#i use the bird mug when im trying to chill out

[tothechaos]

there are always a few habits that youll have that youre unsure if they are things you do because youre autistic or if you do them because youre just a little weird (unrelated to the autism)

[turtle-steverogers]

i was thinking but do you know the unsent project? it is this website where you can write a message to your first love that you never sent to them. now imagine steve writing one (or multiple) to bucky after he came out of the ice after nat told him about it... yeah

hello hi anon this broke me and it was too perfect not to turn into a ficlet klafjldskjfalskf thank you

-

Unsent Letters

To:

Steve’s fingers freeze over the keyboard, the cursor blinking at him. It feels like it’s taunting him-- teasing him with the burden of choking out a name. What should he even say? The sender is anonymous, but how many people are named Bucky out there? Would anyone even care?

To: Bu

Steve huffs and backspaces, his hands trembling as he curls them into fists. He isn’t sure what provoked Natasha to tell him about this website. It’s a cruel tease to everything he wishes he could say-- wished he could say before Bucky slipped through his fingers. And now his only option is yelling into an abyss. The text box is black and daunting. He turns it yellow. No, too happy. Green. Yes, that’s fine. Bucky’s favorite color was always green.

His gaze wanders away from the screen of his hefty Dell laptop and out the window of his apartment. DC’s low rising buildings span out in front of him. His gut aches; he misses New York already. But he knows being there would only mangle his soul further, seeing his already alien home torn to shreds by literal space whales. He huffs, thinking of Bucky’s comics. His stories came to life after all. Bucky would have probably vibrated out of his skin if he knew there was other life out there.

To: My astronaut

How’s space treating you? It’s treating me pretty badly, if I’m being honest. If only you could see what it’s done to Brooklyn. I think you’d be pretty mad at it if you knew…

Steve hesitates, reading back over what he’s typed. It’s stupid as hell, and he cringes, but he doesn’t backspace. His fingers find the keys again.

I miss you something awful. I don’t think that even encompasses how much I’m hurting without you. I feel so lost right now-- space is much bigger and scarier than you’d think. I know you’d love it. I wish you could see bits of it, but god, I just want to go home. I want you to come home.

Steve freezes again and finds the screen blurry where tears have welled in his eyes. His jaw clenches as he pictures the way Bucky would laugh at him-- teasing him for his dramatics and ruffling his hair. He wishes he could be there now, rolling his eyes and nudging Steve’s shoulder.

“What’re you upsetting yourself for?” He’d say, gently closing the laptop and coaxing Steve into his arms. “I’m right here, pal.”

And if Steve closes his eyes, he can almost feel Bucky’s warmth enveloping him. But he’s not there. He’s dead, and Steve’s a goddamn ghost, drifting through a future that doesn’t know him.

He opens his eyes and stares at the text box, then clicks submit.

The screen loads, and his message is gone, his pain forever documented in the abyss.

-

For someone who fought aliens two weeks after waking up from his impromptu seventy year sleep, Steve’s life is pretty monotonous. He contemplates this unfortunate fact as he stands in front of his toaster, hair sticking up on the back of his head as he nurses a mug of coffee and waits for his toast to pop.

It’s 5:45 in the morning and he tries to remember a time when he didn’t rise this early. Before the war, perhaps. Though, he’s always been a bit of an early bird. His home life was sporadic to put it lightly and he’d learned from an early age that the sooner he was awake, the better it was for everyone. Vigilance is not a new concept for Steve.

He hasn’t always stayed up late, though. That’s certainly new, and he feels this fact viscerally as he catches sight of his reflection in the microwave. There are bags under his eyes that will be gone by mid-morning thanks to the serum. Dermatologists hate him, Natasha says. Steve thinks he’s pretty lucky that the serum more or less equipped him with a built-in anti-aging agent. His father had started balding by thirty.

His toast pops and he starts a little, blinking blearily at the slightly burnt bread as he pulls it out of the toaster with his thumb and forefinger. He spreads on the same raspberry jam and butter that he uses every morning and tries not to think of how bland it tastes in his mouth as he eats it standing at the counter. Another routine.

He tries not to look at last night’s dishes in the sink as he stacks his plate and silverware on top and doesn’t bother sorting out his hair before pulling on his sneakers and slipping out of his apartment. The sun hasn’t quite risen yet, only the beginning tendrils of light sneaking over the low tops of the DC buildings, and Steve vaguely regrets not grabbing a sweatshirt before he left. It’s not quite Summer yet and the mornings could still get pretty cool.

He’s about to take off down the street when he freezes. Natasha is sitting on the steps of his complex, wearing a pair of pink tinted sunglasses and tossing up and down the keys to her car. Steve blinks, rubs his eyes, then blinks again. Nope. She’s still there.

“Nat?”

Natasha looks up at him and smiles. “Hello.”

Steve shifts, uncomfortable. “Hi. You need something? Is there a mission?”

“No,” Natasha says lightly, standing. “You’re not running this morning, though. Come on, I’m taking you to Starbucks.”

“What?”

“Starbucks. You’re going to try it.”

“I don’t want--”

“Steve, you do the same thing every day. Step out of your comfort zone a little.”

Steve frowns, but Natasha’s right-- he really doesn’t ever stray from his routine.

“Fine,” he says, and twenty minutes later, they’re strolling into the nearest Starbucks.

He’s only been in one before, and that was to use the restroom while on a run. He’d bought a water bottle in an attempt to not be rude and use their facilities without giving them any business, but he hadn’t even considered the expansive menu. All the fancy names were too daunting.

They’re just as daunting now as he stares up at the board, heart hammering out of his chest as he’s faced with indecision. Natasha takes one look at his face, and reaches out to squeeze his arm.

“I’ll order something for you,” she says. “What kind of coffee do you like?”

Steve gives her a pained look. “Um… just coffee?”

Natasha quirks a smile and orders him something called a caramel macchiato. He’ll take it, he guesses.

The drink is too damn sweet and sugary and he almost gags. Still, he was always told to finish what he was given, so he drinks the whole thing.

-

To: Mr. Sweet Tooth

You’d fucking love it here. Everything is packed with sugar and sweetness-- enough to make even my teeth rot. I had something called a caramel macchiato today and it tasted like someone took your ma’s caramels and condensed them into a cup. I couldn’t stand it, but I know if you were here, you’d want at least twelve. I hope you’re enjoying all the sweets you can up in space.

Love, Mr. Boring

-

Steve’s fingers are stiff and frozen as he works at the straps of his stealth suit. The tangy taste of saltwater still sits heavy on his tongue, and he clenches his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering too harshly as he finally peels off his suit. It’s not much better, being naked, but at least the wet fabric isn’t clinging to him anymore.

The mission had been pretty straightforward until some alien tech managed to blast the quinjet to kingdom come, and they all free-fell straight into the freezing Atlantic.

Steve had managed to keep it together as they took down the goddamn mad scientist that fucked them over, but now that he’s home and alone, he can feel the adrenaline crashing.

He’s shaking from more than just the cold as he draws himself a warm bath, and he pulls his knees up to his chest, trying to breathe through the panic that wants to engulf his entire being.

He loses time for a bit, and comes back to himself lying in his bed, burrowed under several thick layers. He feels so cold, down to his very soul-- a chill that he can never seem to truly shake, even when he’s warm.

Not for the first time, he wishes Bucky were there to hold him. He slips off to sleep thinking old, comforting thoughts of Bucky rubbing his hands between his own, coaxing his head under his chin to engulf him in that natural warmth of his. He always was a fucking furnace.

But when Steve wakes an hour later, shaking hard enough to move the bed with the force of the nightmare he’d dropped into, Bucky is not there to soothe away the ice.

