he hoped she would be.

Clint looked over at Eris only to catch her looking back, and all at once the pair crumpled to the floor in a fit of laughter.

“I think we need a ‘holy shit we didn’t die’ celebratory drink.”

“I think I need five.”

Hopping to his feet with more energy than he thought he could muster, Clint held out a hand to help Eris up as well. But with adrenaline still coursing through him, he pulled her up too fast, and ended up tackled back onto the ground.

“One day, you’re going to have to explain how you’re so weirdly strong, woman,” Clint winced, rubbing the back of his head.

“One day, you’ll understand basic physics, and I won’t have to.”

Clint huffed out an incredulous laugh at her teasing retort and let himself be pulled back to his feet much more gently than he had tried before. Stumbling together fully into the lobby, shaky, disbelieving laughter built up between them. Laughter that was cut short by the curt clearing of a throat and the expectant eyes of The Concierge.

“Miss Eris, Ronin, welcome back.” The placid, disquieting smile of the attendant had Clint’s hackles raised in an instant. Next to The Concierge stood a mousy, unassuming man in a boxy suit with something much less placating bleeding into the curve of his smile. “This man has requested an audience with you, Miss Eris. In one of our upper-level board rooms.”

Eris froze. Clint could see the slow fear creep over her, dawning in hesitant eyes that plead for him to come with her. Clearing his throat, Clint stepped forward to tell the man to lead the way, but before he could, The Concierge stopped him.

“Just Miss Eris.”

He looked back, reluctance plain on his face. But they knew the rules.

“I’ll just be in the lounge, ‘kay? I’ll get our drinks and a table for us.”

Eris slowly nodded, chewing on her lip, and let The Concierge escort her to the elevators. Exhaustion fell heavy on Clint as soon as the doors closed on her weak smile, and he began making his way into the lounge. The stress of the day made itself known in every fiber of his muscles, but honestly Clint could not see it as anything but a win. They had returned to the hotel with more information than when they started, and for once, Clint could say he escaped a chase without falling from a building or breaking any bones.

All things considered, it had been a good day.

Then, the look on Eris’s face as she was corralled away flashed in his mind, and Clint reconsidered. Sighing, he settled in at the bar, raising a hand to catch The Bartender’s attention and order his and Eris’s usual celebratory drink. Whatever had just happened, whatever conspiracy was going on, they were alive. And Clint would celebrate that win while he still could.

One drink turned into two, and two into three as Clint waited with impatient agitation. A half an hour later, and still no sign of Eris. Clint was about to get up and ask for the current Concierge to check on them when the telltale flash of silver-white signaling Eris’s presence appeared at the entrance. He sat back down, tension bleeding from his shoulders as soon as she came into view.

“And here I thought I’d been stood up,” he tried to joke, refusing to give life to all the possible scenarios that worried at his mind. Eris didn't respond. Mouth set into a grim line, she took the cocktail held out to her and chugged it without taking a breath. She slammed the glass down, and reached for Clint's drink as well. He didn't stop her, too concerned by what could have happened in that meeting to make Eris so perturbed. She stared hard at the bar top for a moment, brows furrowed as she chewed on her lip. He could almost see the gears turning in her mind as she processed what had happened. When she finally spoke, it was uncharacteristically quiet.

"It's a job offer."

Clint stilled at the words, eyes locked on a curtain of silver-dyed hair, waiting for her to continue.

"The man... Mr. Whateverhisnamewas, he said he represents an organization that 'recognizes my talent and potential.’" The words were disbelieving as they left her lips. "He apologized for the miscommunication in the delivery of the package. Said it wasn't intended as a threat."

The new information should have been a good thing—should have meant his job here was done and he could say goodbye for good. But the look in Eris's eyes was not one of relief. "Well," Clint started, unsure of the words even as he spoke them, "you can just decline their offer and go your separate ways right? Did he even say what organization it was?"

The furrow in between her brows deepened as Eris shook her head. "No. No, he didn't. And..." She trailed off, a vain attempt to swallow down the fear that coated her tongue. "I don't think they’re going to let me decline."

"What?"

"Whoever they are, their representative made it pretty clear that declining the job was not a choice on the table."

"...Fuck."

The curse hung heavy in the muted silence between them. It was a rare moment in Clint's experience that could render Eris speechless, and though they never lasted long, it was always a sign of something worse to come. Sure enough, Eris soon broke the spell, tossing back the last of Clint's drink and bringing it back down hard onto the lacquered bar top.

