#but FIRECRACKERS HAPPEN EVERY FUCKING WINTER I HOPE ALL OF YOU GET ONE PUT DOWN YOUR THROAT

[neuromantis]

i think people who sell pyrotechnics, especially to CHILDREN, should get a couple of their fingers blown off or AT THE LEAST develop a ptsd-like response to the sound of things blowing up around them.

[beyondspaceandstars]

While You Sleep

Chapter 12

Relationship: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: kidnapping, violence Summary: Soulmate!AU - Throughout life, you’re given glimpses of your soulmate through dreams. As you sleep, memories flash in your mind showing you the life your soulmate has lived. Everyone around you raves about how their soulmate reads great books or volunteers in their spare time. But you can’t relate as your dreams end up being more like nightmares. Through initial images of death and violence, you come to learn your soulmate is the Winter Soldier.

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

“They couldn’t take that from me. They could never take you.”

“I never want to bring you pain or worry, okay? That shouldn’t be what… we do.”

Bucky’s words rang in your head as you sat in the lonesome cell, fighting for release any way you thought to try. But naturally, these attempts of wrangling yourself out of this had fallen flat and you weren’t trying anymore, that’s for certain. It only made the restraints dig into your wrists more. Not to mention you were beyond tired hitting a point of exhaustion that you didn't know was possible. You weren’t given a chance to relax as you sat on edge, waiting. Waiting for what - or really who - you didn’t quite know. 

Sure, you had an Avenger for a soulmate (at least, that was what you considered Bucky, despite his humbleness) but you weren’t exactly up to date on their enemies. From your understanding, between the looks of the facility and your soulmate’s history, this was seeming like the work of Hydra. But they had been abolished...right? Apparently, you didn’t know anymore and doubts rang in your head as you feared you weren’t some random victim.

The first signs of daylight were just beginning to peek into your cell from a very tiny, thin window located near the top of the wall beside you.

Suddenly, a grumbling voice called from outside the cell. “She’s up.” You whipped your head towards the sound, just barely able to make out a figure illuminated by the early morning glow. There was probably some comment to make to whoever this was about how you hadn’t really slept but you couldn’t find your voice at the moment.

“Excellent.” A deeper, possibly older, voice called from down the hall. The man sounded way too excited for your liking. Your stomach threatened to empty its contents as heavy footsteps began making their way towards your cell.

When the steps stopped, you tried squinting through the minimal light but still couldn’t make out much of either man. If you had to guess, they looked like some doctors of sorts in long lab coats with notebooks in hand. One thing you definitely could tell was that they didn’t hesitate to stare back. You could feel their eyes taking you in over and over again making your heart pound in a weirdly familiar way.

“Does she speak?” The first man asked with a humorless scoff. You twisted in your wrist restraints wishing for some courage to get up and maybe put space between you. 

Mustering a scrap of energy, you turned away from the men, hoping maybe your matted hair falling in your face could block them out forever. Because really, couldn’t this be forever? How would anyone know what happened? Your best bet was your coworker noticing your absence but then you thought of Bucky… He was away for now and by the time he caught wind who knows what would be of you. Tears began welling in your eyes at the thought of this being it for you -- whatever this was. You still weren’t sure what about you compelled these men to kidnap you in the middle of the night.

“Hey,” the same voice called out to you this time, pulling you from your troubling thoughts. Slowly, you turned back to him, taking in more of the doctor (fake, you guessed) persona now. “I asked if you speak.”

“No,” you grumbled. You didn’t know where this smart response came from but it made you feel a bit better like you were coming back to yourself. Really, though, you were in no position to start getting smart with anyone.

He let out a joyous laugh that sent far more fear through you. “The Soldier’s soulmate has an attitude, huh?”

Soldier? Bucky. Your heart panged at another thought of him. If that’s who they were referring to, this was to be about Bucky, you realized. These men knew him and whatever connection was festered there, it hadn't fizzled and you were caught in the crossfire. This actually couldn’t be them… But it looked like it.

Suddenly, the cell door opened with a loud screech, and the two men walked into the full glory of the morning sunrise. There, on their white coats, you saw an emblem of what appeared to be some tentacle-bearing creature. Your suspicions were regrettably confirmed. 

They walked towards you, their eyes looking over you as if you were an experiment and they were memorizing you. With fear racing through you, you slowly began scooting backward trying to get as far away as you could. Your back eventually hit a wall and they just kept coming. 

“Quite the squeamish one for being chained to The Soldier,” the second man observed, writing something down in his notebook. You could see now that he was much older, having that wiser look in his older years. You guessed he was a leader of sorts (at least, that was how you were going to file him in your head) and the other man, the one who was so kind to comment on your attitude, was some kind of assistant. You couldn’t take your eyes off the logo on their coats as it was practically screaming in your face. It all felt impossible and yet here you were, in the belly of the beast.

“W-What am I doing here?” You asked, your voice scratchy and nervous. Honestly, you were just glad you had the guts to make any noise. The assistant looked a bit humored at your question.

“Wow, she speaks full sentences,” he commented with an unsettling smirk. 

The “leader” of the pair shot him a look before turning back to speak to you. “We have some observing to do, my dear,” he briefly explained.

The vagueness of it all was certainly not helping you - like anything realistically could in this moment. Still, you pursued it. “Observing?”

He hummed in response, turning back for a moment to write a few more lines in the notebook. Truthfully, you wanted to just kick it out of his fucking hand. Your eyes flicked quickly to the assistant but he wasn’t handing out any hints, just looking at you like you were something to be conquered. Oh, how you wanted to vomit on their shiny dress shoes.

“I will explain our intentions to ease your mind,” he snapped his notebook shut, “but first, you are to be moved.”

And just like, as if his words were keys, a hoard of men entered the cell and hoisted you to your feet. You tried kicking and screaming but they were strong. Maybe too strong. A strength you possibly could only recall in two other men you knew. But you didn’t have time to dwell on it as they corralled you easily and forced you down the hall. 

Everything was dark again. There was no light from the windows in the hall, just some musty glows of lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling. You didn’t know where to look so you just stared downward, taking in the metal flooring that made you chilled.

After turning a few corners, you were brought to a much larger cell. This one at least had a chair, but you didn’t think it was exactly a nice grand gesture as your eyes landed on the restraints attached to it. The second thing you noticed was some sort of computer-like machine and rolling tables which lined the side. If you hadn’t known better, you would’ve thought this was just another medical office. 

You yelped as one of the large men threw you on the chair, not giving you a second to even adjust before your hands were unbound only to be rebound by the chair’s restraints.  You tugged a bit at them out of reflex, finding them as sturdy as expected. Your legs were free, though, maybe offering some tactic but exhaustion and fear overtook you.

Once they deemed you settled in, the army of men left, walking in line as commandingly as they had entered. The leader and his assistant stayed, waiting for you three to finally be alone once more. The door shut with a disturbing bang, really sealing your fate. The assistant stayed off to the side, leaning against a wall adjacent to the chair. The leader walked over to you, taking a seat on some rolling stool. Wow, these guys really thought they were serious professionals or something.

“I hope the trip here was okay,” the leader said with a chuckle. “Comfortable?” He motioned towards your lounging state. You blinked. “I see we are losing that attitude. What a shame, really. I’m sure your soulmate loves a firecracker.” Your body visibly tensed at the mention of Bucky. The elderly man didn’t miss it. In fact, it seemed like you unintentionally gave him the perfect segue into his whole evil spiel.

“Ah, yes, your soulmate.” The leader nodded as if he had just forgotten all about it. “Well, you see, the fact he even has one was news to us,” he shrugged and glanced at his assistant who nodded in confirmation. “We were sure when we wiped him we were wiping everything, so imagine our surprise when we find out he’s out and about dancing - with you on his arm.” 

Your throat tightened as the memories of you and Bucky at the dance hall flooded your mind. It had been so busy that night you never would’ve thought you’d have to worry about someone… It sounded so ludicrous to you. You almost wish he hadn’t said it as the thoughts of that night were suddenly a bit darker. The carelessness you two had held seemed foolish now. 

The leader watched you carefully. When you didn’t say anything in response, just blinked away more tears, he continued, “At first, we were quite angry we had missed something so big. We could’ve sworn we broke every attachment time after time but, as I said, you just swept The Soldier right off his feet. So, naturally, our sights were set on eliminating you.” He let out a ridiculous hearty laugh. “But then my assistant here,” the man in the corner waved in response, “realized that that would be a waste. There could be potential here for you. For you and your soulmate. Potential rooted in a team. Two unbreakable soldiers, both in bond and skills. What more could Hydra want?” 

You gasped, your eyes growing wide, at the explanation. You didn’t know what to do now, your body had a mind of its own as it began shaking your head furiously as your wrists tugged and tugged at the restraints. This wasn’t realistic. They were absolutely mad. What kind of foolishness was this? They couldn’t possibly -

“Now, now,” the leader chuckled and turned to his notebook. He began checking referencing stuff from the monitor to the paper. “Don’t get too excited. We’re still brainstorming the whole concept and while it’s not near execution, it is on the promising side. There is, though, a vital component we seem to be lacking: your soulmate.”

Bucky… Your heart felt like it was going to rip itself out of your chest. Was he walking into a trap? Assuming he was walking in at all? Who was to say he had any idea of what was going on with you? How long could this all be for… You let out a surprising sob.

The leader responded to your outburst with an annoyed scoff. “There’s no reason to cry, dear. He’s sure to be here soon thanks to that little bond you have. If he hasn’t already recognized your distress by now, well, he’s not as smart as we thought.” He shrugged and began typing away on the monitor’s keyboard. “The whole attachment may all work out in our favor after all. Eventually, you two will be reunited, and won’t that be just lovely?”

Truthfully, you didn’t know anymore. You had no doubt in Bucky’s fighting abilities but these guys were… Well, they were pretty much responsible for him and everything you had seen him be put through. Who knows what they could do if (and when) he walked through those doors. You were lucky you hadn’t passed out yet from this anxiety alone.

“Besides, as I said, it’s all later down the line anyway,” the leader said. It had suddenly occurred to you at that moment that you were very glad he hadn’t given out his name. You couldn’t imagine humanizing these monsters. “For now, though, we are interested in learning more about you. I’ll be honest, on paper you are quite boring. Barely finished high school, left college for a coffee shop job… The pairing is almost comical. We just can’t figure out what you offer him and while, really, who are we to question Fate? But I still think in time we can figure out...well, whatever it is about you.”

You shook your head slowly, your eyes barely even able to focus on him anymore. Everything in you felt so heavy. “I’m not special.” 

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong,” the leader chuckled. “He makes you special.”

As if on cue, a chorus of screams erupted from the hallway. You all jumped and turned towards the door. There was a little window on it but all you three could see were the bodies of the army of men from earlier flying about. 

“Sooner than we expected,” the leader mumbled and began furiously typing something into the computer.

You didn’t know what to do besides sit there and wait for whatever was coming. Deep in you, you knew it was Bucky, you could feel it. You could feel him. But there was also a part of you that could also sense… rage. A very familiar, unsettling rage burned within him. It made you wonder if you actually wanted to see him in such a state. Some sick piece of you wished they had just knocked you out. 

There wasn’t much more time to consider what you were going to do as the door to the cell was ripped off. Literally, fully, ripped away at the hinges to reveal a very determined, very angry, Bucky. He had an expression you didn’t recall seeing before, even in the nightmares. He looked ready to murder everything in its path but there was no calculated strategy to the madness. It seemed to be just him and his pure desire to eliminate anything and everything. His eyes were locked deadly on the older man, seemingly opting to ignore you. The assistant had begun shifting further away into the corner of the space.

“So nice of you to join us,” the leader said with an unsettling laugh. “I’ll admit, we weren’t expecting you so soon. I barely got a chance to get to know your little darling here.” He motioned towards you. 

“I’m only going to ask this once,” Bucky finally spoke, his voice strained, “let her go.”

The leader smiled, “I’m not sure you’ll be asking for anything in a moment, anyways.” He motioned towards the computer. You and Bucky followed his motion with matching bewildered expressions. “In fact, I think you’ll be the one doing what I ask.”

Bucky’s eyes widened. “No-,” 

But it was already set in motion. With a simple press of a button, the room filled with an electronic voice repeating a series of words in a foreign language. You looked around, unsure of where this could even be coming from and what the hell was being said, Your eyes eventually settled on Bucky who looked completely… lost. You gripped the sides of the chair, begging for this to just be over, as you watched that was so familiar. You could feel the memories rising from the depths of your brain. Hidden away, nearly suppressed... You gasped. The nightmares. That’s what all this was. They had pulled the trigger. 

As much as you loved and trusted Bucky, you couldn’t say the same for the other guy. If in that state, could he even recognize you? Like, fully understand your role? You didn’t want to find out, truly. The panic that was settling in now was unlike anything you had experienced that day. Not even the idea of Hydra goons kidnapping you had sparked this much within. 

You were preparing yourself for the worst as you watched Bucky try to shake it off. The leader wore a proud expression while the assistant kept his lonely distance, watching everything unfold. Suddenly, Bucky began mumbling to himself as his hands made hard fists. You thought the blow was finally coming and he was going to be gone. Just like that.

But then Bucky lunged. In one swift move, he pounced on the leader, taking everyone in the room off-guard, especially the target of the aggression. The older man hadn’t even had a chance to put his arms up before your soulmate was punching him relentlessly. Bucky’s yelling in the process was of pure, expressive anger, completely drowning out the screams of pain from the leader. You didn’t know what to do. You wanted to look away so badly but you were also hypnotized. Bucky was so determined and unwavering in whatever goal was planted in his head. A bit thankful someone would go to such lengths for you, you had had enough of such danger in your sleep - you didn’t want it in your reality. 

Bucky switched suddenly to strangling the man and that seemed to be the final straw for the leader’s life. The older man was soon just a lifeless, limp body on the floor. Bucky was still knelt above him, watching the soul drain from his victim. Your jaw went slack. You couldn’t turn this off.

The assistant didn’t help it as he made some foolish break for the exit but Bucky was just as fast. In a couple of determined strides, Bucky yanked the younger man back by the neck and threw him into the wall creating an artistic indentation. The assistant fell to the floor with a chilling thud. 

There was no one left for his sights to land on except for you. Slowly, Bucky turned around. A shiver ran up your spine when your eyes finally met. You didn’t know who was standing before you. Whatever or whoever this was quickly began stomping their way towards you. You shut your eyes and flinched away, waiting for a painful, finishing blow from the Soldier. 

But it never came. 

Instead, all Bucky did was lean over to turn off the speakers and then began untying your wrists. Hesitantly, you turned to look at him but found he wouldn’t look at you, just was intensely concentrated on the restraints. 

“B-Bucky?” Your voice was scratchy as you fumbled over his name. 

“It’s me, doll,” Bucky responded with an exhausted sigh. He sounded normal to you, his demeanor not even looking close to what you remembered from the nightmares. He… He was okay. Bucky still wasn’t looking at you as he finished one restraint then went on the next.

“You’re not…”

Bucky shook his head. “Everything’s okay,” he mumbled. “We’re getting you out of here.”

“We?”

“The team is outside handling the other men.”

“You all came for me?”

Bucky finally looked up at you. For the first time, you could see just how tired he looked. A man nearly on the brink of defeat and enduring the fight. Your heart ached as all you wanted to do was crawl into his arms and take the longest naps of your lives. 

“Of course, sweetheart,” Bucky nodded. Gently, after the last restraint was undone, he picked you up bridal style. You threw your arms around his neck and buried your face in his shoulder, letting yourself relax and the tears flow. 