-

To: JB

im so cold and i cant breathe ever and nothing feels right. I dont know what to do, u were always the problem solver between us and i cant think straight right now and i just want you here please. I cant do this anymore, im so tired please come back. I need you please

-

The Winter Soldier file sits in front of Steve-- a horrifying nightmare wrapped up in a neat brown folder. Residual nausea swirls around in his gut as he comes down from the horrible high of reading through the contents. His hands shake where they grasp the thick paper. His heart clenches hard in his chest.

Bucky is alive. Bucky is alive, and he’s been unmade.

Steve doesn’t know where he is-- if he’s escaped, or if Hydra found him again. It’s been three weeks now since the helicarriers, and he’s only just gotten the courage to sit down and wade through the shit that is Bucky’s reality.

He just hopes he’s safe. God, he hopes.

Sam says he’ll help him look, and Steve needs to know he’s at least out of danger, but he barely knows where to start.

And he’s sorry. He’s so fucking sorry.

Blinking out of his reverie, Steve looks at his laptop. He feels strange and detached as he reaches for it and logs in.

To: Bucky

And yes, that feels right. He should use his name, since he suspects no one has for a long, long time.

I’m so sorry for what happened to you. I’m sorry that you’ve been hurting so quietly for so long. I understand if you’re not ready to come home-- I understand if you never are. I just hope that you know that there will always be a place with me that is safe. I love you so much and I’m here, forever and always.

Love, Steve.

He’s not naive. He knows it would be dangerous to submit that particular message, so he doesn’t. But that’s okay. That one’s just for him-- for them.

-

“Steve? What is the… Unsent Project?”

Steve frowns and pokes his head out of the kitchen. Bucky is sitting on the couch in the living room, using his laptop, because his own is having storage issues.

Bucky looks at him. “It’s one of your saved tabs. What is it?”

And oh, fuck. Steve had forgotten to remove that from his homepage-- it really wasn’t needed anymore. He blushes all the way to his ears.

“Oh, it’s-- nothing. Not anything important--”

But Bucky has already clicked on the tab.

“The Unsent Project,” he reads aloud. “A collection of unsent text messages to… first… loves…”

He trails off as he processes what he’s looking at, and Steve can’t quite read his expression when he looks at him again. His eyebrows are furrowed, and he’s looking at Steve like he’s some sort of kicked puppy. Steve shifts, uncomfortable.

“Were you sending me… messages? While I was dead?”

Steve swallows. “Um…” and now that Bucky says it out loud, it really does sound quite sad. He shrugs. “It’s Natasha’s fault?”

Bucky shakes his head, clicking on the search bar. He starts to type his name, but Steve shakes his head.

“I didn’t use your name.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, then frowns at him again. “What did you use?”

Steve blushes harder, sitting next to Bucky and taking the laptop from him.

“Um…” he hesitates, then types what he was sure he used as his first alias.

My astronaut

The screen buffers and loads, then fifty or so messages pop up. Steve scrolls down-- it doesn’t take long to find his.

They’re both quiet as they read, and Steve cringes. Jeez, he really had been pretty dramatic. Next to him, Bucky makes a hurt noise.

“Oh, honey,” he murmurs, taking the laptop back from Steve. He reads the message again, then once more, and reaches out for Steve. “Aw, I’m here now.”

Steve huffs, embarrassed. “I know,” he says. “That was way back, like, three weeks after I woke up.”

Bucky stills. “You fought aliens three weeks after you woke up?”

“... More like two.”

Bucky hums. “Are there others?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, reaching out to type on Bucky’s lap, because Bucky is holding him now and he’s quite reluctant to move. He thinks for a moment, then types in the next one he remembers.

Mr. Sweet Tooth

Bucky laughs, and Steve finds himself smiling.

“I find this funny,” Bucky says. “Because caramel macchiatos are definitely one of my favorites now.”

Steve laughs, too, and butts his head against Bucky’s shoulder.

“If only I could tell that to myself back then-- he’d be thrilled.”

“I’m sure,” Bucky says. “Any more?”

Steve hesitates, thinking of the one he’d sent after that nightmare-- when he was low and hurting. Incoherent. He isn’t sure he wants Bucky to see that particular side of his soul, but Bucky has been more than generous in letting him in on his pains nowaday, and it’s not like Bucky hasn’t witnessed Steve’s own current nightmares.

He bites his lip and types in JB. That seems to yield a lot more results, and it takes a while for Steve to find the message.

He hides his face in Bucky’s neck as he reads. Bucky’s arms gradually tighten around him, and a moment later, he feels him kiss the top of his head.

“Honey, I hate that you were hurting so bad,” Bucky mutters against his hair.

Steve shrugs. “We both were,” he says, and it’s true. There’s something to be said about the guilt they both feel for not being able to save the other person at their lowest, but life hasn’t been kind to them. The vitriol, Steve thinks, should be directed at the goddamn universe for keeping them apart, not themselves for fucking dying. They’re working on it.

Bucky’s quiet for a long time. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he says. “Is that it?”

Steve shakes his head. “But I never sent the last one.”

“Why not?”

“I wrote it after DC.”

He feels Bucky squeeze him again, and he squeezes back.

“Oh.”

“I just-- I wanted you to know that you didn’t have to come home. That I just wanted you to be safe; needed to know you were safe, but it was up to you. I just needed you to know I was here, if you needed me.”

Bucky pulls back then and cups his face, kissing him soundly. Steve’s surprised for only a moment before he’s kissing back.

“I did know that,” Bucky says against his lips. “I needed time-- I was lost-- but the first thing I knew when I remembered who you were was that you were a safe person, because you’d never force me anywhere.”

Steve kisses him again, then pulls him into a hug. “I’m glad you knew that.” It’s warm, where their chests meet, and Bucky is solid beneath him. Real. He isn’t speaking into an abyss anymore.

-

There’s a sticky note on Bucky’s pillow next to his head when he wakes up the next morning. Steve’s side of the bed is already vacant, and he can’t hear him downstairs. He must have already left for a run.

Propping himself on an elbow, Bucky plucks up the sticky note.

To: My Bucky

Thank you for choosing me to be your home, and thank you forever, for being mine.

I love you with everything I have.

Love, your Steve

Bucky smiles, heart light as he folds the notes. He’ll keep that one with him, he thinks. A little bit of home to bring wherever he goes.

-

anyway yeah fslkjflaskjfls i-- ouch. anything to do with letters w these two hurts me immensely

[angst-fairygodmother]

15 and 17 from winter tropes with anyone from lotr? (i think with legolas or with sam/frodo/merry would be super cute but its up to you!)<3

A/N: It has been a really, really long time since I’ve written for LotR, and I’ve never written for this character before that I can recall, so this is an experiment. I hope it comes out well and that you enjoy it (thank you so much for the prompt). Word Count: 1176 Content Warning: implied consumption of alcohol

Winter came slowly in Hobbiton, the farmers always knowing when the first chill would creep in and settle over the remnants of harvested crops. With it came Snow festivals and sledding, ales put away until the new year in favor of teas and mulled cider and wine, the smell of pies wafting through the crisp air at all hours. 

You had always loved life here in the Shire, but even more so now that the War of the Ring had come and gone. You shivered involuntarily as the shadow of what had been passed over you, the memory of those dark days and the knowledge that what you’d gone through was nothing compared to what your friends had suffered. 