"Thanks for everything, Ronin." Sadness tinged the edges of her fatigue-worn words even as she tried to hide it with a smile. "I know it was a risk coming back here for you. I'm glad I got to see you at least one more time."

The look on Eris's face sent worry ringing through Clint's chest and made his next decision for him. "Of course I came, Er. Now, go up to your room, clean out your shit, and meet me back in mine."

"Why?"

"Because you're too smart for whatever stupid plan you're thinking of going through with right now." With that, he stood up and began to make his way to The Concierge. Clint still had several favors with old contacts, and tonight seemed as good as any to cash in on them.

After several hours of trades, negotiations, and errands, Clint collapsed on the bed of his hotel room next to Eris, too exhausted to bother turning on the lights. He had done as much as he could to prep for what he had planned but knew it was still a risk, one he wished he could give warning for. Instead, he answered the question he knew was burning in his ex-partner's mind.

"We're leaving first thing in the morning; got a bit of a trip ahead of us. I'm gonna take us to someone who can help."

Burrowing deeper under the covers, Eris murmured her acknowledgement. An ache stirred in Clint's chest as he glanced over at the small woman somehow sprawled over half the bed.

"Hey, Eris?" he questioned.

"Mhm?"

"Why do you do this?" He waited a moment only to receive a noise of confusion as Eris shifted around. "I mean, you're clearly one of the brilliant minds of your generation. Even just knowing that you're some type of prodigy in the demolitions field, I know you could’ve done literally anything you wanted with your future and been ridiculously successful. So, uh, why are you an international criminal constantly on the run instead?"

A resigned sigh made Clint turn on his side to face her. He could just barely see the furrow in her brow as she stared down at the comforter between them. "Remember when I told you I have trouble working with others?” Clint nodded. “Well, consider being told your whole life that you're the smartest, the best—that you're made to do great things... if only you were more obedient, more compliant, stopped being so loud and relentless. 'If you just calmed down, you could make something great out of yourself.'” Eris gave a derisive snort. “I got tired of being told I could be successful in life if only I just wasn't..." she hesitated for a moment, "wasn’t myself. Eventually, I decided if the world didn't want me as I was, then I'd find somewhere that appreciates me as I am."

It wasn't until Eris let her eyes finally close and nuzzled into his tricep that Clint realized how close they had gotten during her explanation. "At least now I'm respected for my skill and feared for my personality," she mumbled, voice weighed down by sleep.

Clint reached out to tuck a few shining strands of silver out of her face and sighed, "All of them were idiots for treating you like that. But I promise you, you can have a life on the straight and narrow where all anyone wants to do is see you shine."

Calm, even breathing washed over the skin of his arms as he finished talking. Staring down at the woman he always tried so hard not to be consumed by, Clint couldn't help but place a quiet kiss to her temple before giving in to sleep himself.

[writingtoforgetreality]

New World Order - TFATWS Rewrite Chapter One (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

[Marvel-Masterlist], [TFATWS Rewrite-Masterlist]

Next Chapter

Summary: You were an Avenger. That was how the world viewed you. Nobody else knew about your past & it was for the better. After all, you had Sam. You had Bucky. That had to be enough. At least for now.

Words: 6,214

Warnings: language, sarcasm, expect some sort of slow burn, there are hints already, this is a Bucky fic, which means that it'll focus on his scenes more, spoilers for TFATWS, (Y/E/C) = your eye color

If you like my work & wanna support me: a coffee would be highly appreciated ❤

You were no superhero. At least, you would never say you were one. Your past was filled with actions you regretted. None of it was your fault. It was not your decision to be the child of the leader of a HYDRA base. It was not your decision to grow up like a warrior. Fighting. Killing.

Your father was the bad guy. You knew that now. As a child, you did not see through his facade. How could you? He was your dad. Someone who was supposed to love you endlessly. Those years had shaped you. Into the person you were today.

Deep down, you wished there was a way to make you forget. Forget about your past. Forget about the pain. Forget about it all. Hell, you were a laboratory experiment. Those powers did not come from nowhere. No. They came from tons of needles, pumping a toxic serum into you veins. You should not even be alive anymore. Not by what now flowed through your body. Apparently, it was for your own good. That was how your dad put it. Absolute bullshit. Growing up isolated from the world, being trained to fight, to kill, daily. Your own good my ass. If it did one thing, then it ruined your damn life.

But at least you had powers, right? Blue flames you could control. Those blue flames that were hotter than anything else in this world. It took an awful lot of time to fully have control. Truthfully, you hated that part of you with every fiber of your being. It had been the cause of one too many deaths. You had been the cause. But weakness was not in your nature. If you did not show strength you would be a disappointment. Something you really did not want to be.