“Thank you,” you mumbled but Bucky didn’t respond as he carried you out of the facility

***

You must’ve fallen asleep because a few hours later you awoke at some sort of compound. You were lying in what appeared to be a hospital bed but nothing about this place looked like a typical hospital. The technology was too advanced and everything just seemed too quiet. You looked around, letting your eyes adjust to the bright light of the sun shining in from the large room windows. In the corner, you were greeted by the sight of Bucky sleeping awkwardly in a chair.

You twisted in the bed, trying to get more comfortable under the blanket. The super-soldier hearing must’ve kicked in because one ruffle of the blanket made Bucky’s eyes shoot open. He looked at you, panic shifting to relief when he saw you were awake. Quickly, in a few steps, he was out of the chair and at your bedside. 

“How are you feeling?” He asked softly. His hand went to touch your cheek but he must've thought better of it and instead lowered it. Your heart broke a bit wondering what self-deprecating thoughts were running through his brain after everything he had to do. 

“I’m okay. Just a bit sore,” you shrugged but boy was it the hard truth. You hadn't been in a comfortable position in hours and endured being thrown around like some rag doll. 

“Do you need any medicine?” Bucky asked, his voice suddenly having an air of panic to it. “I can call for help if you need it. Are you hungry? Do you need water? Or -  Or just anything to drink? I can get you-,”

“Bucky…” You placed your hand on his to calm down. He flinched at your touch. “I’m fine. Everything is fine.”

He shook his head. “Nothing is fine, sweetheart. You were taken from me-,” Bucky cut himself off as his eyes began welling with tears. He looked wrecked as he stared down at you, taking in your current state. You felt the pain, wanting nothing more than to make all these torturing thoughts vanish. “You… You saw things that I just… I never wanted you to deal with-,”

“It’s over.” You took a deep breath. “I’m here, I’m safe, and you’re with me.”

Bucky closed his eyes as if preparing for something. “After what happened back there, do you even want me around anymore?”

Your jaw went slack at his question. Sure, there was absolutely no denying that the events of today scared you, most likely more than you realized. You had only seen Bucky that determined and violent in your nightmares so to see it just steps away was jarring. But you also knew nothing changed within him. He wasn’t a robot or anything. He wasn’t someone just taking commands. He had remorse. You certainly couldn’t say the same for who greeted you in your sleep. It may take you some time to adjust, sure, but you weren’t turning away. At least, you were going to try not to. Healing was just beginning.

“Of course, I do,” you said, raising your other hand to Bucky’s cheek. At first, he flinched but slowly he leaned into the touch, sighing like he was letting go of something. “Bucky, what happened back there… You had no choice. I don’t have to tell you that those were some very, very bad people. They had it coming and the fact you went to those lengths to save me is unbelievable.”

“I’d go to the ends of the Earth for my girl,” Bucky admitted. 

You let out a weak giggle. “Thank you.” A pause. “May I ask how you figured out I was in trouble?”

Bucky smirked. “I had a nightmare.”

You raised your brows in surprise. “A nightmare?”

He nodded, “I started to feel weird after leaving for the mission like there was something I was missing. A little later on, I was taking a nap and you of course appeared but it was unlike any other dream I had ever had about you. It was… You were scared, deathly afraid of something, and then I saw what was going on. I practically watched it all play out from your apartment and on. It didn’t take too long to put everything together.”

You hmm’d. “Thank God for nightmares.”

Bucky chuckled and placed a light kiss on your forehead. “Thank God for nightmares,” he repeated in agreement.

[hrtthrbromanov]

Hi! Hope your having a great week! Anyway can I request an idea where reader is a new avenger recruit that comes off as shy and gets teased cause they don’t know why she made the cut? But someone on the team took something that belongs to her and that’s why she was picked... her temper is awful. She ends up stabbing the person without a second thought. But she’s super sweet yet a psycho.

A/N: Thanks so much for the request, babes! I hope this is what you’re looking for. I had fun writing this! 

Summary: You’re a new recruit for the avengers, and although you’re shy, you’ve sure got a temper. What happens when someone takes something that belongs to you?

Warnings: Language, asshole Bucky and Clint

................................................................................................................................

You couldn’t believe it. You were standing in front of your heroes. Well, basically everyone's heroes, but that's besides the point. You’d finally made it. Avengers recruitment, what could really make or break the rest of your life. No biggie. 

You were all broken off into groups, some with the Black Widow, some with the Captain America, but you were in the group with leaders Winter Soldier and Hawkeye, or, as they insisted you called them, Bucky and Clint. An odd pairing, sure, but the two both had the same poor, rather sad, attention span. 

You were standoffish, choosing to watch and practice alone, in the back. You didn’t like standing out, even though you knew that's what they were looking for. 

Toying with a bracelet around your arm, you slid it off, twirling it between your fingers. You nearly jumped out of your skin when you felt a hand being placed on your shoulder, and a shadow appear in front of you. 

“Whatcha got there, dollface?” 

It was the Winter Soldier- Bucky. Your heart nearly leaped out of your chest as you wracked your brain for an answer. Was there a wrong one? Is this a test? 

“Uh. Bracelet.” 

“Oh, this old thing?” It was Clint this time that spoke, grabbing the bracelet from your hands. You reached for it timidly, but he held it just out of reach. 

“H-hey! Give that back.” 

“Ruh-Roh, someone’s getting mad, huh? Buck, catch.” Clint threw it over to Bucky, who then proceeded to hold it over your head, making you jump for it like a fool. 

Unbeknownst to you, the one and only Captain America had been watching this whole thing unfold, completely abandoning his group. 

This went on for a little bit, the back and forth. You could feel yourself getting angrier and angrier, but before you could pounce, Steve called for wrap up. 

“Whoops, looks like it’s time to go. You mind if I hang on to this?” Clint said, a snarky tone in his voice. The two boys laughed as they made their way to the next room of recruitments. You stomped your foot angrily, steam pretty much coming out of your ears as you glared at anyone and everyone. 

“Hey, calm down. It was just a bracelet. I’d be honored to have my bracelet taken from them.” It was another recruit, having to put their two cents Into your business. 

“If you do not shut the fuck up, you’ll be my new bracelet when I shove my hand up your ass.” That seemed to scare them away, as they backed up slowly, hands raised in defense. 

You began to pack your stuff like everyone else, just ready to go home and blow off some steam. Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you made your way to the door. Before you made it outside, however, a voice called you back. 

“Y/N? Can I speak to you for a second?” 

It was Steve Rogers himself. What would he want with you? Nevertheless you made your way over to him, as he watched the last few people trail out of the gym, he forced a smile, resting his hand on your back. 

“Welcome to the team, kid.” 

____________________________________________

“And this is the kitchen. We spend a lot of time here.” 

You chuckled quietly, running your fingers lightly over the kitchen counter. You were in awe the entire tour, pretty much still in shock from when you were told you had made it in. Steve had been very warm and welcoming, and so had the others you had come across while getting the grand tour. 

You hung on to every word Steve had told you, anxiously awaiting the next move. You were the quiet type, which he had pointed out many times already, but you were a firecracker. It didn’t take much to set you off, which is why you were so ready to get onto the field. However, he told you that might not be for a while.

Just as you were about to head back to your room to do a little victory dance, the team entered the kitchen, apparently getting a pre-debriefing snack. You could feel your heart pick up and your hands start to sweat as they all filed in, and you smiled. Your smile dropped, though, when you saw the two dicks who took your bracelet. 

“Hey, recruit. You okay? You look like you saw someone kick your puppy.” It was Natasha, and you quickly wiped the steamy look off your face and turned to her, nodding bashfully. 

“Y-yeah. Just still in awe, that's all.” Your voice came out a squeak, and you went to go toy with your bracelet, a nervous habit of yours, only to be reminded that it wasn’t there. You sighed and moved to the back of the room, away from everyone. 

You thought you were safe, and that they’d all be leaving soon, so you try to sneak out the door unnoticed, but you should’ve known that wasn’t possible with literal super humans. 

“And where do you think you’re going, your shyness?” Tony spoke up, making the rest turn to look at you. 

“That was a good one.” Came from somewhere in the room, to which Tony shot them a glare and a shake of the head, clearly telling them that they were ruining his creative sparks. 

“Me? Oh, I was just, uh..”

“Go on. Spit it out, doll.” It was him. Bucky. And right now, he was on your shit list, along with Clint. You shot him a dirty look, before letting out a sigh and a forced smile. 

“Just to my room, is all.” 

“Oh, come on. You don’t want to sit and talk with us? That hurts my feelings.” Clint replied, a fake pout on his face. 

You really didn’t know what to say, you were under the gaze of the most famous superheroes in the world. You just stood there, face heating up as you slowly stepped backwards. 

“Come on guys, she’s shy. Cut her some slack. She’s probably gonna go over analyze why she got in in the first place.” Your eyes cut over to Sam, and before you could defend yourself, they all started in on you. 

“You know, why did you get picked?”

“I don’t really know..” Your voice came out quiet hush, and you didn’t think anyone heard you, until Steve came to your side. 

“Alright, cut it out. Lets let her get settled before we start giving her a hard time, yeah?” “Oh, don’t be all soft, Steve. She’s fine. You're just a lady kiss ass.”

They all began to gang up on him instead of you, and while you felt bad, you were also relieved. He shooed them off as they were all called into the debriefing, and they made their way out, but two strayed from the pack, and you huffed. 

“What do you want?”

“Oh, come on, sweetheart. I think we all know why you’re here.” Bucky held up your bracelet, “Poor little girl, too shy to stick up for herself.”

“Give it back, Bucky.” You clenched your fist at your sides, and they both chuckled at the sight. “Why? What’re you gonna do? Hit me?”

You could feel the anger bubbling inside of you, the instantaneous need to just break something in half. Without thinking you walked over to the kitchen island, grabbing a knife out of its holder. You pointed it toward the two men, waving it around.

“Is this what you want? For me to prove myself or something? Fine!”

Your next move wasn’t very well thought out, as you jammed the knife into Clint's thigh. You rolled your eyes as he let out a scream, and Bucky dropped the bracelet in shock. 

“She just fucking stabbed me, dude! Oh, my god. We have to get out of here before she kills us.”

Clint hobbled over to the door, and you gave Bucky a pointed look, causing him to gulp and chase after his injured friend.

“She's crazy, dude. Fucking psycho.” 

You shrugged, picking up your bracelet and sliding it back on, admiring how much better your wrist looked with it on. 

[vydante]

Restart | Avengers x Male! Reader | 11

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Avengers x Male! Reader (romantically: multiple)

Plot: Dr. Strange said there was only one possibility of winning the battle against Thanos.

But when (Name) is forced into the past and into his younger body, he’s suddenly given the chance to start over and prevent the future from happening again.

So which route are you going to take? Are you going to risk the future and take preventative measures, or live life with the Avengers for the next 4 years, knowing what will soon come?

A/N: Different format this time, taken like a video log, though it’s mostly dialogue. 

[Action: enter folder titled ‘Project Renaissance’.]

...

[Enter Password: |]

[Enter Password: 1R0NM4NSU|]

[Enter Password: 1R0NM4NSUXXAP3XRUL35 |]

[Action: enter.]

...

[Password Accepted.]

[Accessing…]

[Enter folder name.]

[Action: “video logs”.]

[Searching…]

[Folder ‘Video Logs’ found. Would you like to play from the beginning?]

[Action: “Yes.”]

...

[Playing… “uh i don’t know name it whatever you want”, date created: 10-23-2013.]

...

...

“Is this thing on? Hello? Hell-o?”

The video feed shows your lone figure in your lab. It’s dark outside as the timestamp in the corner indicates that it’s half past midnight. You’re sitting directly in front of the camera, dressed in pajamas but no signs of fatigue anywhere.

You visibly huff, but only mirth flickers through your eyes as you look directly into the camera. It doesn’t last long as your eyes travel over to the camera feed and now you’re just looking at yourself as you begin to talk.

“Alright, so uh. Yadda yadda yadda, I planned to manually enter and type all of this out, but… I thought why not record it all in a log along the way? Fun, huh?”

You trail off on that thought, mumbling something about ‘well, that’s what my therapist said, anyways. Ah, wait, I don’t have her yet… mm, should probably look into that…’.

“Anyways, this is day one of Project Renaissance, or as it’s also known as, Project Get-Our-Shit-Together-Before-We-Get-Our-Lives-Rocked-By-Thanos.”

You shrug nonchalantly, but to the keenest of eyes, there was a stiffness in your posture when you mentioned Thanos. It was brief, but present nonetheless as it quickly dissipates from your shoulders.

“And, we don’t have to worry about any of this being leaked or whatever, because this is all on my sweet DAHLIA’s servers! Say something to the camera.”

“Something to the camera,” a dull female voice spoke up from the ceiling, Australian accent thick.

“Charming,” you purse your lips as if to hold back a smile, “Anyways, where was I…”

“Oh, yeah- Renaissance. So this is gonna be a long, long project with a bunch of other mini-folders inside.”

You swiped your hands across the air, slicing through as blue holograms appeared in front of the camera. There were already dozens of folders, but the camera catches only a few of their names.

‘Firecracker’, ‘Thunderpants’, and ‘Accords’ are some that are visible.

“I just wanted to get on base with what we have so far, but it’s not much considering it’s, y’know, only day one.”

You mumble something incoherent away from the camera before gazing back up on the camera feed, not quite looking directly into the camera itself. To the left of you, there’s a hologram of a checklist that you occasionally glance through as you resume speaking.

“Main objective of this project: prevent Thanos from decimating half of the universe, preferably killing him in the process. Side objectives: keep the Avengers together, current members optional, new members in need nonetheless. Contenders in another file.”

You glance at the checklist.

“Current objective: locate and capture Barnes, codename Winter Soldier, and any other Winter Soldiers, and sift through S.H.I.E.L.D.’s database for traces of HYDRA.”

“Sidenote: we, ah, started the search yesterday- for Barnes. So far, it’s… Not really promising. I, uh, initially gave the timeline to find Barnes a few days max, but man, I’m starting to doubt that…”

You sigh, scratching at your arm irritably.

“Whatever…” you mumbled.

“Anyways.”

“I, ah, I don’t know for sure what I want to do with Barnes, but considering that I’ll probably have more than ample time to think about it, I’m not worrying about it too much. As for his triggers…”

You glanced at an adjacent folder, almost contemplating.

“I know of one person who can help, but I’m not exactly putting too much hope for that one. So.”

“We might have to resort to B.A.R.F. when it’s ready. DAHLIA, who- who was on that case again?”

“Mr. Quentin Beck and his team, doll.”

“Ah, yeah, Beck. Cute, tall, big ole’ eyes?”

An image hologram pops up in front of you, presumably of Quentin Beck.

“I don’t know about ‘cute’, but in essence? Yep.”

You ignored DAHLIA’s apparent judgment in your taste in men.

“Gotcha. Well, there’s that we can resort to if need be. Um…”

“Well, as for HYDRA, that’s… That’s a whole ‘nother can of worms right there.”

You sighed, and this is the first inkling of exhaustion you’ve shown so far. You deflate a little bit and spend the next few minutes staring at something behind the monitor in silence. You’re deep in thought before your phone buzzes.

Then, the video feed cuts off.

…

… 

[Video end. Selecting next in queue…]

[Playing… “okay don’t do that weird thing where you record everything i say and make it the title, please dahlia anyways uh i wanna name it uh huh um shit dahlia i swear to god stop doing that”, date created: 11-02-2013.]

…

…

“Wow, alright, I was watching the last log last night and man did I literally got nothing done. I mean, it was the first day, but still! Still, I fucking…”

Your voice trails off as you walk away from the screen, holding what appears to be a big box filled with papers and envelopes. You set it down in the far corner of the lab, still talking but your words are unintelligible as the microphone is too far to hear anything.