You hunched your shoulders and pulled your collar up to try and block out the wind as you made your way down the lane, toward the Green Dragon to meet up with the very friends you had been thinking about. You could practically already picture them in your mind: Merry and Pippin somehow always one mug ahead of the rest of you and flirting with any available maid, Sam blushing and mooning over Rosie and her doing the same right back, and Frodo who’d always been quiet but was more pensive now, like his mind was always somewhere else as well as with your little group. 

“Y/N!” Your heart fluttered as Merry called your name as soon as you stepped through the little inn door, voice carrying over the room as if he didn’t already hold your attention at every given moment. 

You grinned, dancing through the crowd to get to their usual table. 

“There you are,” he said, wrapping you in a hug, his embrace melting all traces of the winter evening away from you. 

“Merry was about to send out a search party,” Pippin teased, nudging his friend dramatically and threatening to slosh his wine all over the floor, and you. 

You laughed at their familiar banter. “Why? I’m not even the last one here.” You nodded to the empty seat you assumed was reserved for Frodo when he deigned to show.

“I don’t think Frodo’s coming tonight,” Merry said, tension lacing his voice and you reached out, to place a comforting hand over his before hesitating. The two of you had always had a tactile friendship, but somehow you feared that was crossing a line. 

“He’s been acting strangely again,” Pippin continued, though the gleam in his eye said he’d seen your action and tucked it away to tease you with later.

You shot him a curious glance as you flagged over a waitress and ordered a hot cider.

“Has his nose buried in that book of his and Bilbo’s, more than usual.”

“And keeps asking us about what we did while we were separated,” Merry added, grimacing. 

“Leave off ‘im,” Sam cut in, glaring at the three of you. “He’s had a rough year and he doesn’t need you busybodies making it worse.”

“We’re not,” you assured him, shaking your head. “We’re just worried about him, for exactly that reason. It’s not good for him to spend all his time alone after everything. Or keep everything locked up inside.”

“He’ll talk when he’s ready.” As Rosie came over and sat in Sam’s lap, kissing his cheek in greeting, it seemed to give him new confidence and a teasing grin crept over his expression, one you were far more used to on your other friends’ faces. “But you’d know a thing or two about not talking, wouldn’t ya, Y/N?”

You choked on the sip of your drink, coughing and sputtering as you stared at him. Rosie was the only person you had ever confided in about how hard you had fallen for Merry, and you were beginning to suspect she had spilled to Sam. But surely he wouldn’t dare to say anything? 

“Now who’s the gossipy hen?” you countered, trying to cover how flustered you were (especially when you noticed Merry watching you curiously) with bravado. 

Sam and Rosie laughed suddenly and the stand-off was broken, conversation and good humor settling back in over the group of you. 

“Y/N,” Merry said a while later, “can I talk to you?”

“Of course Merry,” you said, “I always have time for you.” 

He stood up offering you a hand which, puzzled and flushed, you took, letting him lead you outside.

“I thought we could hear better there. And Pippin can’t interrupt,” he explained, pausing under the ledge just to one side of the door. 

“Makes sense,” you mumbled, feeling suddenly shy at how intently he was watching you.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, but remained silent, just staring.

“Merry?” you asked, tilting your head to one side. 

“This time of year is supposed to be about new beginnings and such,” he started suddenly, voice seeming too loud in the darkness. “And I’d like one. Pippin’s been bugging me to tell you.”

“What?” you frowned, puzzled.

“That didn’t come out right. Or it did but not. I’m trying to say…”

You held your breath, trying to keep the little bird that your heart had suddenly turned into from flying up your throat to escape, preferring the ache of it fluttering against your chest to anything that might damage its fragile wings. 

“I’ve faced Nazgûl and armies of orcs but this is the scariest thing I’ve done, you know.”

“You have nothing to be scared of,” you breathed, hoping he’d notice the look in your eyes and know that, if what you thought he was saying were true, you felt the same and always had. 

He looked at you for a moment before that familiar smirk replaced his nervous expression.

“So if I kissed you right now you’d…?”

You grabbed him by the lapels, planting your lips on his before he could. His hands fell to your waist quite naturally, and you lost yourselves in the moment, until you were desturbed by a tapping on the window. You pulled away, through not completely out of his grip with an arm looped around your middle, and turned, looking up to find that someone, and you couldn’t possibly fathom a guess who, had drawn hearts and xs on the foggy pane, clearly meant to mock. But now that you had kissed him once, you felt nothing but the desire to do it again, and to tell everyone that you had finally gotten together. You giggled, burying your face in his neck. 

“D’ya think they know?” you mumbled. 

He laughed, the sound high and clear through the night and making you feel warm and fuzzy in a whole new way now. 

“I’d guess so. But that’s good.”

“Oh is it?” you looked over at him, eyebrows raised in challenge. “And why is that?”

“Because it means we can go back in, and you can sit close to me by the big fireplace, and everyone will know you’re mine.”

“I like the sound of that.” You pressed another kiss to his cheek. “Especially since it’s really cold out here.”

[laurazepamwrites]

The Chemicals between us ~Ch.8

 The Orca landed with a bump on the outskirts of a dense forest not far from Bryansk. The landing jerked Junkrat awake and his nose wrinkled from the strong smell of coffee brewing.

 ‘Fuck is that?’ He asked groggily, using Roadhogs frame as leverage to sit up straighter, his long limbs cracked as he stretched.

 ‘That's the smell of four o’clock in the morning princess.’ McCree replied. ‘Want some? Might not get another chance for a while.’

 ‘Ta.’ Junkrat stood up and gave Roadhog a slight kick awake and got a curse for doing so. McCree handed him a mug as Morrison came down from the cockpit. ‘I want everyone prepared to move out soon, make sure you all have your communicators on and make sure they work. If they don't and you get caught out you’ll be on your own. Everyone move your own weapons from the cargo hold, once done we head to the compound. Genji and Zarya will meet us outside the perimeter.’

 Ana placed her empty teacup down. ‘I will scout ahead and keep watch for signs of danger. Plans can go wrong and I want to see trouble before it happens.’

 Morrison nodded in agreement. ‘Go ahead, be careful and contact when you reach the meeting point.’ Ana gave him a quick salute and headed down to the cargo hold.

 ‘Is Athena good to go?’ Morrison asked Winston.

 The large Gorilla looked up from his computer and adjusted his glasses. ‘As well as can be but we won't know for certain until we hit Talons cyber defences.’ Morrison grunted and looked towards the Junkers. ‘Are you ready for this?’

 Junkrat giggled ‘Fucking born ready mate.’ as Roadhog gave a slight nod of his head. Morrison frowned ‘Final warning Fawkes..if you do anything to jeopardize-’

 ‘Yeah I know, I’m dead and there's plenty here to do the deed. Just fucking chill alrite mate? Me n Hog will play our part no worries.’ Morrison narrowed his eyes and studied the junkers before placing the mask of Soldier 76 upon his face, the red visor shone a sinister red. From one of the windows he glanced Ana heading into the forest. ‘Everyone get ready’ He said ‘We move out in 10 minutes.’

  The walk through the forest was slow going and none too easy with the dim light and dense trees making it difficult for Hana to maneuver her Mech, often resorting to taking a longer path to find a clearing big enough. The suggestion of demolishing a path or shooting through the trees was quickly shut down. Junkrat tread carefully over thick roots protruding from the ground and lightly jumped in the tracks made by the large Mech as Hana was once again forced to find an alternate route, he took a deep breath in and revelled in the new smells and freshness of the air. Fuck it felt good to be in the open. Hana grinned at him from her Mech.

 ‘Hey having fun?’

 ‘Too right! Forgot what trees look like.’

 Hana rolled her eyes and laughed ‘You can see trees from the cliff at base.’

 ‘Yeah but not these..’ Junkrat gestured vaguely ‘Spiky ones? Got a funny smell.’