Bucky was the reason you got out of this life. He was the one to rescue you out of this hell hole. He was the one to show you an entirely different part of this world. And for that, you could never thank him enough. If it were not for Bucky, you would have gone insane ages ago. Who knew if you were still here today?

The Avengers were aware of your past. Of you being a part of HYDRA back in the days. Yet, you had never elaborated this any further. If there was one thing you were good at, it was keeping things to yourself. No need to burden others with your struggles. And you did struggle. Every single day. Because your mind was filled with memories. Memories you had tried to burn. Memories you wanted to erase. Memories of you being the bad guy. Just like your dad had been.

Your life changed when you were introduced to the Avengers. They did not trust you. Not right away. But during the fight with Thanos, the one after the Blip, you proved yourself to be worthy of their trust. Especially Steve. He had been there for you. When everyone else failed to believe in you. He was gone now. And it hurt like hell. Giving up was never an option. And the universe did not plan on giving you a break anytime soon. For now, you had to bury your feelings as deep as possible. Your focus should solely be on the new threats of this world. Threats, that seemed to increase daily.

“Bucky is an asshole.” you were on the phone with Sam & the fact that the super soldier had been ignoring him for a while did not leave a good feeling inside his chest.

“What a revelation.” sarcastic comments were part of your life. It was your way of coping with everything. Frankly, it worked. More or less. “Give him some time.”

“More time? No.” sighing loudly. “I have other things to focus on.” he was referring to the mission he was about to perform.

“You sure you’ll be fine on your own?” it was not like you did not believe in his abilities. Just, life had not been the same ever since billions of people came back.

“When have I ever not been?” you could think of a few times but Sam ended the call before you even had the chance to answer. Typical.

Luckily, Sam usually told you about his missions. And you were proud of him. You really were. The situation you found yourself in? With Bucky & him? Well, it was everything but good. Bucky called you. You called Sam. Sam called you. You called Bucky. A circle you kept alive. And it sucked to be their only way of communication. For now, though, both of them were too stubborn to change anything about it.

“Enjoying the Tunisian sun I hope?” whenever Sam went on a mission, you had him call you after it. Simply because he knew you worried.

“You know it.” in the far background you could hear him working on something.

“Is everyone alright? That trainee of yours? What’s his name again?”

“Torres.” he sighed, frustrated by your question. You had asked him about a million times & apparently, you still had no clue. Truth was, you just liked messing with him. “Redwing is hurt.”

“Naaaw, poor baby.” giggling slightly. That man cared more for a piece of tech than he should.

“Shut up.” okay, better not mess with Wilson if it came to Redwing. Got it.

“When are you coming back?” your voice turned serious again. Having him gone for so long did not stick right with you. Obviously, you knew he was doing it for the greater good. But still. “I swear to all the Gods, if you say when we’re done here…” mumbling quietly but loud enough for him to hear.

“When we’re finished here.” a chuckle could be heard from his side. By the way it sounded, you assumed Torres was laughing as well. Rolling your eyes at his antics. He could be such a child sometimes.

“Oh, fuck off, Wilson.”

“Hey, language!” Sam had fun. Yeah, you were the one cracking jokes all of the time but he could deliver, too.

“Okay, you know what? Bye. Text me when you’re back.” now, it was you who did not give him enough time to respond. After all, he would have clapped back with another snarky remark & you were not in the mood for it. At all.

“Steve represented the best in all of us. Courageous, righteous, hopeful. And he mastered posing stoically.” everyone chuckled at Sam’s description. Of him. Steve. Rhodey was standing right next to you. In that suit of his. The one that made him look way more approachable than you. No need for people to approach you. They did not know who you were before. And they sure as hell did not need to. It would turn things complicated. Humans did not like complicated. You did not like it. “The world has been forever changed. A few months ago, billions of people reappeared after five years away, sending the world into turmoil. We need new heroes. Ones suited for the times we’re in. Symbols are nothing without the women & men that give them meaning. And this thing…” he paused briefly, let out a short chuckle. The shield. “I don’t know if there’s ever been a greater symbol. But it’s more about the man who propped it up, & he’s gone. So, today we honor Steve’s legacy. But also, we look to the future. So, thank you, Captain America. But this belongs to you.” the crowd erupted into cheers. Applause was filling the room & you felt out of place. What was he doing? When Sam asked you to join him here today, he left out the fact that he wanted to give away the shield. The shield Steve had trusted him enough to own. And the people surrounding you? They…celebrated him for it? This entire speech was proof enough that Wilson was worthy of this job. So why the hell did he make that decision? Watching the shield being put into the showcase, you could hardly hold in the tears that formed at the corners of your (Y/E/C) eyes. Rhodey nudged you, sensing that something was wrong. Head hanging low, you ignored him, walking out of the room as fast as possible. If you stayed here any longer, Sam would have bruises for sure. Bruises caused by you. You would not risk that. Though, he kind of deserved it.