“... And yet here I am, just- ugh!”

You dropped your body onto the chair and plopped right in front of the screen. Your hair is disheveled, undersuit still on. There’s a bruise forming on your forehead, but you don’t really seem to care about your messy appearance.

You pointed a lazy finger towards the corner, a small grin as you try to line it up with the camera feed.

“That’s fanmail- apparently someone has been neglecting to read those… It’s me, I’m someone.”

You chuckle to yourself.

“Mm, I’ll read myself to sleep later, probably hang all of it up on a mural wall somewhere. Or the ceiling, that works too. Anyways. Just went on a, shall I say, self-imposed mission. It was, ah, to look for Barnes.”

You sheepishly smiled.

“‘Was followin’ a lead from DAHLIA, a potential hit marker, but- it was just a- a barely running base. Nothin’ new, but- it’s nice. To fly and- and fight in the suit every now and then.”

You shake your head.

“Not the- the current one. The nanite one. It’s- god, I miss it, you know?”

Your eyes glaze over, a faraway glint in your eyes as you paused your ranting. This goes on for about 24 more seconds before you started talking again, voice smaller.

“I did this thing, with dad. After the whole, um, Accords bullshit. He- we would get into our suits- the newer models, and just… Go at each other. No repulsors, no nothing. Just raw, brutal punches in the suit. No holding back, no making sure the other one’s okay after a good blow… Just… We just hailed on each other, you know?”

“I mean, obviously we weren’t trying to kill each other, but sometimes it… It felt close, y’know? Nothing personal, but… It was primal, sometimes. Sometimes he’d knock my jaw a little too loose and all I’d ever see would be red… It was wild, I’ll tell you that.”

“But- we only did it here and there, considerin’, y’know. He’s-... He was getting older, and I was… getting busier.” You sighed. “No one knew about it either; god knows how Rhodey or ma’ would react to us- just- beating the shit out of each other.”

You smiled, though it looked more like a grimace.

“It was fun, though. Get the frustrations out. Work on our weaknesses. Show no hesitation. It’s…”

There’s a sudden hollowness in your eyes as your face shifts, an expression years older than you were currently. Haunted, almost. You shake your head, whatever traces of your former self now gone as you smiled- though, there was nothing genuine to that smile at all.

“... Not important. Anyways.”

You shifted in your seat, clearly uncomfortable at the stagnant air despite being the only one in the room.

“So yeah. HYDRA. I took out everyone at that base. Nothing left. Downloaded whatever they had, wiped it, then burnt it to a crisp. The usual, nothing new, nothing important…”

You shrugged, “It’s harder to get the Avengers to look the other way when I’m doing these solo missions. I’m pretty sure Natasha’s getting sus about this… Nothing tied to me, but. Still.”

“But yeah, DAHLIA’s sifting through the information right now.”

Your eyes shift to the left, presumably a screen with said findings loading in.

“So-o... There was… There was that.”

You paused, trying to gather your thoughts when your eyes flickered.

“Ah- but to continue to the last log; HYDRA… Man. HYDRA, HYDRA, HYDRA. Always a pain in the ass.”

You scowled.

“I thought it was gonna take me a little longer to sift through the S.H.I.E.L.D. database, but surprisingly enough, it was… Kind of easy to sort out HYDRA and Not-HYDRA.”

You scratched your head in confusion.

“Back a couple of years ago- or, well, in… Next year, actually. June? Well- Team Cap is gonna go haywire on S.H.I.E.L.D. and HYDRA and Project Insight and basically dump all that good-good, and we,” you noted with an oddly bitter tone, “were left to clean up the mess they made. And, well, it exposed a lot of active field agents. Shit, man.”

You scrubbed your face with your hands, which were marred with fresh scratches and burn marks. It’s unclear where they came from, but you don’t seem bothered by it.

“So many agents were killed in that stunt. God…”

Your voice is muffled, but still audible.

“There was one agent… Codename Acai. Sweet gal, ‘cording to her co-workers. Little unhinged, but she got the work done. She… She was undercover in North Korea for a few years. Got busted by the data dump. And…”

“God, they just…”

You sighed gruffly, refusing to look anywhere near the camera.

“It was rough, finding her body. Kept looking for her even months after the whole Ultron bullshit. By the time we got to her, it took us months to I.D. her body- even worse? North Korea already had her death listed as suicide under her fake name. Bullshit! Parts of her was missin’, how the fuck is that a suicide?! Both feet, gone. Her sternum was nowhere to be found. How- I just…!”

You gritted your teeth.

“I just don’t understand what they were thinking when they pulled that dumbass stunt to release all of that- that sensitive data…! I thought- oh, maybe, maybe, HYDRA had already corrupted a large part of S.H.I.E.L.D., that’s why they did it!”

“But no! No- do you know how much of S.H.I.E.L.D. was infected? How much?!”

You pinched your fingers together and squinted at the camera with a visceral smile.

“6 percent. That 6 percent accounted for a majority of the higher-ups. Not lower field combatants. Not the technicians. The higher-ups.”

“6 percent of S.H.I.E.L.D. was HYDRA,” you hissed, “yet they still endangered the other 94% active and non-active members! Fuck- it was a miracle! A miracle, that we got to any of the agent’s family that had been documented before HYDRA or anyone else could!”

“It’s a miracle that the Bartons even made it- and we didn’t even know about them until Ultron! It’s just-... Fuck!”

Growling, you knocked your head against the metal table in front of you. The camera shakes a little bit.

“God, Romanoff, what the fuck were you thinkin’? You were supposed to keep them in check, not… Not be so goddamn stupid!”

You growled under your breath, taking a moment to breathe. You lifted your head up with a neutral face and exhaled.

“Whatever. What’s done is done. I’ve- I’ve had years to simmer over it and I’m- I’m not. Angry. I swear I’m not. It’s done, it happened. But. Hopefully in this timeline… It won’t happen. Not like that, at least.”

There was a peculiar glint in your eyes as you started reaching into one of your cabinets.

“And I know just how to stop it.”

You raised your eyebrows with your eyes closed, reluctant to repeat what you had already said.

“Again, sifted through S.H.I.E.L.D. for HYDRA. Got the information. And it is all. In. Here.”

You pulled back up to reveal a small black USB flash drive. There’s nothing of interest to it on the outside, but it’s what’s inside that really, really counted.

“This bad boy has all the shit that HYDRA’s been skeemin’ all up in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s system. I- well.”

“I actually have 2 of these, but, ah. One’s already on the way to ole’ Saint Nick.”

You brushed a hand through your hair. It’s grown quite a bit and in need of trimming.

“Because if there’s one thing I know for sure about S.H.I.E.L.D.? Nick ain’t apart of HYDRA, no matter how much of a scumbag he is. And, really… I’d like to think I trust him to handle this situation properly- more so than anyone else but me and my dad. Obviously, dad can’t- he can’t ever know about… About this.”

Despite referring to the USB in your hands, your words were heavy nonetheless. It wasn’t just the flash drive you were referring to.

“So Fury’s getting the other bad boy. Worth millions, and 2 of a kind, too.”

“Well, I sent it to the bastard. Hopefully, he doesn’t trash it, or whatever. Soon.”

You hummed. Setting the USB down on the table, you made direct eye contact with the camera and posed with pouty lips. You threw up a peace sign ironically and grinned.

“Well, that’s that. Oh, and Clint vomited on Steve’s clothes yesterday. Not important, but funny nonetheless. Deuces!”

…

…

[Video end. Selecting next in queue…]

[Playing… “dahlia we don’t have the fucking time for this get the damn suit”, date created: 11-29-2013.]

…

…

“Hi.”

You’re still in your school clothes that day, a simple sweater and sweatpants. Your letterman is hanging on the back of your seat for going to the robotics competitions your school had. 

The timestamp also indicates that you had just gotten out of school too- though, it is considerably dark outside. Snowing that day, most likely. And still is, probably.

“So, uh. Fury got the message, I think.”

You spun around in your chair, knees up to your chest.

“Usually we’re getting harassed by him every now and then to do missions, but Natasha just came home yesterday sayin’, like. ‘Fury’s put my mission on hold’, or something.”

“He doesn’t know I sent it to him, I think. But. Thing’s’re getting pret-ty serious now, huh.”

You shrugged.

“Well, whatever. I didn’t come here to talk about Fury, though. I came here to update on, ah, a few things.”

“I know I haven’t touched base with- well, you,” You gave the camera a saucy wink, “about a lot of my projects so far. So, here are a few that I’ve been thinking of implementing.”

A picture is pulled up from your desktop. It’s an aerial shot of a brunet talking to his friend, both of a juvenile appearance. There’s another picture, a 3D generated image of a red and blue suit.

“So. Peter Parker.”

Sigh.

“I… really, really, really don’t want him to be involved in any of this. No superhero bullshit, no nothing.”

“He’s young. He doesn’t- doesn’t need to be involved with this mess. I just… I just want him to have a normal life.”

‘One I never got to have; one he’ll never get to have,’ goes unsaid, but you continued on.

“But… By my reasoning, I am… Hypocritical in my justification.”

You paused, frowning as you look at the picture long and hard. When you speak up, your voice is noticeably quieter.

“He was just as old as I was when I started this whole Apex mantle thing. Hell, he might’ve been older. Will be older. And quite frankly, I can’t stop him even if I wanted to. He’ll still do it, still go out and fight and just-...”

“He’ll do it unsupervised, and that’s what scares me the most.”

You mumble under your breath, “He reminds me too much of… Me. Young, dumb, and reckless as all hell.”

You shook your head and pulled up another file. This one’s a text file, and it’s detailed enough to go on for pages and pages, but clearly there’s more to be added.

“So, what I’m hoping to do is… Start an internship program. Start- start him early. The sooner, the better control he’ll have over his powers. The better experience he’ll get. And, of course, with the additional benefits of, well. Being in an actual internship program.”

“What that will intel? I don’t know. But I think… I think both the students and SI can- can benefit off of that.”

“So, that was one of my projects. Another one is about, well.”

You swallowed hard for this one.

“Extremis.”

You held your hands up as if trying to halt the camera- even the viewer- from freaking out.

“Listen, look, I know, I know- ‘oh, Extremis is already stabilized, oh, why mess with it even more, oh, just leave it alone it’ll make you explode into a thousand firecrackers, oh’- I get it. I know.”

“But… Listen to me.”

“I really, really do think Hansen was onto something with Extremis, no matter how evil and fucked up it is now. It… With a little bit of love and care, I really do think it can help. Maybe not- not on a mass-production scale- or for commercial use, period- but still.”

You licked your lips, eyes flickering to a picture of you, Tony, and Rhodey eating ice cream on your desk.

“I… It can be a last resort type of thing. It- it has the potential. So, so much potential.”

You chuckled to yourself.

“Well, it’s not like you- whoever else that isn’t me that’s watching this- can convince me otherwise. Don’t worry, no live subjects. No evil scientist bull, just… Just trust me, please.”

It’s unclear who exactly you’re referring to, but it’s as if there’s a specific person you’re trying to plead with despite knowing that no matter what, this footage- along with the rest- will be forever condemned to rest in the grave that is DAHLIA’s protected database.

“So, yeah. Working a little bit on Extremis. Um, I wish I could say that the next projects are more- light-hearted, but. Not really, no.”

“I’m… Well, there’s no easy way to say this: I’m thinking of filing a class-action lawsuit on Ross.”

And with that bombshell of an announcement to the camera, the Avengers alert rang across the building.

“Fuck- DAHLIA, end it- put me on comms!”

…

…

[Video end. Selecting next in queue…]

[Playing… “i am so mad i didn’t think about this before dahlia change the mission objective”, date created: 12-18-2013.]

…

...

“Would you believe me if I said I completely forgot about these whole video log things?”

Your back is turned to the camera, completely shirtless and hair dripping wet. You’re texting someone, and you’re typing a little bit furiously. The camera catches the other person sending a cat picture. You huff, but turn your phone off and set it to the side.

“So. Ross.”

You shake your head.

“Sorry to drop a bombshell like that on you,” you quietly address the camera, “then disappear on a mission, but-”

“There’s nothing concrete now. Just- it’s just an idea. I think…”

“I think Bruce would like it. There’s- there’s a lot of dirt on Ross. So much shit that can get him life, too. Maybe even death if we play our cards right, but… I want that bastard to suffer. And quite frankly, if I can get rid of him now, the better the Avengers will be in the future.”

You rolled your shoulders, a satisfying crack echoes from you and you grinned for a moment, before smoothing your face out into something more neutral. You leaned back in your chair, and take a breather.

“So, uh. It’s been… Over a month, I’d say? Since I started these whole video logs. Um… No traces on Barnes. It’s…”

You glance up at the ceiling with a pained expression.

“It’s frustrating as hell. You’d think, with access to a majority, if not all of the satellites and cameras and whatnot, we’d find him easier…”

“It’s like he’s not even doing anything, at all. No missions, no assassinations or whatever… Nothing. Nada. It’s like… It’s like he’s not even being deplo-”

You paused. It’s clear that the gears inside your head are turning. You narrowed your eyes, a smile threatening to break out as you reached towards the camera buttons.

“Sonnofabitch.”

…

…

[Video end. Selecting next in queue…]

[Playing… “i won’t let history repeat again starting with him”, date created: 12-29-2013.]

…

...

“So. I’m, uh, major update.”

Unlike the previous video logs where you were in your lab, this one is different. The camera is a lot closer to your face and from a bottom perspective as you hold the camera. 

You’ve got part of your helmet, chest plate, shoulders, gauntlets, and presumably your boots still on as your steps are heavy and clanking. There’s blood smeared across your forehead. You’re slightly out of breath as you glance at something outside of the camera’s perspective.

Around you, the view is shaky and it’s unclear where you’re walking. None of the interior decors indicates that you’re in the tower- in fact, it’s barren and empty.

You glance down at the camera view.

“Remember the last log? Well, I uh, sort of had an epiphany, if you will.”

You continue walking, but you’ve reached a door mechanism. You punch in some numbers and continue talking as the doors open wide.

“It was strange, that I got no hits of a Winter Soldier stalking around anywhere. Sure, he’s a trained spy and killer, but no one’s that slick- not even Natasha, as much as she thinks otherwise.”

You’re in an elevator now, catching your breath slightly as you drew your eyebrows together. There’s a dinging noise, indicating the floors you’re ascending- or descending, as it’s unclear what story you’re on.

“It was like there was no Winter Soldier; at least, no active one.”

“That got me thinking. He’s- what- from the 20’s? He should’ve been, say, early thirties, so 31? 32? At the time he went missing, anyways. But the thing is… Even in the future, the man looks barely in his late thirties. Barely.”

You tap your feet impatiently, boots echoing in the small space.

“But he’s been the Winter Soldier for, what, almost 70 years? Shit don’t add up.”

“So, while he’s practically responsible for so many goddamn murders, he’s probably not always… Awake. Active. I was thinking, shit, if he ain’t up and about right now, where the hell is he?”

“So I did some more digging. Found a Winter Soldier file in S.H.I.E.L.D.- er, HYDRA’s database. There’s… A bunch. Of the Winter Soldiers, I mean. But none of them were- was Barnes. Just a bunch of knock offs.”

You glance up at the floor indicator. The camera shifts and the numbers blink downwards.

 -3… -4… -5...

“But I found something interestin’. There’s a- a list. Of HYDRA bases. Had no idea what they were for, but I took a hot guess.”

“One of them was Siberia. First one I went to- no Barnes. A bunch of other Winter Soldiers, though. The failed ones.”

“I…”

There’s a moment of hesitation, unsure if you should say what you’re about to say.

“I shot them dead.”