 ‘Pines.’

 They continued walking and trudging through the forest, Junkrat glancing so often towards the group and particularly Roadhog just to make sure he was still there. He got a pang of anxiety when a dense group of trees blocked his view and he lost sight of him. What in that time Morrison shot him? Or Talon where secretly following them? The sudden thought made him glance behind him and scan his surroundings..really should of left some traps. He breathed a sigh of relief when the trees cleared slightly and he found Roadhog, he had barely heard Hana speaking to him.

 ‘Huh?’

 ‘I asked if you are okay?’

 ‘Err..yeah. Yeah im great! Why wouldn't I be! Not long till I get to blow shit up!’ He gave her grin to reassure her and himself. Hana gave him a sceptical look, yet to her credit and his relief she let it slide and returned the smile. ‘Thanks for keeping me company.’

 ‘No worries, gives me more time to be out here before we go back to the lock up!’

 ‘Theres gotta be something you like there.’

 ‘Oh sure, regular grub, running water annnd now I get me own workshop!’

 ‘ Ahem!’  

 ‘ Yeah sure you and Lu are alright I guess.’

 Hana giggled and stuck her tongue out at him. ‘You're a jerk but youre alright, hey look! There's a clearing, lets catch up!’

 Roadhog watched as Junkrat and Dva approached them, not speaking until Junkrat was once at his side. ‘All good?’

 ‘Yep, all good.’

 ‘Not gonna do anything stupid I hope.’

 ‘If I do its by accident.’

 Roadhog grunted ‘Don't be impulsive.’

 Junkrat laughed ‘When have you known me to have any control over that.’

 ‘Mean it Rat..be smart about this.’

 Junkrat scoffed at him and rolled his eyes as Morrison signalled that they were close to the first point. Sure enough in the distance stood Ana, Zayra and Genji waiting on them.

 ‘Are we clear?’ Morrison asked on approach.

 ‘As Well as can be, time is now against us though. The first patrol is in less than thirty minutes.’ Said Genji, glancing towards the large Mech.

 ‘Hey its not my fault the stupid trees were so close together!’ snapped Hana, rather defensively.

 ‘Still think its bad idea to have those two here.’ Grunted Zarya nodding towards the Junkers.

 Junkrat scoffed ‘Really? Pick your fucking time to have a moan ya fucking pink Juggernaut!’

 Zarya laughed ‘Oh ho! Those brave words from someone I can snap in two with my little finger.’

 Roadhog stepped forward ‘Try it.’

   Morrison jumped in as Zarya stepped forward to the challenge. ‘Back down!’ Morrison barked at Roadhog and turned to face Zarya, ‘This is neither the time or place. That goes for everyone. I will not have childish bickering when we need to depend on each other in the field. Am I clear?’

 Zarya's lip curled in contempt but she nodded in agreement then Morrison looked to the Junkers. ‘Oi I didnt fucking start it!’ Junkrat protested looking offended. Roadhog gave him a shove and muttered something, ‘Fine fucking crystal alright!?’

 Convinced the matter was at rest for now Morrison continued. ‘Team A get ready, once our target hits our marker we strike. Winston, Torbjorn, prepare your equipment, once that patrol is eliminated we advance on the gate then it's down to you to get us in. Everyone else know their positions and objectives?’ There was a collective murmur of confirmation ‘Good, then let's begin.’

 -------------------------------------------------------------------------

 Dimitri Ivanov took the last drag of his cigarette and tossed it, the smoke drifting lazily into the early morning air. He heard the command to move and he snorted and spat on the ground. He fucking hated mornings. He was a military man during the Omnic crisis and fought in many battles, a well seasoned soldier with a large count of dead omnics to his name just like his comrades. Dead and alive. He had new comrades now, him and four other surviving men and women from his old unit. After the war their government had hardly given them anything to live off, their homes had been destroyed and like thousands upon thousands of others they had nowhere to go, no living to make. Until one day he was approached by a man, a man with an opportunity which promised work and security. An opportunity that promised a better world for everyone. A world built for the strong by the strong and he was proud to serve, proud to serve Talon.

 The patrols around the compound was easy work if but boring. He had been stationed here for a month now and the most exciting thing to happen was a stray dog getting too close to the fence. At Least it confirmed the turrets worked. The only people they saw where the trucks entering and leaving and the drop ship that came last week. He trudged along with his patrol and slung his gun back over his shoulder, reached into his pocket pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, his nearest comrade nudging him as he did so. Dimitri shrugged his arm away and took a large inhale of smoke.

 ‘What problem?’ He said, smoke exhaling through his nose. ‘Nothing out here but us and birds. Relax Anatoly my friend..nothing to shoot at us out here-’

 He turned in confusion as his comrade suddenly disappeared from his side and slumped to the ground. The rest of the patrol stopped and came to his aid. ‘He sick?’ One asked. They took his dark balaclava off his face, only then realising that his throat had been sliced open.

 The patrol leader shouted orders as Dimitri struggled to reach for the gun across his back and frantically scanned the dense forest, he felt a rush of wind behind him and heard the thud of another body falling, someone fired wildly at nothing. He barely lifted his gun as he felt a hard slap to his chest, followed by another, the cigarete dropped from his mouth, smoke and blood trailing past his lips. He fell hard to the ground and the last thing he heard was the sound of bullets hitting their targets. The patrol was dead before they even realised what was happening.

 Morrison surveyed the surrounding area waiting for a sign of the compound being alerted to the attack, a moment passed with only the sound of birds in the trees, convinced the first wave was successful he signalled for Team B to advance to their position. Winston and Torbjorn led the way and found a vantage point just below the crest of a hill overlooking the compound giving them high ground and cover. They both quickly got to work setting up a field computer as Ana scoped out the area with her Rifle. ‘Four turret droids on the gate’ She relayed back to Winston. He nodded and quickly typed on a small keyboard, lines of code flashed across the monitor in front of him as Torbjorn adjusted a signal booster. ‘If Athena can’t get in I modded this enough to send a pulse through every droid in this place..will only last a minute or so but may give us a much needed window.’ He said as he worked.

 ‘We might not need to use it..      hmm    that's odd.’ Said Winston, his brow frowning at the screen.

 ‘Is there a problem?’ Asked Jack, coming to inspect the monitor.

 ‘I'm not sure Commander, I’m in their system but..’

 ‘What is it?’

 ‘It was too easy, almost like I was let in. I’m familiar with Talons cyber security but this is..well a child could have accessed it.’ Winston gave a slight cough ‘A..er..very smart one atleast.’

 Torbjorn laughed ‘Well surely that's half our job done?’

 ‘Maybe what they have inside is not worth the protection?’ Offered McCree.

 ‘It’s enough to have guards, turrets and officials. It's important.’ Stated Ana ‘But Winston is right Jack, this could be a trap.’

 ‘If it was a trap the perimeter guard would have been prepared for us. Talon are arrogant, they don't expect an assault. Winston, shut down those turrets.’

 Winston looked toward Ana who gave a slight nod despite the frown on her face, sighing he continued typing on the keyboard as Ana looked through her scope. ‘And..that should do it’ He said looking up.

 Everyone waited and looked to Ana as she surveyed the gate, she smirked slightly as sure enough one turret slowly stopped moving, followed by another and another until each one had stopped.

 ‘Have they noticed?’ Asked Genji.

 Ana looked back and smiled, ‘None the wiser.’

 ‘Accessing perimeter turrets now.’ Said Winston, tapping further instructions to Athena ‘And..we are in! Perimeter and gate security disabled Commander, Captain.’