“Where’s (Y/N)?” Sam asked Rhodey when he finished with the press. You had told him you would wait here for him. There was no sign of you.

“Left a while ago.”

“What do you mean “Left a while ago.”? Did she say where she was heading?” why did you decide to leave? Had anything happened while he held his speech? All Rhodey could do was shrug. An explanation was not given by you. And he knew better than to ask.

“Take a walk?” Rhodey suggested, completely unaware to your weird behavior. The two of you were not that close. So he did not know you like Sam did. You were an adult, after all. If you wanted to go somewhere without asking someone first, then you were allowed to do that.

Disappointment was flooding through your body. Friends told each other stuff like that, right? So why did he keep it a secret that he planned on giving away the shield. With that action, he broke Steve’s trust & you were livid. If only Steve were here right now. You missed him. So much. Next time Sam met you, you could not promise anything. Because anger was all you felt. Anger & disappointment. Grief. But that one you could keep to yourself. At least for the time being. Shit. Bucky. One hundred percent did he watch Sam giving away the shield. Oh, he would be filled with hatred. Compared to that, you were only a small threat. Bucky was the one Wilson should keep an eye on. Well, he had been trying to get a hold of him. So far, without luck.

A gunshot blasting woke Bucky up from another night invaded by nightmares. His changed hair did not put his demons at bay. His look was different but there were some things he could never get rid of. His past. The past he dreaded as much as you did. Probably what you two had in common. Being part of HYDRA & all. His breathing was irregular & there was no way in hell he could go back to sleep. It was in the middle of the night & he hated himself for relying on someone else. But he would go insane if he did not call another person right now. If he did not call you. The only one who seemed to understand what he was going through. The only one who never judged him because of his nightmares. The only one who made him feel like he was a good person. Not the killer he once had been. When HYDRA controlled him. Back, when he was called “The Winter Soldier”. Would he ever move on from that? Grabbing his old phone, he did not overthink too long & dialed your number. One, he knew by heart. Because he had called you so many times. It stuck in his head.

“Buck? Is everything alright?” concern was present in your voice. Usually, when you got a call in the middle of the night, it was him. And you were fine with it. If he trusted you enough to help him with his demons, than you were more than happy to come to his aid. No matter the time.

“I-I…it’s just, ugh, I-“ still shaken up from his nightmare, you did not need him to finish his sentence. You had been in this exact situation so many times. You knew what he needed. Your presence. Your voice. Your comfort. You.

“I’ll be there in a few.” assuring him, you were already grabbing the stuff you needed & walked out of your apartment. Only one destination in mind. Him. “Do you need me to stay on the phone?” it was a simple question. A stupid one, too. Usually, he would not say a word until you were with him. But it felt right to ask him what he wanted you to do. Needed you to do. When he did not answer for a few moments, you guessed he only nodded, not realizing that you could not see his motions. Yet, he did not hang up. Neither did you. Your breathing was enough for him. At least until you were in his apartment.

Knocking softly, as to not wake his neighbors, the door opened almost immediately after. Squeaking ever so slightly. Taking in his appearance, you could tell that it had been a bad nightmare. No, not a nightmare. A memory. You knew that because it was the reason you woke up most nights as well. If it were not for him feeling miserable, you would have drooled by the sight of him. No shirt. Hair sticking around so beautifully. Eyes you could lose yourself in. But it was not the right timing. Besides, Bucky & you were just friends. That was it. Just friends. Though, you would lie if you said that you did not feel butterflies whenever he shot you one of his charming smiles. Whenever his body brushed against yours on accident. Yes, he did have that effect on you. Hell, that was not what he needed right now. Your feelings could be dealt with later on. Bucky was all who mattered now. There was no conversation. No words exchanged. It was enough for him if you were with him. A sign that he was not alone. That he still had you. Even after everything. Even after calling you, night after night, disturbing your own rest. Not that you got much to begin with but he did not need to know that. It had always been a mystery to him. Why you stuck around still. Though you had assured him thousands of times that you were in this for good. If he needed you, you were only one call away. And he appreciated you for it. More than he would ever like to admit. Friends. You were friends.