The ball drops just as the elevator dings, doors opening as you stepped out with a confidence that doesn’t match the remorse in your eyes.

“It’s. Look, I know it- that’s fucking. Insane. Inhumane. Murder. I don’t care. It’s- it’s too goddamn dangerous, having them- alive! I don’t know if there was any- any redemption for them.”

“But in the end, they- they were willing soldiers for HYDRA. The best, even. Anyone who- who willingly works for HYDRA… I’m not too sure I can trust them.”

You growled.

“Shit, I trusted Maximoff… And look where that got us.”

“I’m not fucking risking it with them.”

You shook your head, face smoothing out so it’s only the stressed wrinkles on your forehead that’s present. Your eyes soften minutely so.

“But for Barnes… There’s a chance. He’s a goddamn POW, and… If Shuri succeeded in getting rid of the trigger words, then there’s. A. Chance.”

“And… I’m willing to take that risk with him.”

The camera shifts, staring directly at the underside of your jaw. You cough and recalibrate the camera so it’s at a better angle.

“Anyways.”

“I… I went down the list. Of the bases? I didn’t- didn’t infiltrate them per se. It’s too risky- a majority of those bases are major ones. So I just… Snuck around. Looked at the infrastructure for anything that remotely looked like a certain Winter Soldier would be in.”

You stopped walking, now staring directly at something behind the camera. Your lips are pressed in a grim line.

“And I hit the jackpot.”

You should be happy about it if you took those words out of context, but your expression is far from it. Guilt, pity, and an earthly weariness mares your eyes as you huff.

“Everybody, say hi to Mr. James Buchanan Barnes.”

The camera view flips, and in the front stage center is a big chamber, similar to that of a hulk play box. But while it is smaller, the glass is noticeably thicker. In the corner, outside of the chamber, is Mark 22 standing eerily still with its glowing eyes trained on Barnes. It’s in a neutral stance, but it’s clear that it won’t hesitate to incapacitate the soldier if it came down to it.

And on the furthest wall inside the chamber is Barnes, slumped on the ground with a pool of water around him. He’s wet as well, but unconscious. He’s in his military tactical gear, too, though there are no weapons visible on him.

The microphone picks up your sigh.

“I… I don’t know what to do with him. I- I saw the fucking- freezer they kept him in, but. It was a quick operation- I had no time to get the damn thing out without them- HYDRA- noticing me. So. Guess that throws out the plan to keep him- frozen like a popsicle until further notice.”

Barnes twitches slightly, and his fingers move. There’s an audible grunt, and your breath hitches as you swerve the camera back on you. Your eyes are wide, and you throw the camera a nervous grin that’s more akin to a grimace. In the background, your suit whirs to life.

You gave a nod to the camera.

“Wish me luck.”

…

…

[Video end.]

[Play again?]

Masterlist

Tagged: @unsolvetheheckoutofit, @tonystanktheirondad, @ludwigvonbaethoven​, @fabledxmystery

[dukearchive]

When the Moon Found the Sun

By Skyler Graham

PART I: THE MOON I’ve always been fascinated with lights: Christmas lights, street lights, illuminated advertisements surrounding the skyscrapers of uneasy cities. There is something comforting about these contained fireworks, something calming yet invigorating in sustaining hope in the darkness. This light, however, may also be a destructive force. As my mother grew in her career and my father fell in his, tension in the house became the firecrackers of a once glowing family. No lights, just jolting explosions of anger. I felt my dad giving into his insecurities, allowing his wife’s success to feast on his ego. Yet, rather than establishing a sense of equilibrium, he became the guilty victim of female domination. No job turned into no friends. When you only have one adult to socialize with, conversations turn into arguments.  A joker turns into a hermit.    I spent winter months silencing their screams with a complete infatuation with the fireplace. I focused all of my energy on the flames; if I could match my breath with the rise and fall of each quivering light, perhaps I could stay distracted long enough to forget why I needed a breathing tutorial in the first place.

But the screams only continued. My mom kicked the garage door shut, one hand grasping a cup of ice and the other a bottle of Tito’s. “Don’t worry about it, asshole. Just stay in the house, like you do all day, while I’m out working for this family.” “For this family? You’re never home!” This had become my parents’ daily routine: ignore each other throughout the day, argue about familial obligations and financial irresponsibility, anesthetize the anger with liquor, wake up, and repeat. Wash, rinse, repeat. I distracted myself at school; I focused on wall clocks and bus windows and half-completed math worksheets with lyrics doodled across the page. I stared into spinning washing machines and living room rugs and TV screens and interstate billboards. I stared out the window on every car ride, untouched by the heat rising from arguments at home. When I was sixteen, I glared at the bathroom mirror, finding only the reflection of a reckless dreamer with a warring psyche. My parents were in marital purgatory by this time; they knew the end was approaching, but they were still trapped in the same house by laws and loans and realtors. They were too occupied with hating each other, though, that my reckless bursts of naivety went unchallenged. My worries embraced a pair of scissors and a box of bleach. “Damn,” I whispered. “Now I look like a fucking Wal-Mart brand Kurt Cobain.” It was nearly one in the morning, but I couldn’t sleep. The light of the full moon radiated on the cigarette butts and stolen jewelry resting on my windowsill. There’s an everlasting magic to moonlight; not merely in its aesthetic brilliance, but in the effortless coexistence of the sun and moon. I admired how the sun highlights his lunar partner, allowing her to carry the tides and sustain hope in the darkness. He asks nothing in return. And the moon, shining on my orange-blonde head, willingly hides in the morning and allows the sun to warm the earth; she asks nothing in return. Their sacrifices are not of hopeful reciprocity, but a selfless balance of their earthly children. I lit a white candle and kneeled by my window. “God, or gods, or whatever powers control our universe, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know who I am, or who I’m becoming. I know, I’ve been acting out lately. I guess I’m just confused. But I need some type of balance; I can’t keep pretending like it’s okay — like I’m okay — when I want to be there for my family but I’m always put in the middle and I have no one to talk to and I’m scared of what Mason thinks and—” My mom came in and sat on the edge of my bed, the home of my nightmares and tear-stained pillowcases. Ignored the candle. “I can’t do this anymore, Steph. I can’t — everything I do is for you and your brother. I want to be home with you guys more, I do, but I can’t when he—,” her tears stifled her cries. But it didn’t matter — I knew what she meant. I knew what she felt. I could read her fearful despondency and immediately understand her confusion. How did her marriage end up like this? How could she escape? I didn’t know if my empathy was purely intuition or something greater (or if there’s a difference), but I knew she was desperate for change. I blew out the candle as she shuffled through the doorway. “So Mote It Be.” *** After my dad moved out, my mom introduced me to our next-door neighbor, Mike. He had lived next to us for months, but the only thing I knew about him was that his motorcycle, Jeep, and Mustang were cleaner than his soul. “Hey Mike, I’m Stevie.” A backwards snapback and graying beard looked up from his phone. “Oh, hey — yeah, your mom’s told me all about you. Said you might want to babysit my girls.” Great. This guy has kids? “Uh, sure,” I responded. “How old are they?” “Two and six,” he grumbled. “I love ‘em, but damn, it’s a difficult age.” I awkwardly laughed. “Yeah, just wait until they’re teena-” “Oh I know,” he interrupted. “I got another daughter about your age. We don’t talk much though.” My mom came out and proudly gestured to our backyard. “Look at what Mason did!” The grass was cut, the bushes trimmed, and the dirt stains on the fence were covered with a fresh layer of white paint. “Mike showed him how,” she said. “Mason, of course, complained the whole time.” She crossed her arms and looked away, squinting vaguely at the fruits of a renewed suburban paradise. “He would be used to all this work, you know, if your dad taught him better.” I hated that; the universal “Dad” had turned into “your dad,” as if he was an unknown figure in her life. As if they never met. I don’t know — maybe that was her way of hiding in the flames. *** PART II: THE SUN “Just let me know when you’re coming, and I’ll open the garage.” Mike invited me over that night, offering beer and a backyard bonfire in exchange for some company. My mom and Mike had become good friends, sharing time, vacations, and secrets with each other. My mom was on a business trip that night and unable to console her friend. I, however, was in town, bored, and seventeen without a fake ID. I walked over to his house in the same tan dress and cowgirl boots I wore to a concert that night. He was sitting alone in the backyard staring at tattoos on his wrist. “Annabelle,” it said. Is that the older daughter? One of the younger ones? One of the mothers? What happened between them? I sat down next to him in a plastic lawn chair. “What’s been going on, man?” I knew he needed comfort. But I had to remain cautious. “My friend’s girlfriend has been texting me all night — crying to me, complaining about her boyfriend and all this other shit.” Mike handed me a beer. “I’d love to help her — hell, she’s only nineteen and needs some type of guidance — but I don’t mess with girls in relationships. Not something I’m tryna get involved in.” “Doesn’t it bother you that she’s, ya know, nineteen?” “Age doesn’t bother me — I like younger girls anyway. Once they get to a certain age, women just — aren’t fun anymore. Young girls are exciting, they want to go out, they want to try… new things. After about, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, they’re not interested. They’re not interesting.”

“We just understand each other. We’re going through the same things, we can joke around and go out and talk about anything,” my mom sighed and smiled, then briefly glanced down. “He just doesn’t want a relationship, I guess… but neither do I. We’re just friends. Just friends.”

Mike opened another beer. “Was he at least good in bed?” He was asking about my ex-boyfriend; Mike knew him and watched his minivan creep out of my driveway almost every Friday night that spring. I broke up with him that June after months of frustration with his insecurities manifesting themselves as emotional dependency. I was tired of giving more than having — I didn’t want to take anything, just have: have mutual friends; have kind conversations with each others’ parents; have a reciprocal love. There is magic to mutualism, a feeling that transcends the power derived from systems of domination. I guess some people aren’t prepared for that type of power. It’s easy to succumb to others’ control, and tempting to take that control for yourself. It is grueling, however, to accept the power that lies in its absence. “Honestly, no. It felt like it was always about him; whenever he came, we were done. It felt like my only purpose was to satisfy him. I always just wanted it to be over.” He poured a shot for me. “Don’t worry honey, it won’t always be like that. You just need a man with experience to treat you right. Find an older man, someone who knows what he’s doing.”

“But I trust him. Even if we’re not “dating,” I know I can rely on him. I know he wouldn’t do anything to hurt me or you guys. Yes, he’s tough on your brother, but he’s just trying to teach him. He wants the best for you guys.”

I stared at the bonfire. I could look only at the bonfire. If I looked in his eyes, he would take it as an invitation. He pulled his phone out of his back pocket. “You ever watch porn?” Fuck. “My ex and I, we used to make our own,” he continued. “Wanna see?” I couldn’t see the flames anymore. I felt them rising to my face, but the flood of alcohol suffocated them. I couldn’t say no. It wasn’t really a question to begin with. And he wasn’t doing anything wrong, right? He didn’t touch me or make me do anything, right? Why am I so worried? I thought, I can trust him. I can trust him. Can I trust him? The flames kept growing. I handed back his phone, a drunk half-grin on my face. “Nice. A fine piece of cinema, Mike.” He ignored my sarcasm, as expected. He stood up and motioned toward his bulging crotch. “Look what you did to me, Stevie.” The flames were now in my cheeks and knees and hands and I couldn’t escape. He stumbled toward me. “All this sex talk, you got me feeling different.” I laughed. He didn’t. He looked me up and down, his hands in his pockets. “You know, if you weren’t my neighbors’ daughter, I would so have sex with you right now.”

“So nothing happened?” I asked, “And you guys were staying in the same room?” My mom sighed. “Nope. Nothing on New Years’ either. Whatever.” She stirred her drink. “I just don’t understand — what is it about me? Why don’t guys like me?” I felt her concerns, a nauseating red-green-blue energy pouring from her soul. “Don’t worry about them,” I explained. “Most guys are assholes anyway. You don’t need them.”

I walked back home. It was 7:00 AM. The moon was out of sight, her solar partner taking control. *** “Thanks for hanging with Mike, by the way,” my mom said after she got home. “I know he was feeling down and just wanted someone to talk to.” “Yeah, of course. We had a good time.” Mason looked up. “No kidding, you didn’t come home until five in the morning.” My mom’s eyes went cold. The red-blue aura had returned. “You what? Why? What were you guys doing?” The flames were back. This time, they were ashes swirling in the pit of my stomach. “Nothing, just talking.” “Talking about?” “I know I don’t need them; I’m better off without your dad than I was with him. But it’s still nice to have someone — you know, someone you can trust and talk to without any tension.” I watched my mom’s emotion shift to a pale yellow. She put down her drink and looked at me with hope shining through her eyes. “And I feel like that’s what I have with Mike. I know, we’re not “dating”, but things could turn around.”

I exhaled. “Nothing.” *** “Dinner’s here, just come in when you’re ready,” my mom texted me. I walked over to Mike’s to grab a slice of pizza and leave; I did not want to be back in that house any longer than I needed to. My mom still didn’t know what we talked about — what he talked about — and neither Mike nor I had the heart to tell her.    I walked in to my mom playfully laughing at one of Mike’s jokes. The ashes began swirling. He didn’t care. She didn’t know. I walked in to both of them ignoring my presence, one out of infatuation and the other out of arrogance. Or fear. The flames started rising. No “Hello,” no “How was your day?”, no “Sorry I hit on you despite the fact I’m old enough to be your father and your mom is obviously obsessed with me.” Nothing. The fire kept burning. Mike finally put down his pride long enough to acknowledge me. “Hey Stevie, could you run out to the garage and get me another beer?” The fires are rising higher and higher Uncontained Unrestrained I stomp into the garage. I grudgingly open the fridge and my elbow knocks over his “bar.” The Mustang. There’s vodka and whiskey and cheap mixers all over the hood of that damn Mustang. Maybe if you spent less time worrying about your vehicles, Mike, you could see the truth. You could see what I see. The fires are now swirling, exploding from the inside out. I can feel it in my stomach and chest and hands and feet. I harness it, however, and focus on the car. I focus on the flames. I focus all my energy — all my anger and resentment — on sparking the conveniently flammable coating of his prized possession. I watch the fire rise and fall, then rise again, then spread through the window into the car’s interior. She’s melting, Mike, and you can’t save her. I can’t hear your screams, either, as I am consumed by the flames. Consumed, but in control. Finally taking control of all of my worries, all of the anxieties I hid with bleach and stolen jewelry. I can harness this energy under the guiding moonlight. Some of us can maintain harmony with our souls and our surroundings. And some of us — most of us —  aren't prepared for that type of power.

[amaranthinecanicular]

hero worship

And now for our main story: a sudden and potentially devastating attack in Downtown Tokyo last night was thwarted by pro hero Red Riot of the Ground Zero Agency, in a feat of heroics so miraculous, it may have to be seen to be believed.

That’s right. Some experts are already predicting a dramatic shift in the Hero Billboard Chart, and after watching this footage, I think my antennae might be detecting a change in the wind, wouldn’t you say?

Ha ha, I think I’d say that pro heroes Deku and Ground Zero better watch their backs if they don’t want to lose their Billboard slots. Please be warned, this footage may not be suitable for young audiences.

[I didn’t realize it was @krbkweek2020, but now that I know, this fic’s perfect for Day 3: Tragic Love. Continue under the read more or on ao3.��Warnings in the tags.]

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one.

He dreams of things that happened. He dreams of things that didn't. He dreams about Kamino, and he dreams about hands reaching for him, and hands and hands and hands, and he dreams about falling, about his fingers not reaching Kirishima’s fingers, about reaching Kirishima’s fingers and watching them disintegrate.