 Jack cocked his weapon and turnt to his team ‘Everyone in position and remember your roles! Advance!’

[all-hail-the-witcher]

blaze it bitches

in honor of weed day have this mess ______

ship: ralbertxweed

genre: the biggest load of crack to ever crack

warnings: weed juice, panera, there’s a shane madej quote, t h r e e quotes by Mr Michael Himself, uhhh, cowboys, oh mothman, general idiocy, and all credit for fruity pebbles to my good nugget mikey

words: 1041 it’s baddd yalll

editing: nope

_________

Race idly spun a pen on the counter, waiting for the clock to hit 10 so he could begin to close. He wasn't sure why he had chosen to work the closing shift at Panera. Pretty much no one came in after 9, especially on a Monday. Currently the only patrons were a group of annoying teenage girls more interested in taking snapchats than talking to each other, an elderly couple eating soup in the corner, and a high school age girl and boy sitting in a booth, eating nothing but bread and sweet tea, having an intense discussion about whales.

In essence, Race was bored out of his mind.

Until exactly 9:48 when Albert walked through the door, waving around two to go cups from starbucks. “Raaaaceeerrrrrrrr!” he sang awkwardly, tripping over his own feat and spilling a few drops of what looked like tea on the floor.

“Al get your high ass outta here,” Race sighed. “I’m workin and you’re just gonna bother me.”

“Butttt cupcakkkeeeee,” Albert whined. “I know how to get mothman!”

“Mothman ain’t real and neither am I,” Race muttered, taking the rag and wiping down the counter. “Now get outta here before Jack makes you.”

Albert sighed. “Least drink the tea I brought you?”

Race sighed, just wanting Albert to not get him fired for once. “Fine.”

Albert smirked.

“But then you have to go, alright?” Race said, holding the cup to his lips and taking a sip.

Albert plunged his hand into the pocket of his sweatshirt and pulled out a handful of fruity pebbles, dropping several on the floor. “O-kayyy.”

Race made a face. “What's in this tea Al? It don't taste like nothin from starbucks.”

Al gave him a half smirk. “You like my weed juice?”

“Weed juice? Is this- you made tea out of weed?” Race looked at the paper cup first in shock and then in awe. “Wait, this is brilliant.”

“Course it is,” Albert proclaimed. “I invented it.” He reached his hand back into his pocket for more fruity pebbles. “Want some munchies?”

“Sure why not.” Race could slowly feel the affectionately named “weed juice” taking affect. Hopefully he wouldn’t break too many things while he was closing.

“Racer can you go kick out those teen- wait a second, what are you doing here Al?” Jack looked at Albert skeptically before wrinkling his nose up in disgust. “Alright I don't know which of you brought the grass but I can smell it and I’m not dealing with this tonight so I suggest you two get outta here before you accidentally explode the place.”

Albert’s eyes widened in excitement. “We can go hunting for mothman!” he exclaimed, looking at Race expectantly.

Well, he wasn't gonna remember this in the morning anyway so might as well. “Yeah!” Race agreed, throwing off his apron and hat and wailing them at Jack.

“Try not to get arrested!” Jack called after them, shaking his head.

Once outside, Albert led Race to his car and opened the trunk. “Okay so I figured it out! Mothman wont show us to himself cause we don't look like him so we gotta dress in his truest form.” He handed Race a cheap cowboy costume and a hat.

“Mothman’s a cowboy?”

“Duhhhhh,” Albert rolled his eyes. “Cowboys are the most most cryptic, and sos mothman! It’s how’s he’s stayed hidden all these years.”

Race nodded solemnly in agreement, hastily pulling the costume on over his clothes and jamming the hat on his head.

“Oh I only have one pair of boots though,” Albert frowned. “Guess we’ll have to share.”

Race frowned in agreement. “Oh!” he perked up. “I’ll wear one of your boots and you can wear one of my vans!”

“Yes!” Albert pulled one of Races shoes off of his foot, knocking him backwards. “Now we just gotta go to the spot!”

•••

“The spot” turned out to be behind a bush in a kids playground.

“Are you sure we’ll find mothman here?” Race asked, peeking through his dollar store binoculars at his dark surroundings.

“My sources say yes.”

“You have sources?” Race asked skeptically.

“Course.” Albert took a swig from his to go mug.

“Are you still drinkin that weed juice?”

“Nah.” Albert looked at the cup fondly. “It’s my munchies. I can taste the colors.”

Race leaned over. Munchies sounded good right now. “Can I have some?”

“No! My munchies!” Albert wrapped the cup protectively in his arms.

“I want!”

“No!”

“Give!”

“Quiet you’re gonna scare away mothman!”

Race shut up immediately. He didn’t want to scare away his cryptid friend. He had to film a tik tok video with him and become famous!

After ten minutes though, he couldn’t be silent any longer.

“I’m tired,” he whispered loudly. “When is mothman gonna get here?”

Albert knit his eyebrows together, considering while he chewed on a few red fruity pebbles. “Oh I know!” he exclaimed. “Let’s talk about stuff mothman would like so he knows we’re friends.”

Race was intrigued. “Like what?”

“Hmmm,” Albert pondered for a few minutes before beginning to rant. “Crickets are scary but rubbing your legs together under a blanket as such is nice so crickets made some points i guess.”

Race nodded in agreement. “And like,” he thought for a second. “Ok so whales slap. But also they’re big and they don’t need to be.”

“Whales are very cryptic,” Albert yawned. “And I guess no offense to anyone who actually likes them but kiwi birds are weird and why did they need a fruit named after them and why are they fuzzy and who gave the Fruits the right to be fuzzy like what the fuck- WAIT WHICH CAME FIRST THE BIRD OR THE FRUIT- god they’re as cryptic as whales.”

“That’s a good point.” Race laid back in the grass. “Maybe if we go to sleep mothman will show up to kiss us goodnight.”

“You’re so right!” Albert quickly joined Race in the grass. “I’m tired anyway. So this is like,” he pressed his lips together, thinking hard, “killing two birds with one egg.”

“Birds work for the government,” race muttered. “Night Albie.”

“Night racer.”

Race dozed off, dreaming of yodeling with mothman and getting verified on tik tok.

__________

okay look idk either if you wanna read actual good high ralbert shit go to @papesdontsellthemselves cause I basically just stole his brand (and his quotes) for this fic so

feedback is always appreciated hmu to be on the tag list

tag list @fairly-awkward-trashcan @well-the-kids-do-too @racetrackcook @ughwaitwhat @aw-jus-let-em-try @tommy-s-s0cks @voice-foundshoe-lost @stopthe-presses @ridin-in-style @pinecovewoods @i-got-no-clue-what-im-doing @bencookisagod @be-more-chill-evan-hansen @stellar-alpaca @saxoph-ella @smolcanadiankid @disney-princess-sized @the-newsies-justice-for-zas-blog @insane-tomato @spot-conlon-king-of-brooklyn @have-we-got-news-for-you @thatfancyclam @myidkwhatmynameisblog @legoflambwrites @not-a-scam @albertdasillvaprotectionsquad @entschuldigung-bitches @thebroaaesthetic @tea-and-theater @seasickdolphin @auspicioustarantula @newsies-of-ny @mrs-higgins @sunshine-e-cigarettes  @spot-me50-papes @papesdontsellthemselves @deathcast-s @the-poodles-of-pulitzer

@hopefully-not-the-ghostbusters @humanracoon @irondad-spiderson-duo @albert-eats-cookie-cake 

[haztory]

forgiveness.

Summary: It’s high time you both swallowed your pride and ripped the band-aid off. 