“So, Mr. Barnes, are you still having nightmares?” another session with Dr. Raynor. Another dreaded session. It was stupid to Bucky. But there was no way out of this. He had to. Seconds of silence went by before she spoke up again. “James, I asked you a question. Are you still having nightmares?” what kind of question was that? A stupid one. That was for sure.

“No.” simple, short. Sufficient. Not for his doctor, though.

“We’ve been doing this long enough that I can tell when you’re lying. Well, you seem a little off today. Did something happen recently?”

“No.” what an answer to move this session forward. Clearly, he was not in the mood to talk today. Not even you were able to get his mind off of things. Though, you definitely made his night easier.

“You’re a civilian now. With your history, the government needs to know that you’re not gonna…” her hand motioned stabbing. Awful action but who were you to judge? Bucky nodded with that look on his face that showed how completely done he was with this situation. Yet, she kept going. “It’s a condition of your pardon. So, tell me about your most recent nightmare.”

“I didn’t have a nightmare.” well, it was worth a try. After taking a deep breath, she grabbed the pencil, ready to start writing into that notebook of hers again. “Oh, come on. Really? You’re gonna do the notebook thing? Why? It’s passive aggressive.” looked like the two of them were going back to the roots.

“You don’t talk. I write.” Bucky sighed at that. He knew he would not get out of this.

“Okay. Okay. I crossed a name off the list of my amends yesterday. Don’t worry. I used all your three rules. Senator Atwood. She was a HYDRA pawn for years. Helped her get into office when I was the Winter Soldier. And after HYDRA disbanded, she continued to abuse the power I gave her.”

“So, rule number one, you can’t do anything illegal.”

“All I did was give some intel to the aide to convict her. And I wasn’t involved in anything else.”

“Rule number two?”

“What was rule number two?” his gaze drifting off, showing he thought about it deeply. How ironic.

“Nobody gets hurt. It’s a big one.”

“Then why isn’t it rule number one?” he did have a point there. No room left for arguing about that. “I didn’t hurt anybody. I promise.”

“And what about rule number three?” Bucky’s mouth opened, yet, nothing came out. “The whole point of making amends is to fulfil rule number three.”

“You know, you’re a cynic, Doc. Of course, I completed rule number three. I am James Bucky Barnes & you’re part of my efforts to make amends.” words followed by that smile of his. That smile everyone could tell was fake. Almost creepy. But efforts, right? It was all about the efforts.

“So, you did it all right, but it didn’t help with the nightmares.”

“Well, like I said, I didn’t have any.” Bucky Barnes, everyone. Still trying to fool his doctor.

“Look, one day, you’re gonna have to open up & understand that some people really do want to help you & that they can be trusted. People like (Y/N).” the mention of your name made his eyes snap up.

“I trust more people than her.” it sounded more like he tried to convince himself more than anyone else.

“Yeah? Give me your phone.” an order. Grabbing it out of his pocket to hand it over. A short look was enough. “You don’t have ten phone numbers on this thing. Oh, & you’ve been ignoring the texts from Sam. Look, you gotta nurture friendships. I am the only person you have called all week. That is so sad…Oh, that’s not right. You called (Y/N) last night. Anything you wanna tell me about that?” closing the flip phone, she threw it over to Bucky which he caught with ease.

“What? Do I need to justify calling a friend?” chuckling & shaking his head slightly, he brushed his hands over his thighs.

“If you call that friend at 3 am, then yes. Because you should sleep at that time. Except if you had a nightmare which you claimed that you didn’t.”

“We just talked. That’s all.” he thought that brushing it off as if it were nothing was enough to get her to shut up. Hell, he had brought you up during his sessions way too many times. After all, he still wanted the situation between you guys to be subtle.

“You’re alone.”

“A minute ago, you said I had (Y/N).” he tried arguing but his attempts failed.

“You’re a hundred years old. You have no history, no family…” right, pouring salt in the wounds. That usually worked.

“Are you lashing out at me, Doc? Because that’s really unprofessional, you know? When did that start? Yelling at your clients?” she seemed to have enough & again went for the little book next to her. “Oh, the notebook. That’s great.” sighing deeply, he braced himself to take her more seriously. “All right, give me a break. I’m trying, okay? This isn’t…This is new for me. I didn’t have a moment to deal with anything, you know? I had a little…calm in Wakanda. And other than that, I just went from one fight to another for 90 years.”