It’s two in the morning. Bakugou is sweating cold. He is staring at his hands. They light up the dark with twitching firecracker-pops and they won’t—stop—

And then Kirishima, through the door: “I have them too.”

Bakugou’s hands lie still and quiet.

He gets out of bed. Goes to the door. Stares at the thin line of gold spilling in from the hallway, split in two by the person on the other side. He considers telling him to fuck off. He doesn’t.

If Kirishima is surprised when Bakugou opens the door, he doesn’t show it. There are sleepless purple smears beneath his eyes. His stupid hair, his stupid crocs. His jaw is set, and he doesn’t flinch away from Bakugou’s gaze.

“Well?” growls Bakugou.

“I could hear you through the wall,” Kirishima says. “I just wanted to let you know that I have them too.”

“Why the fuck should I care?”

Kirishima doesn’t blink. “I just wanted you to know.”

Then he does blink. “Wow, do you always sweat so much in your sleep? Dude.”

Bakugou tries to slam the door; it bounces off of Kirishima’s croc. He laughs, and Bakugou scoffs in disgust, but when he heads back into the room he lets Kirishima follow.

They—talk. That’s all. Kirishima is a fucking idiot, but he’s easy to talk to. They talk about school, and the new moves they’re perfecting, and the test next week Kirishima will need extra tutoring for. They talk about their plans to go hiking on the next break, and the prank Mina pulled on Kaminari, and can Bakugou recreate that one thing Lunchrush made on Monday? Yes, and he’ll do it better.

Around three thirty they’re still talking. They talk about the ash on the walls. They talk about Kamino. They talk about nightmares. I have them too, that was what Kirishima said, and it was like he was offering his hand all over again. I have them too. No pity. No accusations. I have them too—setting them on equal ground. That was why Bakugou opened the door. That was why he took his hand.

Kirishima dreams about the same things he does. Grasping for each other and failing to reach. “It’s never that you’re too weak,” he says. “It’s always that I’m not strong enough.”

Bakugou doesn’t know when he falls asleep. All he knows is that when he wakes, with sweat on his brow and shadows in his skull and his hands sparking and unable to stop, Kirishima is still there. He’s holding Bakugou’s hands. Nothing is burning. Nothing is turning to dust.

“You’re going to be okay,” Kirishima says. Like it’s certain. Like it’s fact. Like it’s already happened, and Bakugou wonders if he missed it, somehow, between the kidnapping and the rescue. Between the loss of All Might and the start of the nightmares. As though Kirishima can still see a future that Bakugou himself has lost sight of.

He hates himself for that, and he hates Kirishima too, except for how he doesn’t.

You’re going to be okay, says Kirishima, and when he says it Bakugou believes him. He promises himself that he’ll never tell Kirishima exactly how much he needs to hear it, but he suspects he knows already. Usually Bakugou would resent that. He doesn’t.

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And now for our main story: a sudden and potentially devastating attack in Downtown Tokyo last night was thwarted by pro hero Red Riot of the Ground Zero Agency, in a feat of heroics so miraculous, it may have to be seen to be believed.

That’s right, Joho-san. Some experts are already predicting a dramatic shift in the Hero Billboard Chart, and after watching this footage, I think my antennae might be detecting a change in the wind, wouldn’t you say?

Ha ha, I think I’d say that pro heroes Deku and Ground Zero better watch their backs if they don’t want to lose their Billboard slots, Matagiki-san. Please be warned, this footage may not be suitable for young audiences.

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Aiko-chan today at 10:14 AM DUDE GUESS WHERE I AM

Me today at 10:19 AM i think you have english rn??? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Aiko-chan today at 10:20 AM English can suck it my contact gave me a tip that the convenience store by my house has a very exclusive back door item so I’m waiting on a line that goes around the block

Me today at 10:25 AM oh you have a “““contact””” huh

Aiko-chan at 10:25 AM Stfu you know it’s hanakawa now do you want to know what the exclusive item is or not

Me today at 10:27 AM yes pls

Aiko-chan at 10:27 AM Red Riot limited edition winter costume figurine

Me at 10:27 AM JFKSJ HOLY FUCK

Aiko-chan at 10:28 AM Do you want me to get you one

Me at 10:28 AM GET ME TEN

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Posted by Uwasa K. | K.O! Magazine | June 18

For the first time in a long time, (since the end of All Might, perhaps?) the future of our heroic society is uncertain. That’s why Knock Out! Magazine sat down with our favorite statistical analyst on all things hero, Takei Kazu! Join us as we get the scoop on the hot hero must-haves of the season, Ground Zero’s fall from grace, the future of the hero industry as we know it, and of course, everyone’s favorite hero, Red Riot!

K.O!: As always it is an honor to speak with you, Kazu-san!

KAZU: As always it is 100% a pleasure for me as well.

K.O!: For those unfamiliar, would you please tell us a little about your quirk?

KAZU: Of course. My quirk, Statistic, allows me to determine the statistical likelihood of any given outcome, in any given situation.

K.O!: You’re famed for your shockingly accurate heroic projections, but what put you on the map was your legendary prediction of All Might’s meteoric rise, would you say that’s correct?

KAZU: I would. And at a time when he was overseas and most others considered him an outlier at best, mind you.

K.O!: How could we forget! With that in mind, we have to ask: what insight can you give us to the future of our beloved heroes?

KAZU: Regarding the most recent UA sports festival, I’d say there’s an 80% chance that Aizawa Eri is the hero-hopeful to keep an eye on. Over in the professional hero world, I predict that Real Steel will rise one slot in all official rankings, while Deku’s rising star shows zero chance of falling any time soon. But these statistics are mundane—odds are you want my take on higher-stake situations.

K.O!: I’m sure our readers agree with you! Please enlighten us.

KAZU: Let me just say this: if Ground Zero continues on the warpath as he has, the country’s crime rate will see a dramatic decline. However, his approval rating will likewise plummet, as will the statistical likelihood of his surviving the year. I leave the public to decide if the tradeoff is worth it.

K.O!: I see! And can you put a rest to our readers’ fears of Ground Zero turning villain?

KAZU: In this case I’d rather abstain from giving any specific percentages, as I have no wish to cause a panic. All I will say is that though the likelihood is not 100%, it is not 0% either. On a brighter note, I can say with 100% confidence that the value of all Red Riot merchandise will dramatically increase.

K.O!: You heard it here first, folks: the gift of the season will be any and everything Red Riot, so you better get your shopping done now! Kazu-san, do you have any thoughts regarding the rumors that Red Riot’s heroism on May 14th will earn him the coveted No. 1 spot at the next JP Hero Billboard Chart event?

KAZU: That would be unprecedented given the circumstances, but as of right now I’d say chances are around 30%, and rising every day.

K.O!: Many of our readers are worried about the state of the hero industry. What do you have to say to them?

KAZU: Given Ground Zero’s current behavior, I can see how the future might seem bleak. Find comfort in the knowledge that if the Ground Zero Agency keeps turning out heroes of Red Riot’s caliber to counteract the Ground Zeros of the world, the future of the agency, professional heroes, and Japan looks bright indeed.

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An excerpt from Echoes of All Might, by Tokuda Taneo:

Of course no analysis of All Might’s lasting influence would be complete without discussion of his successors. Many scholars, heroes, and experts smarter than I have drawn parallels between All Might’s famed debut and any of several incidents in Deku’s youth and professional career; just as many publications have compared All Might’s debut to heroic moments throughout Ground Zero’s life. These positions have been well-argued and well-defended. It is not my intention to detract from the accomplishments of either of these heroes, nor am I suggesting that either of them are undeserving of the title of All Might’s successor. Rather, I propose that there is a third hero who is equally worthy of the mantle of Symbol of Peace, and, in this specific instance, more worthy of the rank of Number One Hero: Kirishima Eijirou, otherwise known as Red Riot.

Consider All Might’s debut. That impossible, miraculous feat of heroism. Over one hundred civilians saved, single-handed. Do you remember the first time you watched it? Do you remember how many times you hit replay? Do you remember the feeling of hope it evoked? In this post-All Might age we find ourselves in, it may be difficult to imagine just how monumental a moment it truly was. No one had ever seen anything like it; it was unprecedented. It shouldn’t have been possible, but he did it.

This is what you must understand about the events that took place on May fourteenth of this year: what Red Riot did shouldn’t have been possible.

An alumnus of the UA class forged through particular adversity, Red Riot cofounded the Ground Zero Agency and proceeded to rise to number eight on the Hero Billboard Chart over the course of the next decade. He was well known for his close personal relationship with Ground Zero, and perhaps less well known for his exceptionally well-rounded performance in all factors contributing to his prestigious Billboard rank: an admirable number of resolved cases, an approval rating below only Lemillion and Nejire-chan, and an underappreciated record of social contribution, which included hundreds of hours of community service. Among fellow heroes he was noted for his friendliness and his straightforward personality. It would not be an understatement to say that he was widely admired, even beloved.

By all projections and statistics, Red Riot was an excellent hero, but let it be clear: what he did on the fourteenth of May should not have been possible. He was outranked by two of his teammates. His quirk, though undoubtedly strong, was not flashy, nor particularly versatile. If even one professional says they thought he could hold off four of the best heroes in the country, on his own, in addition to the rookies Axis turned, in addition to the civilians Axis turned, for three quarters of an hour, without a single casualty—to be quite honest, they’d be lying. This should have been a tragedy of epic proportions. The Ground Zero Agency should have painted Tokyo red long before anyone could stop them. This should not have been possible.

But he did it. And he gave us hope.

Does that remind you of anyone?

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More reports this morning of Ground Zero allegedly assaulting fans. While Red Riot’s popularity continues to skyrocket, the current Number One hero’s approval rating continues to plummet.

Personally I think his behavior is a real insult to Red Riot’s name, Matagiki-san.

I agree, Joho-san. Maybe someone is getting a little jealous of the shift in spotlight?

Ha ha, your words, not mine. Let’s go live with Izumi-san on the streets of Tokyo to hear what the people have to say. Izumi-san?

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Aiko-chan today at 10:28 AM Are you sure about 10 tho they’re like triple the usual price

Me today at 10:29 AM T E N ILL KEEP ONE AND MY BROTHER CAN SELL THE REST ONLINE FOR $$$$$

Aiko-chan today at 10:31 AM … :/

Me today at 10:31 AM wat

Aiko-chan today at 10:33 AM Nbd just. Isn’t that in poor taste??

Me today at 10:34 AM no way dude red riot was the people’s hero he’d want us to make bank

Aiko-chan today at 10:37 AM Ye I guess you’re right. Hey aren’t you in history right now shouldn’t u be paying attention

Me today at 10:37 AM fuck history this is LIMITED EDITION WINTER COSTUME RED RIOT

Aiko-chan today at 10:37 AM I KNOW!!!

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GroundRiot Touching Moments Compilation ENG SUB 504k views - 1 month ago rred_zer0 20.6k followers

A little softer compared to my other compilations, in the wake of everything that happened yesterday. Red Riot, you’ll be in our hearts forever. TW: BLOOD, GORE, FOUL LANGUAGE

102k likes - 1k dislikes Share Download Save 11k comments Add a public comment

pastel gal 1 month ago Thanks @rred_zer0 for coming into my home and punching me in the heart 4k likes • dislikes • reply view 13 replies

gzrrrr55 1 month ago The joy and heartbreak this awakens in me is just *chef kiss* the perfect combination. @rred_zer0 you’re doing the lords work 2.6k likes • dislikes • reply view 33 replies

RazzleDazzleDeku 3 days ago honestly FUCK ground zero 2k likes • dislikes • reply view 12 replies

riotwaifu 1 week ago 4:16 do you SEE those abs UNF the world lost so much on May 14 T.T 324 likes • dislikes • reply view 9 replies

Lemonllion Ok i’m not the only one who thinks some of these clips are really personal right??? Like,,, is it just me?? Who else thinks this is kinda inappropriate??? 3 likes • dislikes • reply view 64 replies

Hana Spring 2 weeks ago ive said it before and ill say it again, these two are soulmates. fight me. 2.4k likes • dislikes • reply view 15 replies

sirthatsmyemotionalsupportbastard 1 month ago rip red riot long live groundriot 599 likes • dislikes • reply view 6 replies

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In defense of Ground Zero Posted by wtrhse1212

So a lot of people have expressed disapproval over how Ground Zero has been handling and reacting to the May 14 incident. I don't usually like to get involved in this discourse bullshit, especially where it involves Ground Zero, because full disclosure: I think the guy’s a prick. If you follow me or know me from the boards then you know how I feel about him and his alleged treatment of Deku in the past. Those feelings haven't changed, but come on. The guy doesn't care for popularity and public opinion so he's not going to say it. Fine. I will.

Leave him the fuck alone.

First of all, reports have been exaggerated. Do a little research (and because most of you are lazy assholes I’ve included sources below) and you’ll find that he didn’t “assault” anyone. The worst he did was a threatening light show. And if that counts as going overboard to some fans, well, honestly? They deserved it.

I don't talk about this much but I've got some skin in the game. My parents were pro heroes who died on duty, and for most of my childhood, I hated the whole institution. I couldn't understand why people told me I should be proud of my parents’ sacrifice instead of being allowed to mourn. Why my family tragedy was celebrated instead of discouraged.

Thanks to Deku, most of my opinions regarding heroes have changed, but this one stuck. What happened to Red Riot was a tragedy, and it should be treated as such. That's not to say he wasn't heroic, and that his actions shouldn't be honored. It's to say that right now is a time for solemnity, not celebration. It's to say that it is a major flaw in our society that martyrdom is so encouraged. It's to say that Ground Zero shouldn't have to deal with rabid hero fanboys coming up to him and asking for a play by play of Red Riot’s death, as though he were a character on a saturday morning cartoon instead of a real person with real loved ones who are just trying to get by in the wake of his loss.

I don't blame Ground Zero after all the shit we've put him through. Leave him alone. Let him grieve.

TLDR: We shouldn't be encouraging our heroes to die for us. And we certainly shouldn't condemn our heroes for mourning.

View 4,337 replies 2,314 likes 16,554 dislikes

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two.

An excerpt from HERO Tonight’s interview with Chargebolt and Cellophane of the Ground Zero Agency:

HERO Tonight: Joining us now are pro heroes Chargebolt and Cellophane. Welcome heroes, and let me start by thanking you, of course, for all you do.

CHARGEBOLT: Ha ha, you’re welcome!

CELLOPHANE: All part of the job.

HT: This is the first interview anyone from the Ground Zero Agency has given since the incident on May fourteenth. Would you mind if we get right into it?

CELLOPHANE: Fire away.

HT: Can you tell me about Axis?

CHARGEBOLT: Ooh, I wish Deku were here, he’s the one you want to talk to when it comes to hero and villain stats.

CELLOPHANE: Yeah, but his fanboyism is part of his charm, right?

HT: I think we all want to hear from you two. The villain?

CELLOPHANE: Well, as far as his history and personality goes, I can’t say much. I know a lot has come out about him in the past few weeks, but honestly I haven’t really been paying attention. I think all of us at the Ground Zero Agency have been a little… preoccupied.

CHARGEBOLT: Yeah, that’s one way to put it. Look, I don’t know where he came from or why he did it. I can’t tell you about his tragic backstory because I just don’t care. You want me to talk about what it was like fighting him, what it was like being under his quirk’s influence, that I can do. But he wasn’t the star of that night. That was Red Riot.

HT: Of course. In that case, let’s go back to the beginning. When you responded to the call, did you have any idea the night would turn out the way it did?

CHARGEBOLT: Hell no. They tell you to prepare for things like this, say it's inevitable, but I don't think anyone ever can. Not really.

CELLOPHANE: Yeah. Any inkling of how bad things were going to get only started when I saw the villain with my own eyes. Until then it was just another night on the job.