Word count: 4112

A/N: im back in action and am sincerely pleading for forgiveness for my absence. life sucks. but i am planning to make a smooth recovery and an ever more prevalent appearance on this platform. and in the frank tag. also pls comment and tell me how much of a shit writer i am lmao

Pain blossoms along the bones of his hands like a blooming flower, traveling along each nerve and neuron, setting them alight with a burning fire in each movement he takes. The fragile skin on his knuckles splits beneath each brute punch, but he remains unconcerned with the decimating pain—instead, reveling in the feeling alone. He takes it as a sign to continue, fixated under the belief that if he didn't feel the pain in this moment, he wouldn't remember what it was like to be alive. If he couldn’t feel the blood pumping through his veins and his heart thrusting out of his chest, he would never remember the brief instance of humanity surging through his body.

The pain served as the only tether he had to reality; The only reminder that he wasn’t just a ghost of a shell walking through the streets of the burning city.

The gym sat empty and dark, save for him in his corner towards the back of the establishment, enjoying the equipment way past the set closing time. The owner—an older man who claims he is forever indebted to Frank for saving him from a potentially lethal mugging—left the back door open for Frank in the event that, should he need it, he could access the tools necessary to release any stress he could have accumulated.

Frank insisted to the man that he didn't need to do that, that Frank was more than happy to keep paying his membership like everyone else, but the man refused to hear it. He placed a spare key in Frank’s palm with a wrinkly smile, saying, "She's all yours after closing. Just remember to lock the door."

It was a kind gesture, a particularly uplifting one, that left Frank in a better mood than he had been in before. He kept the key close to him, safe inside the pocket of his worn-down gym bag he took to the gym.

He doesn't remember what time he got in or how long he's been there, but he assumes a considerable amount of time has passed since the entirety of his back is covered in sweat and his hands ache beyond belief, but he refuses to stop.

While his muscles ache and burn with each jab he places against the punching bag, screaming in desperation for Frank to just take a break, the haunting images that seem to be incredibly popular this evening drive him to work harder and faster than before. And he won’t stop.

Jab. Jab. Upper cut. Left hook. Jab. Jab.

He won't stop until he can no longer feel anything. Until he can no longer see his kids. Until he can no longer see Maria's face. Until hollow eyes and bloodied skin no longer taunt him. Until--

"Prepping for an upcoming match, Rocky?"

The phrase echoes around the empty gym, the acoustics bouncing the sound around the room, that momentarily stuns him into stillness. He halts his onslaught of punches, outstretching his previously curled fingers to catch the swinging bag he that was flying towards his head. He steadies the piece of equipment, catching it with the tips of his fingers, steadying his panting breaths.

He gently closes his eyes, leaning his head against the bag as he listens to the owner of the familiar voice come out of the shadows of the gym and step closer towards him. The echoes of the shoes resonate throughout the vacant gym. Once the loud clunking of shoes stops, he exhales a deep breath, swallowing the lump that suddenly formed in his throat, more than symbolic of the current situation he was put in.

He didn't need to look to know who was standing before him, nor did he want to look. Looking would only force a resurfacing of memories that Frank would much rather keep hidden.

There was a reason things ended when they did.

There was a reason he never tried to contact you.

Swallowing whatever pride, he lifted his head from the bag, opening his eyes and shifting his head towards the intruder.

He wasn't entirely sure what he was expecting to see; Some twisted part of him wanted to see you looking damaged beyond repair, in a pain deeper than he ever was. The brutal, vengeful part of him wanted to see you on your hands and knees, begging and pleading for his help, as though that would be some sort of step towards mending the deep wound between you two. (It certainly wouldn’t be a great situation for you, but it would definitely be the first thing to be put a smile on Frank’s face.)

But of course, that would never happen. You were always smart enough to know when to jump out of a burning plane, both metaphorically and literally. Something that felt like a brand on his skin; A present reminder of the mark you left.

You stand in front of him, hands deep in the pockets of your pants—which Frank rightly assumes are some luxury brand from a designer whose name he would never remember—standing tall and healthy and clean, in your professional ensemble, leaning against a structural beam with a small smirk on your face. Amusement plays in your eyes as you scan his very taught and sweaty body.

He can feel the anger building up inside of him and the desire to punch something comes back full force.

He doesn't like it.

Frank tears his eyes away from you, his jaw clenching and teeth gritting as he returns his attention back to the blue punching bag in front of him.

"You followin’ me now?" he spits at you, the question drenched in acid, very clearly warning you not to take any step closer as though you were a predator preying on a poisonous animal. It paints a funny picture in your head, one where you were some type of bird and him a poisonous dart frog, circling one another in the undergrowth of a forest.

It wasn't an ill-fitting picture as it represented your current relationship perfectly with little to no exaggerations.

You wished it didn't.

You release a breath of amusement through your nose, shrugging off his cold shoulder with ease, focusing on him as he resumes his reign of anger on the bag, "Don't need to. I'm always keeping tabs on you, Frankie. I've got eyes everywhere."

His eyes narrow in disdain, and if there was any possibility of civility between you two it was out the window now.

He was making it very clear he did not like that idea.

You shrug your shoulders nonchalantly at him, trying to hold an unfazed facade in front of him. His punches continue, only this time with much more force and you know he's imagining your face on the bag. "Don't act surprised. I'm an Avenger, I have that kind of power."

"Don't mean you gotta use it," he pants.

"On you? Oh, yes I do. You tend to get in a lot of shit Frankie."

"Yeah?" Jab. Jab. Left hook, "Well that's my business, not yours."

"I'm just making sure you're okay," you tell him, voice gentler than the previous teasing tone. He spares you a glance of uncertainty, his eyes darting from your eyes back to the bag in front of him, then back to you, the second time holding your gaze. He takes a step away from the bag, narrowly missing being hit by the bag when it swings forward at him.

His gloved hands hang at his side and his chest heaves with breaths, the sweat forcing his shirt to stick to his skin and glisten in the fluorescent lights.

It's the first time he's actually looked at you. Not even just the first time tonight, but the first time in years. It feels like he’s staring through you and it brings back a whole wave of feelings that you thought you could handle, but were very wrong. His hollow eyes stare into yours, an angry vengeance deep in his brown irises that sends chills down your spine.

He makes you feel a deep insecurity in the joints of your bones and you couldn’t feel like more of a bad guy than you did at that moment. His fixed look makes you crave for something as sweet as torture. You try to maintain a neutral face under his scrutinizing gaze only for your body to release the awkwardness of the intensity through fidgeting and shifting of your body.

"That so?" he asks, his stare rock solid and unwavering accompanying a deep gruff of his voice that sends shivers down the entirety of your spine. Suddenly, it all makes sense; You now understand the fear that comes with being the enemy of Frank Castle.

You had heard rumors in passing of the type of trepidation Frank could produce in even the hardest of men—the kind of fear that scares people for life, forcing them to constantly look over their shoulders, even when they've moved miles away from him. He instills a distress into his victims that haunts them for years to come, wondering if he remembers them, if he will finally come back and finish the job he started. Frank Castle’s name became synonymous with the Devil.

If anything, he was scarier.

It stirs up a sweat in your body that beads at the top of your forehead and wets your palms. Once upon a time, you had been able to say with confidence that Frank Castle would never hurt you. He would hurt anyone who so much as looked at you the wrong way. Now, you weren't so sure. If given the chance, you’re pretty sure he would pay a good fortune to have someone do more than that.

You take a thick swallow, working quickly to compose yourself in front of him. You returned his intimidating gaze as best as you could, his stone-cold eyes overpowering your sincere ones by a long shot.