“So, now that you’ve stopped fighting, what do you want?” he had an answer in mind right away. Never ever would he say it out loud. It took him a second to reply. Because what he was about to say came in union with his first thought.

“Peace.”

“That is utter bullshit.” what a nice way to bad talk his answer. Maybe she was expecting something else from him. Maybe she knew the answer just as much as he did. The real answer.

“You’re a terrible shrink.”

“I was an excellent soldier, so I saw a lot of dead bodies, & I know how that can shut you down. And if you are alone…”

“Which I’m not because I have (Y/N).”

“…that is the quietest, most personal hell. And, James, it is very hard to escape. Look, I know that you have been through a lot, but you’ve got your mind back, you are being pardoned. I mean, these are good things. You’re free.”

“To do what?”

Wednesday. Bucky usually went to Izzy. Today, he asked you to join him & Yori. Why he wanted you there with them? No clue. But it was not often he asked you to go somewhere with him so you agreed on meeting them there.

“Take a look.” Yori was a cute, old man. Reading his newspaper like a good citizen. Bucky had yet to give you an explanation as to why you were here right now. But for now, you just sat next to him, quietly observing your surroundings. “Nobody made it past 90 this week.” it was funny, to see Bucky trying his hardest to sound interested. Like he understood.

“So young. Such a shame.” his words made you scoff. Apparently, once you hit the 100 mark, you turn into a sarcastic piece. If you were not one before. If you ever made it to 100? Only the Gods knew what would come after that. Most people called you a sarcastic asshole now. Could that be topped?

“You guys didn’t order the usual, huh? Feeling a little adventurous?” the woman behind the counter directed her words at the three of you.

“Um, actually, I’ve never been here before, so…” you chuckled to avoid the awkwardness that would sure as hell build if you kept quiet now.

“You should ask her out.” Yori leaned over to Bucky & you almost choked on your food at his words. Bucky asking her out? Her? Yeah, she was beautiful & all. But her? Really? Seemed like that Yori dude did not know Bucky as well as he claimed to. You, on the other hand, were aware that nothing good would come out if it. Besides, they would not even make a nice couple. Shit, were you jealous? Oh no. Glancing over at the man next to you, his face showed just how much he despised this idea. At least something.

“Mm-mmm…” shaking his head frantically, he shot you a quick look but before his eyes locked onto yours, your gaze fell down to your plate. Slightly embarrassed. Scared that, if he looked at you, he would notice something behind your look. Something more. Something, that you wanted to keep hidden. For everyone’s sake.

“He would like to take you out on a date.” oh fuck off, Yori. You had nothing against this man but he was pushing your buttons. Could he not see that Bucky was incredibly uncomfortable with the idea of going on a date? With her? “Maybe to bingo or a night of pinochle.” hiding your laugh behind one of your hands, you could not believe that he was serious. Bucky & bingo? Well, it was for old people so you guessed it fit quite well. Not with her, though. Oh no, you really were jealous.

“I’m really sorry about him.” Bucky apologized for his friend’s behavior. Yes, you were sorry for him, too.

“Why are you sorry?” of course, now the woman was flirting with him. It got better & better. Taking a deep breath, you tried to keep your emotions at bay. You could not lash out in the middle of this restaurant, after all. Even though you were this close to doing just that. Deep breaths, you got this. “I’m game.” sure she was.

“Wow.” really? Bucky was impressed? By this? Oh come on, why would he settle for less when he could have so, so much more. But it was not your decision. He was not yours. You did not own him. Neither did you make the decisions for him.

“Tomorrow night, then?” Yori leaned over the counter.

“Tomorrow night’s great.” she replied with a bright smile.

“Hey, I just remembered something.” you spoke up all of a sudden. Bucky’s eyes met yours now & he saw that you were uncomfortable. Though, he could not pinpoint why. “Um, I-I need to go. See you, Buck. Bye guys.” sprinting out of the restaurant, you hoped nobody would follow you. Not in the mood to deal with anyone right now. All you wanted was to be alone right now. Your mind the only one keeping you company. But your mind was not really the kindest to you. Not in this particular moment. So what? Bucky had a date. You knew that would happen sooner or later. He was a good looking man. More importantly, you just wanted him to be happy. Genuinely happy.