HT: Can you elaborate on what tipped you off?

CELLOPHANE: It was a couple of things, I guess. Not the report itself, that was vague, a villain with a personality affecting quirk that—supposedly—required skin-to-skin contact to activate. He had taken down a few local heroes. No casualties reported. But when we got there, the atmosphere—the movies like to put the big villains in downtown Tokyo, but the truth is, most of them know better. And the few who risk it usually don’t understand the lay of the land yet, so they get taken down pretty fast. Of course there are cases like the League of Villains, but—

HT: Those are few and far between?

CELLOPHANE: Exactly. So civilians treat it like a spectacle. You come to expect that. But that night…

CHARGEBOLT: Silence.

CELLOPHANE: Silence. No one. The few civilians we saw fleeing from the scene—they didn’t speak to us, they didn’t look at us. They didn’t even scream. Just blind terror.

CHARGEBOLT: Their heroes had turned on them. What else would you expect?

:

There are different videos. Different shots and angles that capture different moments and perspectives and emotions. Each of them have millions of views.

But the video, the one the news pulls clips from, the one everyone has seen and seen again, goes like this:

There’s a civilian hiding in an alley. The video opens with a shaky shot of her face, tear-streaked and wild-eyed. Her quirk is a thin film of slime that activates as a fear response; experts will agree that this is what protected her from Axis. She says that the heroes have gone wrong, that everything’s gone wrong. She apologizes to her mother if she doesn’t make it out of this.

Heavy footsteps. The camera swings around. The mouth of the alley offers a perfect view of the Ground Zero Agency landing in full force, fog billowing dramatically as they stand in such a way that will be ripped and framed and sold on posters for months to come. The Ground Zero Agency, the posters will say, in bold, dynamic letters across the bottom. Some will include the subtitle: Founding Members. Or: Together for the last time. None of them will be approved by the agency itself.

The civilian whimpers the name, Ground Zero, a perfect little sound bite of relief and joy and fear.

Ground Zero himself shouts down the villain. The man who will later come to be known as Axis is no more than a shadowed silhouette half a block away, saying nothing. The heroes ready themselves to spring into action, and then they go wrong.

The resolution isn’t high enough to tell whether the effects take in Chargebolt or Alien Queen first. A shiver seems to ripple through them at the same time. Then Alien Queen swings around and her hand melts right through Cellophane’s visor.

There’s shouting. Cellophane writhing, screaming. Red Riot and Ground Zero in tandem: Ground Zero setting off localized explosions to force Alien Queen back, while Red Riot ducks in and barrels her out of frame. In the background, the darkness lights up all at once, and the flash of electricity blinds the camera. The civilian yelps as the electric wave rolls out to shock her feet. The camera drops. More screaming, and Ground Zero’s voice: "It’s the fucking mist, keep clear of it—"

When the civilian picks up the camera again, Ground Zero is fighting off both Chargebolt and Alien Queen while Red Riot drags Cellophane to the mouth of the alley and speaks to him urgently. Steam drifts out of the melted ruin of his visor.

There’s no warning. Cellophane moves with unnerving, spider-like efficiency, and in seconds Red Riot is mummified. In seconds more Cellophane rigs a noose from the roof, winds it around Red Riot’s neck and levers him six feet off the ground, kicking wildly.

Ground Zero roars Red Riot’s name. He tries to close the distance but Alien Queen and Chargebolt are unrelenting, and his movements are backlit and blurred. He’s on the defensive.

“Riot!” he calls again.

A tearing sound. The camera refocuses: Red Riot, his body sharper than before, bulkier, geode. He goes Unbreakable and shreds through every layer of tape at once. His boots crack the ground. Red Riot roars, and beneath it is Ground Zero, howling with laughter.

“You are fucked,” he snarls, maybe to the villain or maybe to his teammates, just as Red Riot launches into the fray.

For thirty seconds: Red Riot and Ground Zero, fighting back to back. Thirty seconds: fans and specialists alike will narrow in on these moments with wistful nostalgia, this maneuver, that combo move, just look at how well they knew each other, how evenly matched they were, look at the breathtaking intuition, practically premonition, the country isn’t likely to see another superhero teamup of that caliber anytime soon. For thirty seconds, it is Ground Zero and Red Riot against the world.

Cellophane catches Ground Zero’s ankle in a loop of tape, and he hits the concrete hard. The mist sweeps over him. He rises a second later, still swinging, and in the background Axis tilts his head. It’s barely a warp of shadow, the resolution is so poor, and then Ground Zero goes wrong.

It would take a few replays at half speed to see what happens, that’s how subtle the shift is. He doesn’t even twitch. One moment Ground Zero is holding off Cellophane, and the next he reaches over his shoulder and engulfs Red Riot in heat and flame.

:

CHARGEBOLT: Axis wasn’t a big guy. He wasn’t flashy. He was just—a guy. Nondescript. Suit off the rack. Kind of scrawny. But there was menace coming off him. This oppressive atmosphere of bloodlust just, pouring out of him, weighing everything down. You could taste it. But we deal with a lot of villains like that, right? No big deal. But his eyes—

CELLOPHANE: They were dead. There was nothing in them. Just this flat certainty that he was going to kill us. He wasn’t happy about it, or sad, just—certain.

CHARGEBOLT: I tried to shake it off, but by then his quirk already had me, though I didn’t know it yet.

HT: Let’s discuss his quirk. It has become synonymous with his villain name: Axis. Would you call that an accurate title?

CHARGEBOLT: As accurate as a snappy buzzword can get, I guess.

HT: Our reports say that the bloodlust you mentioned was part of the quirk. The fog on the streets that night was coming from his body, and if absorbed through the skin it switches the morality of the intended victim, by the villain’s choosing. What was it like being under the influence of a quirk like that?

CELLOPHANE: Horrific.

CHARGEBOLT: You don’t know it’s affected you at first, is the thing. You still feel like you. Some—switch flips inside your head and you have no idea. You turn and attack your best friend and it’s the most natural thing in the world. And that little voice inside you that tells you right from wrong, that voice that you learn to trust the most as a hero—it only starts screaming after it’s over, and you see what you’ve done. After it’s too late.

:

Alien Queen tackles Red Riot past the mouth of the alley. Offscreen there’s the sound of hissing, audible even over Red Riot’s roars of pain. He’s already taken down the first responders, and Chargebolt, and Cellophane. The civilian is still clutching her phone, though she doesn’t seem to realize it.

Red Riot and Alien Queen swing back into view as Riot crashes into the side of a car. He double takes, turns, and tears one door off; a father and son tumble out. He tells them to run, and when Alien Queen tries to follow, he throws the door at her. A second skin of acid shimmers over her body and then the door is shearing in two, each half blasting into the building behind her. He doesn’t give her time to recover, follows up like a rocket, and if you slow down the video you can see them reach for each other, see them make contact at almost the same time. Alien Queen claws at his face, burns him from hairline to chin. Riot drives a fist into her nose, melting his knuckles down to the bone. She drops, and Riot turns and leaps and tackles Ground Zero out of the air.

At this point, the civilian’s phone has been recording for twenty seven minutes. It will record for nineteen minutes more. All of it is devoted to Red Riot’s fight with Ground Zero.

:

HT: From start to end, the fight went on for forty three minutes. That’s forty three minutes of Red Riot holding off his teammates—fellow Top Twenty heroes—as well as amateur hero first responders and hostile civilians. How is it that in all that time no one came to provide back up?

CELLOPHANE: There were a lot of different factors. A big one was poor communication. There was no one immediately in the area—the villain had already taken over the local heroes, and no one thought the Ground Zero Agency wouldn’t be able to handle it. By the time our call for backup got out, the closest hero was ten minutes away, and the closest hero with a quirk actually suitable to combat Axis was even further. Two poorly informed heroes did actually jump in, and Riot was forced to handle them too.

CHARGEBOLT: Hell, we said the original report was vague, right? If communications were better from the get-go, if we had known what we were walking into, everything would have been different. We were led to believe that the Axis quirk required skin-to-skin contact. Red Riot fights most often in close quarters, so we suggested he take the night early.

CELLOPHANE: It wasn’t that he couldn’t do it, or that he’d be a risk or a liability—he said he wouldn’t let the villain touch him and that was that. It was just… he’d had a great week, you know? Look back at that week’s stats, he was killing it. He deserved a break. We said we could handle it. But he just did that signature move of his—that fist bump thing, you’ve seen it, right? And he insisted.

CHARGEBOLT: And we just… let him.

HT: And thank goodness you did.

CHARGEBOLT: Right. Thank goodness.

:

As the fight goes on Red Riot’s skin chips off in fractals, from his arms, from his chest, slivers at first and then in great shattered chunks. He never stops. The wet red flesh beneath crystallizes before the fog can touch it. He never stops.

:

HT: In the weeks since the incident, Ground Zero has become something of a phenomenon. He was the only party involved not to take a leave of absence after the fact. Crime rate is in an exponential decline, due directly to his involvement. But his approval rating has declined as well, and he refuses to give a statement.

CELLOPHANE: Ground Zero has always cared more about doing good work than looking or sounding good doing it. It’s something we at the agency have always admired.

HT: Speaking of, the Ground Zero Agency has recently received criticism for its response to an incident involving Ground Zero and a handful of fans. Do you have any comment on this?

CHARGEBOLT: Comments. Oh, we have comments—

CELLOPHANE: As Alien Queen said in the agency’s official statement, we apologize for any emotional distress those involved may have experienced, but we stand with Ground Zero.

HT: There are rumors of the suspension of Ground Zero’s license. Would you care to comment?

CELLOPHANE: No comment.

CHARGEBOLT: Yes, comment. Put aside the fact that Ground Zero did nothing wrong and consider the fact that this world needs Ground Zero, now more than ever. Anyone calling for his license—the Hero Public Safety Commission, the public, the media—is just stupid.

HT: And what of the recent statistics stating that Ground Zero’s chances of survival have decreased dramatically?

CHARGEBOLT: Kazu is a hack, and so is K.O. Those reports aren’t official.

HT: But it is a compelling report.

CELLOPHANE: An unofficial report. No comment.

HT: Of course. And what of the leaked reports that the villain rate of survival has decreased dramatically when apprehended by Ground Zero?

CHARGEBOLT: That’s not…

CELLOPHANE: Those reports aren’t official either. We have no comment.

:

The young civilian woman leans out of the alley, the phone leaning with her. She’s looking for an opening to run. There are six minutes left. She takes one step. Then another. Ground Zero drops before her on the third, and she yelps, stumbles back; the camera focuses on advancing boots and then the video smears into hot color as the civilian is lifted off her feet. There is one long, nauseous second filled with nothing but screaming, and screaming, and screaming--

Riot charges into the alley, and Ground Zero drops the civilian to spin and fire two Howitzers at point-blank range.

The smoke clears. In frame, on a sharp angle from the ground: Red Riot’s ravaged back, wet muscle exposed and blistering in the heat. But he’s standing, and his hands are gripping Ground Zero’s hands. Muted explosions discharge between their palms. Neither gives ground.

“You’re going to be okay,” Riot grunts. He is speaking to the civilian. “You’re going to get out of this, I promise—”

“Worry about yourself,” barks Ground Zero.

Riot grunts, and then he inhales, a slow, scraping, shuddering sound. The blistered flesh hardens, and he roars, and slams Ground Zero into the wall with such force that the gauntlets smash cavities into the brickface. Ground Zero thrashes and snarls but Riot holds fast.

“Wake up!” he shouts, in a voice like gravel. “Snap out of it! You’re the number one hero, aren’t you?”

Ground Zero bucks; Riot keeps the gauntlets pinned with his weight. The camera can’t catch their faces. There is only Riot’s head bent low to Ground Zero’s ear. Only Ground Zero’s wild blond hair over Red Riot’s shoulder.

“Come back to me,” Riot says, low and urgent. They are the last words anyone but Ground Zero will ever hear him say. “Wake up. Come back to me.”

Ground Zero’s hands, twitching and sparking. His snarling shouts become snarling breaths. The thrashing slows, then stills. Riot’s voice drops in volume and rises in intensity; the phone can no longer pick up the words. One of his hands drops from Ground Zero’s gauntlet to brace on the juncture of his shoulder and neck, pull himself closer. His thumb is pressed into Ground Zero’s jaw. There are wispy, barely-there sounds of the civilian trying not to breathe.

Ground Zero’s arm comes free of the wall with barely a whisper of brick and mortar. His head tips to rest against Red Riot’s, temple to temple, and when he speaks, he sounds very tired.

“AP Shot,” he says, and the light is blinding.

:

HT: Since the incident many have lauded Red Riot as the rightful Number One Hero. Others argue that one act of heroism, however exceptional, does not outweigh a career of heroics, as in the case of All Might, current top hero Deku, and your very own Ground Zero. Where do you stand?

CHARGEBOLT: Are you kidding me?

CELLOPHANE: Chargebolt—

CHARGEBOLT: No, I’m sorry, are you kidding me right now? You’ve seen the footage, right? Of course you have, you all have. How is this even a question? Deku and Ground Zero are top notch, no doubt, but when it comes to being a straight up hero? Everything that entails? That’s Red Riot. The full package. A career of heroics, what kind of bullshit—try a lifetime of heroics, and half of it no one remembers because it happened before he even got his license and the other half no one knows because, what, it wasn't flashy enough? No one cares about how he helped old people with their groceries or found missing pets or spoke at schools about self confidence and bullying or, or how he encouraged everyone he ever met to be better. Just—better. He was my hero before that night and he better be everyone’s hero afterward.

CELLOPHANE: Charge…

CHARGEBOLT: I'm fine! I'm fine. Sorry. I got a little—I'm fine.

HT: …Well, I can’t speak for everyone, but Red Riot definitely is my hero. Thank you both for speaking with me today. Please continue to take care of us.

CELLOPHANE: Thank you for having us.

CHARGEBOLT: Yeah. Yeah, thank you.

:

The light fades. The cracked lens focuses. There is Ground Zero, and there is Red Riot. They’re holding each other. There is a crater in Red Riot’s chest.

“No,” says the civilian. “No.”

Riot’s body is slack in Ground Zero’s arms. Smoke trickles from the entry wound and plumes from the exit wound, and below them, at their knees, the mist is lapping. Ground Zero scrapes a breath into his lungs. He clutches Riot close with one arm, and raises the other against the civilian. Her breath catches.

Two hands come up to frame Ground Zero’s face. Ground Zero falters, and Red Riot cracks their skulls together.

Ground Zero collapses in a nerveless plummet. Red Riot catches him. The hollow in his chest is ragged, seared flesh and bloody red stone. He lowers Ground Zero and then reaches for the civilian, and when they finally leave the alley he curls around her, but there’s no need. There is no one left to fight.

On the other end of the street, like a smear of ash against the burning city, stands Axis, in exactly the same place he’s been all night. When Riot takes a step toward him, the civilian grabs his hand.

“Red Riot,” she says, a warning, a plea, but he just smiles at her. He tries.

He staggers over. Axis doesn’t move. The civilian doesn’t move. Riot is barely standing—when he reaches Axis he almost falls, and has to brace against Axis’s shoulders. Axis watches him. He watches him cough and cough and crumble all over. He watches him draw back a fist and he keeps watching, and he keeps watching, and Riot sinks the fist into his solar plexus, and then it’s done. Axis crumples. The mist dissipates. All that’s left is Red Riot, standing against the sky.

“Riot,” the civilian whispers.

Red Riot falls.

The civilian slips to her knees. There is the sound of movement off camera, a groan, and then an animal cry. Ground Zero blasts past her. His body blocks Red Riot from view, and he’s shouting, he’s screaming, but the civilian’s voice is closer, clearer, and drowns him out:

“Riot,” she whispers. “Riot. Riot.”