"We've had our problems, but that doesn't mean I don't care about you," your voice shakes a bit as you say it, and you curse at yourself. You've faced men three times your size and aliens more dangerous than Frank Castle could ever dream to be and you never batted an eye. Yet, standing in front of him, you feel all confidence and pride leaving your body in one, quick breath. You were not a long-time friend of Frank Castle that could reminisce with him about the good old days in the military. You were not a long-time friend that could happily ask about his family in passing and receive a pleasant answer. You were not who you were five or six years ago. And neither was he.

You didn't know this man—not anymore. He made it damn clear he doesn’t want to know you.

Frank scoffs, and it sounds like one of amusement but his face makes no change to convey that feeling. It stays steady and unwelcoming, with his lips pulled in tight and his eyebrows furrowed.

"What, you think I don't care about you?" your voice raises a few octaves.

His silence answers your question, and you feel offended at the insinuation. How shallow does he think you are?

"What're you doin’ here?" he says rather impatiently. He finally breaks the fixation on you, looking down at the gloves on his hand and ripping the Velcro off. He backtracks towards the back wall and places the gloves on top of his gym bag seated there. You watch him intently, all desire to defend yourself dying at the tip of your tongue. Your damaged ego could pick a fight on that another time.

"I'm here to help." you tell him, gathering whatever morsel of pride you could to make yourself sound more confident than you felt. His back is turned to you as he bends down to his bag, placing the gloves in and taking a towel out. He dries the sweat on the back of his neck.

"Don't need it."

"C'mon, Frank" you groan out, taking a step to him rather excitedly. He sees the quick motion from the corner of his eye and his body whips around to face yours, a defensive stance taking root. It stops you in your tracks, and you can feel your heart crack at the further realization: Not only did he not trust you, or believe that you cared about him, but he was preparing for an instance where you would physically hurt him for God knows how long.

You expected the anger and the distrust, but… that hurt more than it should have.

You softly shake your head, and Frank can barely see the wet film of tears in your eyes, but he sees it. He almost feels guilty—almost.

"Ain't nothing to "c'mon" about. I don't need your help; I don't want your help. Whoever you got keepin' eyes on me, get rid of 'em before I find 'em." He leans back down to his bag, throwing the towel inside and zipping it up roughly, almost breaking the zipper in the process. He throws it over his shoulder, slowly turning himself back around to face your pitiful face. "Don't come looking for me again."

With a final adjustment of the bag on his shoulder, he makes his way towards the back door from which he came in. He almost makes it there, ready to flip the light switch off before he hears your voice call out for him again.

"I know who you're looking for."

He stops in his tracks. Why are you making this harder than it needs to be?

"I know where to find him too."

That piques his interest. It doesn't totally surprise him—of course you would know where everyone is considering your job title. He'd been looking for an underground kingpin that was responsible for the kidnapping of a number of underage kids in the area-- including his next-door neighbor's daughter. Only makes sense that you would have some knowledge of that.

He slowly turns around, glancing rather suspiciously at the file that you've seemingly procured out of thin air in your hands. It's a thick file, much too big for your hands. He can see the numerous clippings and paper clips from the side of it, even in the dim lighting of the gym.

"Turns out that the guy you're looking for is the same guy that I've been tracking for the past seven months," you look down at the file in your hands, a wry smile on your face. "Kidnapping isn't the only thing he does."

Frank places his bag on the floor, letting it drop with an intentional thud. You've got his attention; how long can you keep it?

"Kidnapping wasn't enough to get on your radar?" Frank says rather bitterly, a blatant jab at you and your job. It stings, but it's not like you could disagree. You already put yourself and the other Avengers through a whole load of shit for ignoring the monster that was slowly growing under the sewers of your home, your city.

You could make excuses left and right to those who asked about how your job as "Earth's Mightiest Hero" allowed for mistakes as big as not paying attention to a child trafficker making himself known right under your noses, to which your publicist would say something along the lines of “The Avengers try to pay attention to every situation, both domestically and abroad. But situations that are not of immediate concern are passed down the branches” or something like that. It would pass in the papers, but you would never be able to justify it to yourself. You tended to take every case presented to heart and have already been lectured numerous amounts of times on how that was your greatest weakness. Old habits die hard, and Frank knew that.

He always knew the right ways to hurt you.

You let out a dry laugh, looking at Frank with a borderline shameful expression, "I deserved that one."

"You deserve a lot more than what I'm giving you."

"Yeah, Frank. I know. I got it, alright?" The agitation was apparent, but Frank was never one to back down from a challenge.

"Do you? Do you really?" He replies, his tone only elevating the vicious turn the conversation was taking.

"Yeah, Frank. I do. It haunts me every day!" you yell at him, the file laying forgotten in your hands as you stare at him from a distance away. There was no doubt in your mind that you would have this discussion with him at some point in time. You had hoped it would be under nicer circumstances, where you both weren’t under the constraints of a child trafficker wreaking havoc upon the city.

Frank once again stands silent at your confession, unable to figure out what angle you were trying to play at. Were you trying to get sympathy points from him? Were you trying to get under his skin and manipulate him? He didn't know. He doesn't know you anymore.

"You really think that I'm just okay with the way things happened?" You tell him, a gentle contrast to the previous agitation in your statement.

He maintains his space near the door, reminding himself to be ready to leave whenever this conversation turns down a path he didn't want. Before you managed to convince him to forgive you; Before you managed to weasel your way back into his life with a smile and a temptation of a better future.

But he found his feet glued to the floor, unable to move, unable to plan his escape as you looked at him with pain and suffering in your eyes. In the eyes, he always found comfort in, and the heart he felt the most.

It was too late to leave now; You had already caught him in your hold, even if you didn't know it.

"I let you down, Frank. I abandoned you when you needed me, and I will never forgive myself for that," you raised a hand to your cheek, furiously rubbing away a stray tear that slipped out. You would not break in front of him. You needed to make this up to him. "But I was scared. Too scared to go against a man who did so many bad things to people."

You slowly took a step closer to Frank, showing him you meant no harm. "I couldn't go against someone who could easily destroy my life, who threatened to do that. But, you did. And you paid the price for that."

He knew he should've stopped you--stopped you from talking, from coming closer to him, from coming back into his life. But with every word you said, he found himself remembering his days with you, his happiest memories working alongside you in the military. He found himself slowly melting back into the repressed memories where his trust was easy to come by and your companionship tethered him back down to earth.

His resolve, his anger, his distrust, was slowly wearing away.

"I'm not asking for your forgiveness. I'm not asking you to accept me into your life. I'm not even asking you to like me." He didn't even notice you were standing in front of him, a foot away from his unsteady heart and uneven breaths. "I'm asking you to let me make it up to you. Because I wasn't there to help you take down Agent Orange, but I'm here to help you with this guy. I know how he works, I know what he does, and I know how to take him down."

You shrugged your shoulders lightly, not knowing what else you could say to the man in front of you, how else you could describe the remorse that had been weighing on your shoulders for the past five years. In your moment of fear, in the face of the threat from the formidable Agent Orange as a young agent, you resigned from your post within the United States Information Operation, effectively cutting ties with Frank Castle who so desperately needed your help to try and find information to take down the corrupt man. You left him to deal with the problem alone, when you agreed to help. You remained isolated from Frank Castle, even after he tried numerous times to get in contact with you after the end of his deployment.

Then the attempts stopped, and you soon learned about the fate of his family. More importantly, you knew from who. You didn't bother to try and contact him.

When he could've-- and should've-- thrown the dogs off his scent and averted them to you, Frank Castle didn't. He denied your involvement in anything related to Agent Orange; He denied having ever asked you for help; He denied ever even knowing you.