Fucking great. Who could you talk to? You still were not done being mad at Sam. And now you were mad at Bucky for something he did not even do. He sort of did. He could have said no. If he really did not want to, he could have said no. Bucky was enough of a man to speak his mind, you knew that. Maybe he did want to go on a date with her. What was her name again? Not that you cared too much. But still. Blinking away the tears that had formed at the corners of your eyes, you kept on walking. Without a real destination. You were stupid. Friends. Why could you not accept this? Usually, you would call Steve in such a situation. Or even Tony. But it was too late now. They were not here anymore. You had to deal with that sooner or later. Whether you liked it or not. Contemplating calling Sam, you eyed your phone carefully. One more button. But nope. The anger was bigger than the need to talk to someone. Stubborn you. Wilson could make you feel better. But you would most likely end up yelling at him. And you knew you would regret your words later on. So might as well stay silent for the time being. Until you calmed down enough.

It was 10 pm. Date time for Bucky. That same restaurant. Being the gentleman that we was, he even brought her flowers. Like it used to be back in the 40s.

“Well, if that’s not the most adorably old-fashioned thing anyone’s ever done.” Bucky felt lost. In her company. “Grab a seat, I’ll be done in a few.”

“Okay.” he could up & leave. It would not be too late. All he knew was that it felt wrong.

“So, have you dated much since half the fish in the sea came back?”

“Not really. I, um…tried the whole online dating thing. (Y/N), the girl who was here with me yesterday, she set up a profile for me because I didn’t understand a single thing.” laughing at the memory, he thought back to when he called you to ask you for a favor. How you laughed at him for wanting to try this whole bullshit. “It’s pretty crazy. A lot of weird pictures.”

“What kind of weird?”

“I mean, tiger photos? Half the time I don’t even know what I’m looking at. It’s…It’s a lot. When I showed (Y/N), she simply said that this was what I signed up for.”

“You sound like my dad.” definitely something a man did not want to hear while on a date. On the other hand, he did not even want this to be a date. “Wait. How old are you?

“A hundred & six.” only he could make it sound so casually. Like it was the most normal thing on this planet. Both laughed at his words. Simply because it was so absurd.

“What’s up with your big gloves?” a sensitive topic she just touched.

“I, um, have, uh…poor circulation.” sure thing.

“Hmm…Hey, what is it about this (Y/N) girl & you?” his eyes widened at her question. What was she getting at?

“She’s my friend. Why?” his dumbfounded expression made her chuckle.

“A friend, huh?”

“Um, yeah.”

“You sure about that?” an eyebrow raised. A questioning stare was sent his way.

“Why does everyone think I don’t have friends?” throwing his head back in frustration, he let out a long sigh.

“It’s not that.” she stopped briefly, thinking about her next words carefully. “Just, you guys seem pretty close.”

“Well, we’ve known each other for years.” he reasoned, gesturing with his hands to bring his point across.

“Yeah? And the looks you’re shooting each other when the other one’s not looking?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You two aren’t really subtle about this, you know?” she wiped the counter & did not even look at Bucky. He, on the other hand, started sweating.

“Subtle about what?”

“Oh, come on. Who are you kidding? I don’t even know why you’re here right now.”

“Because Yori set you & me up on a date.”

“And why did you agree?” she crossed her arms over her chest, waiting for an explanation from the man in front of her.

“I-I don’t know.” he responded truthfully. Because he thought it to be polite? Because Yori was the one who suggested it? Honestly, he was not sure.

“That’s what I thought. Look, you’re a nice guy & all but…just, listen to your heart from time to time. It’s late. You should head out. See you.” she turned around & walked further into the restaurant. Leaving Bucky alone with his thoughts. It was clear what she intended. Did not mean that it made this entire situation any easier. Bucky left without another word. Fresh air would help him think straight.

Your phone rang & you sighed when you checked who decided to annoy you. Bucky. Of course. But wait. Should he not be on his date right now? Did something go wrong? Not that you wanted it to but if you were entirely honest, you would not be mad about it either.

“Hi Buck. What’s up?”

“I need your help with something.” there was no hesitation in his voice. Just him being straight forward.

“Please don’t tell me you need help on how to get the girl.” it was your way to lighten the mood. You did that because you could tell that he was incredibly serious. Usually, this was never a good sign.

“Can I send you an address? Can you meet me there as soon as possible?” his voice was low, deep.

“Um, sure thing. But just to set things clear…I won’t join in on your fun, Buck. That’s between you & her.” again, sarcasm was your way of coping with emotions. Though, it was not the right time to use it right now. His next words were proof enough. You should not mess with him. Not in this moment.

“Can you be serious for a second?” he raised his voice a little. It was not much but it was enough to leave you confused. Bucky was not the person to yell at you. Especially not like this.