The phone slips from her fingers. The lens shatters, and the video ends.

:

:

three.

“Do you ever think about it?”

Kaminari’s eyes are a little too wide. His fingers are twitching, sparking. Bakugou is on patrol because he’s always on patrol. They’re working out a schedule to keep him company.

Kaminari says, “Like, everything, obviously, but specifically do you ever think about the fact that we killed him? Everyone decided to scapegoat Bakugou, but we did that. We all did that. And they still cheer for me in the streets. Do you ever think about that?”

:

The first time Izuku went to Kacchan and Kirishima’s apartment was for a housewarming party.

It was a private thing, only a handful of their closest friends. Izuku bought them a toaster. Kacchan blew it up because he decided he liked the toaster from Sero better. They had champagne, and Kirishima handed out spare keys. When Izuku teared up, Kacchan snatched the key back and detonated it, and Kirishima, without missing a beat, pulled out another.

Izuku turns the key in his pocket now. He knocks again—again no answer. The neighbors keep to themselves, one of the main reasons Kacchan liked the place so much, and no one ogles the number one hero loitering out front. Izuku waits for five minutes. He waits five minutes more. Then he pulls out the key and opens the door.

It’s a crime scene: something that could be an accident if not for the subtle clues that point to arson, the things that so carefully escaped unscathed. A pair of red plastic crocs sitting by the door. The workout weights. A framed poster of Crimson Riot. The alarm clock with two flexing arms poking out.

Everything else is melted or charred or black. There are holes in the walls where fire chewed through. The refrigerator is sad and slumped over, forever drooping where the stainless steel melted and cooled into its new position. The television is smashed and the chairs are ashy splinters. Most of the doors have been blown off their hinges, and the oven is a husk—if the stove still works, which Izuku doubts, it would probably just light the place up all over again. Not that he thinks it could do much damage.

He should leave. He should come back when Kacchan is in. His feet carry him further inside, to the wall of photographs, and his boots leaves footprints in the soot. Most of the photos are gone now, but Izuku remembers there was a subtle pleasing aestheticism to them, proof that Kacchan excels in interior design, as he does in everything else. There were snapshots from high school, their class and their teachers. Kacchan and him as children, brandishing nets and stag beetles. Individual candids of Kaminari, Ashido, and Sero. Beautiful landscape views that balanced out the portraits—Kirishima and Kacchan liked to go hiking together—and most of them are on the floor, now, glass shattered and paper warped and blackened.

Izuku reaches for one of the survivors. It’s blurry, tilted and off-center. Half the frame is taken up by Kirishima’s laughing face, while the other half is crowded by Kacchan’s wild grin flashing over Kirishima’s shoulder. Between them: Kacchan’s middle finger, flipping off the camera. They were the hero community’s best and worst kept secret: the pros all knew and the tabloids suspected, but no news outlet worth their weight could scrape enough evidence together to print a story. They didn’t wear rings; there was no PDA. They took painstaking care to ensure that no one knew they lived together. Eventually the hurricane eye of the hero newscycle moved on, but now they’ve picked it up again, determined to wring as much drama from the story as possible. Izuku’s eyes feel hot.

The smell hits him like a fist: smoke, chemical, gunpowder. It’s a taste on the air, oil that won’t wash clean. He spins around.

Kacchan is standing in the doorway. He’s staring.

:

“We didn’t kill him,” Sero says. He is patient and smiling. He’s always smiling. Mina doesn’t think he’s stopped smiling since the day the world imploded, and she doesn’t think he’s ever looked so tired.

Sero says, “It was a villain. It was a quirk. That wasn’t Bakugou and that wasn’t us.”

“We did though,” says Kaminari. “We killed him. We did. It didn’t even feel wrong.”

Mina lays a hand on the back of his neck, and he looks at her, desperate in a way she can’t define.

“They’re still cheering for me,” he says again.

“I know.”

“We did it, Mina. We all did. But they’re still cheering.”

“I know.”

:

Mina is on patrol with Bakugou.

It’s not the way it was. Of course it isn’t, everything is changed, but how do you prepare for the loss of a best friend? It’s the kind of thing heroes spend their whole lives failing to anticipate. And once you’ve failed, how do you prepare to cope with the living?

There was something equal before, between her and Bakugou. In how they fought, how they conducted themselves in public, with villains, with fans. She didn’t realize she’d taken it for granted--she didn’t know she’d miss it. Now Bakugou apprehends villains before Mina realizes a crime has been committed. He moves on before she can follow. He is machine, and she is left to be human, comforting the victims, dealing with police, running damage control, signing autographs and answering questions and smiling when they cheer for her. She smiles. Why won’t they stop asking about Kirishima? She smiles. She sees what Kaminari meant now. She smiles. How can Sero do this all day?

She catches up to Bakugou on a rooftop, perched like a gargoyle, glaring down at the street and waiting for something to go wrong. He doesn’t blink.

Her smile drops. She slumps against his side. His skin is slick with soot and sweat; the chemical smell of him burns the inside of her nose. He doesn’t push her off. He barely seems to notice she’s there.

Sero says he hasn’t seen the video. His therapist doesn’t recommend it, he says, and he doesn’t want more memories than he has already. Mina thinks she believes him. Kaminari admits that he watched it, though he claims only the once. He also says he’s getting regular counseling. She doesn’t believe him on either count.

She wonders sometimes if Kaminari isn’t the one they should be most worried about. She wonders if she can bring that up with Bakugou, or if that’s one of the things that have changed. She wonders if he will ever allow her to grieve with him--she wonders if the public will ever allow her to grieve at all. She wonders if she’s coping how Kirishima would have wanted.

She wonders if Bakugou has seen the video.

“You don't have to stand fucking suicide watch,” Bakugou says, without taking his eyes off the street. “I'm not that weak.”

“We're not worried about that,” says Mina.

She’s seen the video. Of course she has. There’s a scar on Sero’s face in the shape of her hand. Kirishima’s body, acid-burned and raw. She had to watch it. She had to.

She says, “We just don't want you to be alone.”

Bakugou stares at her. His eyes are hollow.

“Eijirou’s dead,” he says. “I am alone.”

:

“Deku,” Kacchan says, and that’s all he says. Ash falls from his fingers. Izuku didn’t hear him come in.

“Kacchan,” he says, and Bakugou brushes past him into the apartment, without a backwards glance. He doesn’t ask what Deku is doing there. Deku tells him anyway.

“Your mom called my mom.”

Bakugou grunts. “She called me too.”

“She said she couldn’t get ahold of you.”

“I didn’t pick up.”

He moves from room to room with machine efficiency. The kitchen: he wrenches open the busted fridge and sweeps a few water bottles and energy bars into his bag. The bathroom: the shower runs for six minutes. He emerges with wet hair, water steaming off his skin, back in his tattered uniform. It was barely enough to rinse off the oily residue of the smoke; the acrid scent keeps clinging. Now into the office. Izuku follows, feeling helpless, feeling six years old on the playground and unable to reach him.

“All Might has been looking for you too.”

“Who gives a shit.”

His voice lacks its usual venom. It lacks—anything. The words rattle around like he’s hollow, like he’s empty.

All Izuku can give him is the truth: “It wasn’t your fault.”

Bakugou doesn’t answer. He doesn’t give any indication that he heard at all—moves around the apartment with eyes that are at once intent and unseeing. Replaces his gauntlets. Replaces his mask. Izuku is sure others have told him the same thing. Did he hear any of them?

Into the bedroom, where Bakugou bee-lines to a dresser. He pulls out a blue muscle shirt and finally takes pause. Lifts it to his nose and breathes deep. There’s a moment of perfect stillness that Izuku couldn’t break even if he wanted to, even if he tried.

“I know it wasn't my fault,” Bakugou scoffs, when the moment passes. He even rolls his eyes, and for a moment he seems so very like himself that Izuku feels an urgent sympathy for the yawning space at his side where Kirishima should be.

“We got bad intel. There was no way for us to anticipate it.”

It’s exactly the right thing to say. Izuku wants to cry. “Kacchan, when is the last time you slept?”

The blue shirt goes into the backpack, an orange shirt is dug out and dumped on the floor. Bakugou starts for the door.

“Kacchan, wait!”

He claps a hand on Bakugou’s shoulder and removes it just as fast, because the palm is raw, the first layer of skin burned away by microscopic explosions, the flesh beneath sizzling. Bakugou stares at the steaming, five-fingered imprint left on his shoulder, blank-faced, rooted to the floor as though by a psychic quirk. The thought makes Izuku feel ill.

Bakugou says, “I keep thinking about the sports festival. The one on one matches. Our first year at UA.”

“What?”

“I was horrible to him. I had him dead to rights half a minute before the match was called and I could’ve stopped but I didn’t. I kept going. I wanted to hurt him just because I could. I never said sorry.”

He blinks, once, slowly. Then he heads for the door.

“Lock up when you leave or don’t. Later, Deku.”

Izuku can't think of a thing to say. It doesn't seem Bakugou wants to hear it either. He’s already gone.

:

:

four.

Three months after Kamino, Bakugou is woken by a nightmare. It is not his own.

Kirishima is sitting up, one leg flung over the side of the narrow twin bed. He’s gasping, hiccuping. He’s clutching at his forearms. The livid red scars are smudged pale in the dim.

“Hey,” Bakugou says, and sits up too. “Hey. Kirishima. It was just a dream.”

He reaches for him, and under his palm flesh ripples into stone and then into flesh again.

“Dream,” says Kirishima. “Wow, right, dream. Right. I had them before but not like—I can’t believe you dealt with this shit for so long. How did you do this?”

He laughs, and Bakugou hates the sound of it, half-hysterical and breathless.

“Shit, man, you’re so manly, how the hell did you do this—”

“Of course I am,” Bakugou grunts. He seizes one of Kirishima’s hands. Knocks their foreheads together.

“Deep breaths. Slow.”

“I don’t—”

“Stop talking. You’re going to pass out, you moron. Like me: deep breaths.”

Kirishima takes deep breaths. He tries. They’re shuddery, but he holds them in his lungs as long as he can, and then lets them go in a long stuttery sigh, over and over. His quirk activates in fits and starts like a jumping muscle.

Bakugou doesn’t know what happened at the internships. The raid. The girl. There are rumors, of course there are rumors. He knows a thing or two about those. But Kirishima’s not allowed to give him details, and in the end all Bakugou knows for certain is the pattern of the scars on his arms, how they map the exact striations of his quirk.

And the nightmares. He knows about the nightmares.

“You made it out,” he hears himself say. “You survived, you won, you’re fucking strong.”

Kirishima presses close, and Bakugou presses his hand, presses his thumb into the scar over his pulsepoint, counts the thumping as it slows. Things would have been different if he’d just gotten his license. He could have been there. He could have fought Kirishima’s nightmares instead of soothing them, he’s always been shit at comforting—

“I’m really happy you’re here,” Kirishima says. His breath fans against Bakugou’s cheek. “I’m really happy I woke up and you were here.”

Bakugou swallows around a dozen false starts. This thing they do, or have, this thing he can’t name—he thought it was a one-time thing after Kamino, but they never kicked the habit. Kirishima kept coming around, and they kept falling asleep, and they kept waking up. What can Bakugou say? He’s glad too. He wants to always wake up beside him.

What he chooses is: “It’s my room, dumbass.”

—which is a stupid thing to say, so he adds in a huff, “Do you always sweat so much? That’s fucking gross.”

Kirishima laughs, and Bakugou relaxes in degrees. That sounds better. That sounds right.

Kirishima lies back down when Bakugou shoves at his shoulder, and he rolls onto his side when he’s elbowed in the ribs. Bakugou lies down too, and then they watch each other. They’re close enough to share a pillow. Kirishima’s quirk has settled. His breathing evens out.

He’s smiling. Bakugou can see the faint outline of it, and abruptly he wants to be asleep, just so he can wake up and see that smile in the daylight.

:

The apartment is just a place to go, impersonal, ravaged. Bakugou goes back because it’s convenient. He restocks on food and water. He downs an energy drink. He replaces the shirt in his pack for a red threadbare tee. He goes to work.

He never took the leave the commission offered him. He didn’t see the point. Maybe it’s ironic that he’s a better hero now than he ever was; in one month he’s put away more villains than he has in the past five. He doesn’t give a shit. Maybe he’s barreling into an early grave. He doesn’t give a shit about that either. It’s not that he has a death wish, not like everyone thinks. And everyone thinks something. They all tell him what they think: He should be proud of Red Riot. He should be ashamed. It was his fault. He’s a villain, Axis only brought it out. He loved Red Riot. He hated Red Riot. He was jealous of Red Riot. Red Riot wouldn’t treat civilians this way. Red Riot wouldn’t treat villains this way. Was he dating Red Riot? What was it like fighting Red Riot? What were his last words to Red Riot, because I’ve watched that video like a million times and my friend thinks you said you’d kill him but I told her you wouldn’t have said that, because you loved him, so if you could settle this bet—

No, it’s not like everyone thinks. It’s just that Eijirou is dead and he stripped all the softness from the marrow of Bakugou’s bones, softness he didn’t even know he possessed. What’s the use of grief, now, or of mercy, what’s the use of anything without him? He looks inside himself and all he sees is the lack.

:

Bakugou can map out this city with their lives together. This four way intersection where the gridlock was so bad that Eijirou gave in to road rage for the first and only time in his life. He swore a blue streak and Bakugou was so delighted he kissed him hard enough to make his own mouth bleed.

That BBQ restaurant where Bakugou got food poisoning. Eijirou laughed and laughed, but he took care of him even when Bakugou spitefully threw up in his hair. There are dumpsters in the back, so he drops behind the building and tucks his backpack between two of them.

The alley where they almost got caught making out on patrol. The other alley where they did get caught, and by Deku, no less. It’s been a long time since Bakugou so sincerely tried to kill him.

That block where Eijirou almost died.

That block where Eijirou did die.

That’s usually where he loses Kaminari, when Kaminari is tailing him. Sure enough, ten minutes later he’s hunting down muggers halfway across the city, and his chaperone is gone. It’s amateur hour—none but the desperate and the stupid are out when Ground Zero is on the prowl. They aren’t worth the sweat it takes to put them down. Maybe he hospitalizes one of the muggers. Maybe he kills the other. Maybe the victim is crying. It doesn’t matter. Eventually Kaminari will catch up and deal with it, or he won’t. He turns to go.

There’s a scuffling behind him—a third villain, how the hell didn’t he notice—Bakugou pivots with a Howitzer already loaded up, and then his knee gives out and his vision goes dark—

It’s only a second, and when he comes to, the victim is wailing and the villain is missing his legs. There’s steel in Bakugou’s ribs. Some cheap goddamn butterfly knife. It’s shallow, treatable, but it shouldn’t have happened. Amateur hour.

Options: go grab his bag and patch himself up on-site, or go grab his bag and give himself proper treatment back at the apartment. Either way step one is the same.

But the bag isn’t there.

Bakugou’s vision swims. It swam when he got food poisoning, when Eijirou helped him stumble out through the back door and he threw up between the dumpsters. Where the bag should be, where Eijirou’s red shirt should be, but it isn’t, and he isn’t, and Bakugou wants to be sick but Eijirou won’t be there to laugh at him and take him home.

Blood pulses in Bakugou’s ears. It fills up his head like a brain hemorrhage until all he can see is red. The thief could be across the city by now, but it doesn’t matter. He could be anywhere in the world and Bakugou would find him. He’ll blacken his bones. He’ll crush his skull.