He protected you. As you publicly rose through the ranks at your new job as a S.H.I.E.L.D agent, Frank Castle was suffering through the landmine you had both tried to clear. Frank Castle's life was destroyed, and yet he had no desire to destroy yours.

That was a debt you could never repay.

Even if he told you to fuck off, or spit in your face, it wouldn't be anything you didn't deserve. But, if he gave you even the slightest chance to make it up to him, you would do your damndest to fulfill it.

You were already willing to lay down your life for him, you just had to prove you were even worth that honor.

Your eyes darted around his face, looking for some sign that revealed what he was thinking. A twitch in the lip, the raise of a brow, something that you could try and decipher. He remained stoic in his place, watching you beg before him.

"Let me help you," you pleaded to him one last time.

He tore his eyes from yours and stared down at the bag at his feet. God, what was he doing? With an inaudible grunt, he leaned down to pick up the bag and throw it over his shoulder once again.

You stared at him desperately, feeling your heart about to drop into your stomach at the realization that he would never forgive you, nor would he ever help you. And now, there would be nothing you could say to stop him otherwise. You would let him go. You wouldn't hurt him anymore.

With a sad resolve, you closed your mouth, letting your objections die on your lips and prepared to watch him do what you did all those years ago: Turn his back. You lowered your head, holding the file in front of your legs and waited patiently to hear the sound of his shoes leave the building, holding the disappointment tightly on a leash.

Instead, you heard him sigh.

"Your place or mine?"

You quickly met his eyes, and were surprised to find a gentleness behind the stones, although his face showed no other emotion. You blinked repeatedly, his words barely registering inside of your head. You opened your mouth to speak, but no words could form.

"M-mine." You finally stuttered, not able to grasp the reality of the situation.

He gently nodded his head, stepping to the side to allow you to lead him out of the building. After staring blankly at him, you understood the gesture, exiting the building and waiting for him to find you in the back alley, entire body stunned at the turn of events.

He followed behind you, turning the lights off and locking the back door to the gym, placing the key into his bag. He ignored your stunned stare, preferring to keep all his feelings and thoughts to himself for the time being.

He had forgiven you a long time ago. There was nothing that he could really blame you for other than being a young and scared cadet in the military. It was a massively responsibility he thrusted upon you, knowing full and well that there were very few that would be able to do it. He wasn’t angry that you jumped ship and resigned from your post after Agent Orange threatened your life; He was angry that he didn’t.

He should have denied helping you on the basis alone that you didn’t deserve it. But Frank could never be that cruel to you, not when he was also in need of some help.

He had forgiven you a long time ago, because it was the right thing to do. And it was time for him to stop acting like that was a bad decision.

tag list: @mooniessuniverse

[stainedgrin]

Irish Coffee and Cigarettes

Im reminded of Robert Hayden’s “ Those Winter Sundays” as the first flurries of snow fall on my window sill.

“Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. “

But my father never did the same, and i didn’t expect him to. I’s not cold enough to turn the heat on. The sun has yet to hear the calling of the world, enjoying those remaining moments to itself. I should do the same, but I can’t go back to sleep, nor do i want to start the day all together. This blanket it too thin. Rubbing my rough, dry, hands together before exhaling a warm breathe through my clasped hands, as though feeding a fire, I tense up. Shaking my pack of American Spirits, a few cigarettes rattle inside. It’s best I make an effort to start my day, but I’m in need of something stronger than simply coffee to warm up to the day. It’s too early for words, the silence has enough to say if we’re willing to listen.

As the Glockenspiel echo’s at the intro of “Sogg” by Amiina, my vision continues to focus before settling on the staircase now before me. Which each pluck of the Kalimba, a step creaks below my feet, as i drift off into the dreamscape created. The Icelandic’s minimalistic and ambient sound hums lowly from my breast shirt pocket, as i make my way through the still home, illuminated by the flow of the dawn. My mind as quiet as it will be for the remainder of the day.

Before I’m aware of it, the hissing of the coffee making filling up the pot brings me back to reality, momentarily. Right on time, as I pour what’s left of the shitty whiskey from last night into my coffee filled mug. Before the electronic fizzing is introduced by Air’s “Alone in Kyoto”, and i too dematerialize along with it. For many we might remember “Lost in Kyoto” from Lost In Translation, directed and written by Sofia Coppola. The repetitive nature of the song allows one to seemingly dissociate and get lost in the spacey headspace Nicolas Godin and Jean-Benoît Dunckel wanted us to experience along with them. While in the midst of it, there does seem to be a lot going on, it all follows the same rhythmic pattern, providing a pocket to completely wedge oneself into. Materializing as I set foot outside, feeling the stillness of the and the soft accumulation of snow beneath my feat, I take a sip of my coffee, shuddering, followed by a warm chill as the whiskey and coffee sit in the empty pit of my stomach.

Remembering my reason for coming outside, I light a cigarette and exhale as the waves fade the song out, waiting to settle. But we’re well aware that is never the case.

Much like the unexpected turns that Jazz might take, we have to be willing to let ourselves go to those forces and enjoy the ride for a moment. Ryo Fukui’s “Scenery” is a breath of classic Jazz. being that it was released in 1976, Jazz was going through it’s experimental phase in the states at the time. As a self taught pianist Ryu’s debut was a “take on some of the most classic jazz standards, stunning Japanese audiences”, as Charlie Wooley, of PopGatesstates. Though not received with critical acclaim in the states, i agree with Wooley’s opinion in stating that this is one of the “finest albums of the decade”. Often when listening to music, I like to see how it syncs up rhythmically to the world around me, and as the remaining leaves of fall get swept up in the light breeze brushing up against one another, we hear the synchronicity with rustling snare hits. And as the wind whistles past my ear, sending a chill down my spin I take another sip. Noticing my cigarette is now geralding, i ash it as the final note of the song plays out.

I don’t need an excuse to enjoy the more air nor listen to music, though not the freshest of air but a morning smoke is the perfect time to enjoy both. And as the sun starts to poke it’s head out from the blanket of the night, Ill share with it what i’ve been listening to.

Going back to Amiina, “Seoul” was the first song that introduced me to the band. I can remember sitting on the roof outside my bedroom window, early spring, because smoking was frowned upon inside the house and what drew my attention to the song was the musical saw used, giving it this almost whale song sound. I had to look further into their music the moment i heard that, and came across the video for the very same song. And what struck me as interesting was how they utilized the instruments and the way they moved around the stage, from one instrument to another. Along with the bells used in this song, we see in the video below that their sharing these instruments as well to create these rich rhythms. Their experience as classical musicians aids in them being able to play as a larger group and compose such songs that one can’t help but find themselves lost within.

But while we get this live instrumentation from Amiina, we drift off into a more electronic sound to close, as the day seems to break, and my mug nears it’s  last drop. Funwari-Chan’s “15%” can be categorized as being chiptune, but we with the sampled bird songs interspersed throughout the short song, we are tethered between this virtual reality and the real world. But ultimately are forced back into the real word, as the electronic feel to the song fades, and we are left with the birds calling, to the rest of the sleeping world.

As the stillness comes to an end, the mind goes back to it’s humming, and starts it’s usual questioning of every and anything. “Why’d I listen to those specific songs, in that specific order?” I never know what to tell it. But i’ve got to think of something. People tend to listen to music based off moods, and are either trying to escape the state of mind that they are at, or are trying to zone into the mind state in which they are in. When we think of musical compositions without lyrics, we often think of classical pieces, requiring us to think more than we’d do if their were lyrics accompanied to them, but letting the mind hum along to a rhythm is never to bad, sometimes we just want something else buzzing in the background rather than our nagging thoughts.