“I’m sorry…Um, yeah, tell me where & I’ll get there as fast as I can.” gulping down, you waited for him to give you more information.

Arriving at an unfamiliar building, you could make out Bucky’s form in front of it. Why would he want to meet you here? Where was his date?

“Buck?” your voice barely above a whisper. The night sky only illuminated by the moon that shone brightly. Providing just a tiny bit of light. Enough, to let you notice your surroundings.

“Thanks for coming.” you could tell that he was stressed, tough, you were not sure why.

“Is everything alright? Because I swear, if that woman did anyth-“

“No, she didn’t. Promise.” his warm smile was encouraging enough. It was clear that he was not lying to you. “Just…didn’t work out. But that’s not why you’re here.”

“Okay?”

“My last nightmare. Do you remember?” nodding for him to continue. “How I killed that innocent man?”

“It wasn’t you, Buck. You were being controlled.” touching his shoulder softly, squeezing it to reassure him.

“Whatever…That guy, it was Yori’s son. I want to, need to, apologize. Even though the apology comes way too late.” you nodded at him, your eyes meeting his briefly. Now you knew why he called you. He did not want to do this alone. No. He wanted you by his side. To support him through it. Entering the building together, Bucky led you to the apartment Yori lived in. His hand raised to knock on the door. Surprisingly, he did not waste any time. He wanted to get this over with. Understandingly so. No words were exchanged. You being here, with him, that was more than enough.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” Yori opened the door, his face showed confusion by the appearance of you two. “How was the date?” you could not help but roll your eyes at the old man in front of you. Looking at Bucky, you were worried when you saw him having an internal conversation with himself. Mouth opening & closing again. No words coming out. Risking a look inside the apartment, you noticed a small picture frame with who you assumed to be his son. The one Bucky killed. No. The one the Winter Soldier killed.

“It was…It was good.” Bucky mumbled.

“Bullshit.” you followed after. None of them heard you, though. Luckily.

“Forgot I owed you for lunch.” Bucky handed him money. If you were not mistaken, this was not a form of apologizing. He had a hard time, though, that much was obvious. Afterwards, Bucky turned around & walked away without another word. Which left you alone with a confused looking Yori.

“I’m sorry for the disturbance, sir. Have a good night.” plastering on the sweetest smile you could offer, you followed Bucky outside. Jogging to keep up with the super soldier.

Back outside, you saw Bucky holding his little notebook in his hands. You knew about it. Because you were the only person he talked to when it came to his therapy sessions. A look over his shoulder could tell that his eyes were trained on the name being circled. His body was tense. That was not what he planned.

“It’s okay, Bucky.” your hand stroked over his lower back in a comforting way. Your forehead rested against his shoulder, hoping, that it would ease him a little. You could feel him calm down at your touch. “Give yourself some time.” you mumbled quietly, knowing he could hear you clearly due to the calm night. You just hoped that he would not beat himself up too much. Not more than he already did.

You were back in your own apartment. Still no words from Sam. But that was nothing new. Sometimes, he would go radio silent for a few days but after that, he would always check in with you. Maybe he figured that you were mad at him. For giving away the shield & all. And he probably was busy with work. The work he did with Torres. If he needed your help, he would call you for sure. Your TV got your attention again. Something told you to watch closely. So you did.

“Unrest, in the wake of recent events, has left us vulnerable. Every day Americans feel it. While we love heroes who put their lives on the line to defend Earth, we also need a hero to defend this country. We need a real person who embodies America’s greatest values. We need someone to inspire us again, someone who can be a symbol for all of us. So, on behalf of the Department of Defense & our Commander-in-Chief, it is with great honor that we announce here today that the United States of America has a new hero. Join me in welcoming your new Captain America.” the crowd cheered loudly & someone walked through the door. You could not believe what was happening. Please, this had to be a bad dream. When would you wake up form this hell? A man, wearing his suit, holding his shield, greeted the people. Looking at your hands, you could see small, blue sparks forming at the tips of your fingers. That only ever happened when you had no control over your emotions. Right now, you were everything but in control. Of course he had to wink at the camera like the sick person he was.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me…” breathing out lowly, you put your head into your hands, completely ignoring the sparks there. You did not feel them anyway. If you ever met this son of a bitch it would not end well for him. And the next time you would meet Wilson? Fingers crossed he could deal with your angry & disappointed self. Because you were seething.

~to be continued~

Next Chapter

Published (04/02/2021) by Cathy

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