He does find him, of course. He’s less than five miles away, trudging along a crowded street without a care in the goddamn world. Bakugou combusts the concrete in front of him, grabs him by the collar and then has to grab him by the arms because the clothes sear to ash in his fists.

This fucker thought he could steal from Ground Zero? Bakugou laughs. The thief is going to cook between his hands. Bakugou laughs and laughs.

“Ground Zero, stop!”

Bakugou whips his head around. Kaminari is there, knees bent, eyes wide. Electricity is arcing off his body. Ha. As though he could take Bakugou down. As though the gathering crowd could deter him. As though anything in the world could keep him from roasting this piece of shit villain alive for even thinking he could take Eijirou away—

This—piece of shit villain—

The red bleeds away. Bakugou turns back to the man, and—and he isn’t a villain. He’s homeless. Whimpering. Rattling in Bakugou’s grip. I’m sorry, he’s saying, I thought it was thrown away, I’m sorry, don’t hurt me—

Bakugou drops him. He tears open the bag. Pulls out the red shirt. Presses it to his eyes and holds it. Holds it. His hands are trembling.

When he picks up his head, everyone is staring.

“Keep the rest,” he mumbles, and tosses the bag at the man’s feet. The crowd is stirring, and now there are voices: You should be ashamed. Why can’t you be more like Red Riot? Villain!

A soft drink comes arcing in his periphery and Bakugou vaporizes it without thinking. He ties the shirt around his neck.

“Bakugou,” Kaminari croaks, and Bakugou—goes. And goes. And goes.

:

“You’re going to be okay,” says Bakugou. Like it’s certain. Like it’s fact. Like it’s already happened, but Eijirou missed it, somehow, didn’t get the memo that these wounds will not kill him. There’s too much blood for him to speak but his eyes are sad and his hands are desperate, he presses them to Bakugou’s face, just holding him there, and holding him, and holding him.

“You’re going to be okay or I’ll kill you,” Bakugou sobs, and he hates Kirishima for this, hates him for leaving, hates him for dying, hates him, hates him, no, no wait, don't go, I love you, god, fuck, don’t leave me alone, please—

:

He lands—he crashes. He doesn’t know where. A park. There are flowers. What time is it? Three? Five? No one is out to snap pictures of the number one hero, bone-weary and aching. His legs threaten to give out from under him; his head threatens to roll off his shoulders. He snarls, shakes himself like a dog. Landmarks. He needs a landmark to orient himself. The watery grays and blues of pre-dawn warp familiar sights into eerie ghosts of themselves, but he knows every inch of this city, and if he can just—

There. Yes, he knows exactly where he is. They walked here two years ago, on Christmas Eve. No flowers then, but the park offered a good view of the lights, braided in the trees, frosting the buildings. The bench where Eijirou nodded off on his shoulder is across the park. It wouldn’t take long to get to the apartment from here. Clean up. Sew himself back together. Crawl into bed and close his eyes, just for a minute—

And then he’ll wake up.

Bakugou doesn’t go back to the apartment. He doesn’t bother making his way over to the bench he knows. He collapses into the nearest seat and sears shut the gash in his side, and once that’s done he unknots the shirt and lifts it to his nose. Smoke. Nitroglycerin. He breathes and breathes but Eijirou isn’t there. He isn’t anywhere.

His hand thuds to his lap. He stares at nothing.

A long, thin shadow falls over him.

“My boy. I’ve been looking for you.”

“You found me.” He doesn’t look up.

All Might lowers himself to the bench with deliberate care. He has a cane that he uses to steady himself; there’s a stoop to his spine. It used to infuriate Bakugou, seeing him so fragile. It took him a long time to realize that he wasn’t.

Silence settles softly. They watch the flowers.

“It’s not the same,” All Might says, “Losing a mother or a friend, and losing a life partner. It’s not the same. In the ways that we are different—I can’t speak to that. I won’t try to.”

Bakugou doesn’t answer.

“But I know what it is to lose someone you would have given your life for. There’s nothing that can compare.”

“You didn’t kill Shimura Nana with your own hands. Nighteye either. Don’t pretend we’re the same.” The words are flat as the side of a blade. All Might does not flinch.

“No,” he agrees, after a time, slow, and heavy. “No, I didn’t. But I know it wasn’t my fault, like you know it wasn’t yours. Not really. And I know how it is to blame yourself anyway.”

Bakugou opens his mouth, but can’t find it in himself to reply. He wasn’t lying to Deku. He knows it wasn’t his fault. There was nothing he could have done, and there's a special kind of torture in being so helpless anyway. Sometimes shit happens and the only person you've ever unselfishly loved dies.

His vision is swimming again. He squeezes his eyes shut and forces them open.

“My boy,” All Might says. “When was the last time you took a rest?”

“Don’t need it.”

“I don’t think young Kirishima would have wanted—”

“It doesn’t matter what he wanted. He’s dead.” The fight drains out of him. “None of it matters.”

All Might shakes his head. “I don’t believe that. Just because they’re gone, it doesn’t mean they cease to matter.”

“Why should I give a shit what you think?”

“You don’t have to. You have no obligation to me, my boy. I’m just a rambling old man,” and he lays a hand on Bakugou’s shoulder, “who loves you both very much.”

Very suddenly Bakugou wishes he’d sat on the bench he sat on with Eijirou. The line of his mouth trembles. He sets his teeth, and grinds them until they ache. “I know what they think of me,” he snaps in the hand’s direction, “None of it’s true.”

“What’s that?”

He snarls. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. They either think I’m sating some newly awoken villain tendencies or I’m a fucking suicide risk. Well, I’m not a villain, and I’m not out here trying to get myself killed. I’m not out for revenge. I’m not running from the fact that he’s dead. I know he’s dead.”

Smoke. He looks down. His hand is wringing the shirt—he unlocks his fingers, stares at the singed fabric. Eijirou has had this thing since he was twelve. He would wear it to bed in the winter, when Bakugou would insist he put on a shirt. The color’s washed out and the seams are stretched to hell. There’s a flaking graphic of Crimson Riot on it.

“I just—”

That stupid shirt. His stupid face, half asleep. His awful morning breath. His smile. You’re going to be okay.

“I just…” Bakugou’s voice splinters. “I just hate waking up without him.”

All Might is watching him; Bakugou can’t bear to meet his eye. It sounds absurd, now that he’s said it out loud. All the sleepless nights. All the desperate hero work. Just to avoid— A laugh barks out of him. It’s hoarse and hot in his throat. All Might’s hand moves from shoulder to neck, grounding, anchoring, folding over the top knob of Bakugou’s spine. Bakugou laughs, and he laughs, and it’s ugly, and it’s wet, and he laughs and it catches and it tears and he curls around it and he cries.

:

:

:

end.

Bakugou has a dream where he wakes up.

It’s morning. The light is smeary and peach-colored. Eijirou is there.

“Mornin’, Katsuki,” he says. He’s fifteen. He’s twenty eight. They’re in the apartment. They’re in the dorm. It doesn’t matter where they are, or when, because Eijirou is here, with his stupid hair and his awful morning breath. He’s smiling.

Bakugou tackles him into the pillows, and kisses him when he laughs, and kisses him, and kisses him, and he says I’m sorry, and Eijirou says for what, and Bakugou says for the sports festival. Our first year at UA. I had you beat and I could have stopped, I should have stopped, but I didn't and it was fucking rotten of me, I just kept hurting you and hurting you and—

Eijirou knocks their foreheads hard enough that Bakugou swears. The pain is clear and sweet.

“Are you done being stupid?” he says. “You never have to apologize for treating me like an equal. You’re mine and I’m yours. It’s okay. We’re gonna be okay.”

Bakugou reaches up to hold his face. Eijirou reaches up to hold his hands. Nothing is burning. Nothing is turning to dust.

“Shit, yeah. We’re gonna be okay. Dumbass.”

“We’re okay?”

“We’re okay.”

:

[hellomissmabel]

Milk and black spiders

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Warnings: It’s angsty and has a couple swear words

Word count: 1.611

Summary: You’re captured by Hydra and forced to work for them. One day they bring in sergeant James Barnes and start to experiment on him. You feel for this man and the inevitable happens… Inspired by the song “Milk and black spiders” by Foals.

Disclaimer: the name Ruth has been chosen randomly by using a random name generator.

A/N: @dabblinginmarvel reached a huge milestone, 4k followers! This is my entry for the 4k challenge.

And I know you’re still with me. You my compass and my sea.

Oh, I hope you can hear me. Follows billion miles away You stay.

Cause I love you dearly. Follows billion miles away

“The man you know, the man you claim to love, he’s going to be the fucking winter soldier. Y/N, you need to stop this madness right now. You cannot, by any means, love him.”

She’s shaking you violently, trying to stop the tears from cascading down your cheeks and plummeting onto the gravel under your knees. You’re crying like you’ve never cried before, screaming and calling out his name, wanting to see your sergeant. You thought that you could confide in your friend, Ruth, a fellow scientist who joined Hydra in order to save her brother’s life. You believed that she could perhaps even help you, help the two of you, but you were grossly mistaken.

“Stop this, Y/N!,” Ruth shrieks, kicking you in the side with her black leather boot. It hurts, but no physical pain will hurt as much as the emotional pain you’re experiencing.

Her words are harsh and split your skull in half. You want to go back and make it all undone, wishing you had never told her the truth, but you can’t. Your shoulders shake involuntarily as you try to keep the sobbing to a minimum, allowing Ruth to drag you to your feet and support you all the way to where the car is waiting to take you someplace far away from here. You’re almost there when you collapse onto the ground once more.

“You are not supposed to be in love with him! The Winter Soldier cannot love anyone, Y/N. There’s enough scientific stuff for you to help you keep your mind off of him, but don’t torture yourself like this. You took a risk, sneaking away just to talk to him. Then you took an even bigger risk falling for him.” When you didn’t respond immediately, she dropped to your eyelevel and took your face between her hands, forcing you to meet her scorning gaze.

“You know what they’re planning on doing to him? You realise how many times you will have to start over?,” she yells at you and you flinch at the anger flashing like a wild flame in her sea green eyes. “How many times they will wipe you from his memory and you will have to start from scratch, gaining his trust over and over again until the next time they’ll run electric current through his fried brain?”

Then her voice softens and she releases you from her hold. “ He might love you, but you can never be sure if what he’s feeling is actually love. The Asset, Y/N, not Bucky, the Asset is not supposed to love. Hell, he’s not even supposed to have feelings. I get it, you know, I really do. Both captured by Hydra, both trying to find a way out of your misery. It’s a freaking movie, a fucking soap opera, star-crossed lovers and all that shit included. But it’s going to get you killed, Y/N. He’s your death sentence.”

Green, broken glass ocean. You break me, slow motion.

No map, no message. It’s the deep, blue screen I know.

Cause I know you’re still with me, You my compass and my sea.

You bite back the tears and muffle a scream with your pillow, trying not to wake up Ruth who’s still sound asleep in the adjoining room. You remember the day they took you away from your family as if it was yesterday, the last day you laid eyes on your mother and father.

The cause of your sorrow is your eidetic memory which put you on Hydra’s radar all too soon. With your father’s academic record and impressive scientific background, you were the perfect means to an end, growing up in your father’s lab and surrounded by fascinating experiments. So they forced you to cooperate, but you refused to go with them willingly. Two days later they returned and this time, they brought their guns.

Hydra tolerated your occasional rants and respected your boundaries (in other words, you weren’t beaten to pulp, neither raped nor tortured although the psychological abuse put you on the brink of suicide more often than not), as long as you performed your very best and did as you were told. But one day they brought him in, sergeant Barnes, and started the procedure. You weren’t allowed access and you certainly weren’t allowed to speak to him. Each and every night you lay awake, listening to his agonising screams as they tried to make him comply over and over again and failed each and every time. You were near your breaking point and almost couldn’t take it anymore when the nightly cries suddenly stopped and you thought they had reached their objective. The sergeant was in your prayers that night, even though you are not religious and rarely ever prayed for anything. Little did you know that they had installed sound-proof walls and the sergeant was still battling Hydra on a daily basis.

A high-ranking officer was appointed as your guard and wasn’t supposed to leave your side no matter what. But one evening some of the other soldiers were involved in a small riot that caused some disturbances in the upper ranks, so he was called away from his duty to decide upon a fitting penalty for the transgressing soldiers. You intended to take full advantage of that and as he received the call to attend the emergency meeting, you slipped past the guards casually watching the sleeping quarters and roamed the hallways in the hope of finding an escape route if you were to be so lucky to ever escape from Hydra’s vice-like hold. It was then that you overheard two soldiers talking to one another about him and no matter how hard they tried, how hard they pushed his buttons, it all turned out to be fruitless. It didn’t take you long to locate his whereabouts, having eavesdropped before on some of the other scientist working his project. He was the talk of town and it sickened you to the core.

He was tied to the chair, seemingly asleep or heavily subdued. Nevertheless, as soon as you entered the room his eyes shot open wide and his pupils dilated with fear. You rushed over to him, shushing him whilst taking a hold of his hand, his bionic hand. You brought it to your lips and gave it a soft kiss, your gaze gauging his reaction. Much to your surprise he didn’t flinch, but he still didn’t say a word. He didn’t acknowledge your soothing words, your promises of trying your best to get him out of here because he knew just as well as you did that they were all empty. You weren’t going to get him out, you were just a scientist. Yet his eyes let you know that it was alright. He was a fighter, that much was true, and you admired his resilience. God knows you would’ve given in a long time ago.

Until you could find a way to get somehow make good on your promise of getting him out, you kept paying him silent visits on the regular. Your time with him was always too short and the only real conversation you had with him was the exchange of your names and a couple white lies, tiny assurances to keep his (and your) hopes up. Regardless, one unfortunate night they barged into the room unexpectedly, catching your off guard and red-handedly as you were loosening the straps that restrained him. They backed you into a corner, barking orders at you, orders you didn’t register. The last thing you remember is the sergeant trying to reach out to you, screaming out your name at the top of his lungs. It took at least 5 men to hold him down and the sixth put a muzzle on him in an attempt to keep him quiet.

A man you didn’t recognize held the barrel of a gun to your temple, telling you to take one good, hard look at the soldier before you would meet your end. Your lips tried to form a coherent sentence but the words came out scrambled. You tried to assure him that all would be well, that he wasn’t to blame. You overstepped, you crossed the thin fine line you’d been balancing on ever since they “employed” you against your will and had to be punished for doing so. You also told him he was a strong man and would come out of this even stronger. He was going to persevere, he was going to survive. Unlike you, he was going to have his life back. Or so you hoped.

The soldier cocked back the gun and your body slumped to the floor. He screamed, screamed and screamed and screamed but the sound never reached your ears. In the few fleeting moments he had spent with you, he knew you were different than the rest of them. A wild animal in a cage, just like him. And as he screamed out your name one last time, they came to collect your body and wiped all evidence of your existence from his room.

Bucky might not remember your name anymore, but he does recall this moment, the very moment the only person that ever showed any kindness towards him during his time in captivity was snuffed out of his life in an instance.

He hasn’t forgotten.

Cause I’ve been around two times and found

That you’re my only friend indeed

Tagging: the ever-wonderful @beccaanne814-blog @avengerofyourheart @a-little-hell-to-raise @unpredictable-firecracker @marvelingatthewonder  @mrshopkirk @hardcorehippos @iiharu-kunii @knittingknerdy @winterwolf57 @winterboobaer  @thedragonblood @hymnofthevalkyries @feelmyroarrrr @justareader @ourpeachskies @austinamelio @howlingbarnes @4theluvofall  @mehrmonga @themcuhasruinedme @theoneandonlysaucymo @hymnofthevalkyries @nenyakj @themcuhasruinedme