#there’s a special kind of grief when you realize you’ll never share a meal with that person again

[spineless-lobster]

Guys GUYS no no you don’t understand patroclus is amazing at cooking and achilles MISSES it!!!!! Fuck FUCK fuck just a day before he was sharing a meal patroclus prepared with the others as they tried to appeal to him and he doesn’t KNOW!!!! ACHILLES DIDN’T KNOW THAT WOULD BE THE LAST TIME HE WOULD TASTE FOOD FROM HIS BELOVED!!!!! I’m actually about to fucking crash out you don’t understand this is devastating to me

[purifiedclitoris69]

silent comfort

Wanda maximoff x supersoldier!reader

warnings: violence/dark thoughts?

summary: you and wanda have a silent love for each other. you’re generally gentle and kind always watching over, but when someone over steps and offends the person you love for most, another you peaks thru.

You are a supersoldier unlike any other, quiet and reserved, always choosing to observe rather than command attention. After your time in hydra and the reputation you built, attention was the last thing you wanted. You joined the Avengers a few months before Wanda and Pietro Maximoff, blending into the background with an unassuming grace. Despite your strength and skill, there's a softness to you that surprises your teammates—your silence is not cold or distant, but warm and thoughtful, like a silent protector.

From the moment you met the twins, you felt a deep connection with them, particularly Wanda. You could sense the weight she carried—the uncertainty, the grief, the fear, the guilt—and you were drawn to her. While others might have approached her with caution or even wariness, you offered something different: quiet kindness. Even despite her side with Ultron, you still showed her brother and her a kindness that they had almost forgot.

You have a way of making Wanda feel at ease, often with just a look or a simple gesture. She feels safe around you in a way she rarely does with others. You never push her to talk, but you're always there when she needs to, whether it's a late-night conversation or a shared moment of silence. You listen without judgment, always knowing exactly what she needs, whether it's words of encouragement or just the quiet comfort of your presence.

With Pietro, you're more playful, indulging his teasing with a rare smile, bailing him out of trouble with his pranks, playing along with them, but with Wanda, you're especially gentle, treating her with a kind of care that makes her feel understood. She trusts you implicitly, and you protect her fiercely, but you never treat her like she's fragile. You see her strength, her potential, and you nurture it with a steady, unwavering support.

You show Wanda your love in the quietest, most thoughtful ways. It’s in the extra cup of tea you make for her in the mornings, placing it beside her with a soft smile before she even has the chance to ask. You remember exactly how she likes it—just a little sweet, with a touch of milk—and she always notices the way you prepare it with care, as if it’s something special.

When you’re out on a mission or even just taking a quick trip to the store, you find yourself picking up little things for her. A book that you know she’d love because it touches on themes she’s interested in, or maybe just something with a beautiful cover that made you think of her. You’ll leave it on her bed or in her favorite chair without saying anything, and when she finds it later, there’s always a gentle warmth in her eyes because she knows it came from you.

Sometimes, it’s as simple as leaving a cozy blanket folded neatly on the couch when you notice her sitting there late at night, lost in thought. Or it’s the way you quietly slip a note under her door, just a few words reminding her she’s not alone, that you’re there for her.

You never make a big deal out of these gestures, never call attention to them. For you, it’s enough to see the small, peaceful smile on her face when she realizes that you’ve been thinking of her. You’ve woven these acts of love into your daily routine, and Wanda, in her own quiet way, cherishes each one. They are little reminders that she matters to you—that even when the world feels overwhelming, there’s someone looking out for her in the gentlest of ways.

She repaid you just the same, leaving you meals in the fridge labeled with your name and a "do not eat," leaving you cookies on your nightstand, comforting you when your thoughts became too dark, reading aloud to you when you can't sleep.

The feelings between you and Wanda develop slowly, quietly, like the way dawn creeps in without fanfare. It starts with the little things—the shared glances that linger just a second too long, the way your hand brushes hers when you pass her something, both of you too startled to say anything but too unwilling to pull away too quickly. There's a growing awareness between you, an unspoken connection that neither of you quite knows how to address.

You feel it every time you’re together, especially in those moments of silence where words aren’t necessary. Sitting next to each other on the couch, you can feel the warmth of her shoulder just inches from yours, both of you keenly aware of the space between, yet too shy to close it. Sometimes, you catch her looking at you when she thinks you’re not paying attention, and there’s a softness in her eyes, like she’s trying to work up the courage to say something—but she never does.

Wanda feels the same, though she doesn’t say it. She leaves a book she knows you’ll love on your bedside table, writes you a note about how a certain passage reminded her of you, and in those moments, she’s saying so much without ever saying the words. But like you, she’s afraid—afraid that if she speaks it aloud, it’ll shatter something between you.

So, you continue like this, your feelings blooming quietly in the spaces between the acts of care you show each other. Neither of you dares to say it first, but it’s there, ever-present, in every cup of tea you make her, in every baked treat she provides, in every soft smile shared when the world isn’t watching. There’s a beautiful tension in the not-knowing, a longing that’s almost enough—almost—but not quite. Still, you wait, both too scared and too shy to take that step, unsure of when or how, but certain that the feelings are real.

After a particularly hard mission with the team, emotions seemingly boil over.

As the Quinjet hummed through the sky, the tension was palpable. Everyone was on edge after the mission—too many close calls, too much going wrong. You were sitting across from Wanda and Pietro, trying to keep your own thoughts in check, but the weight of the day was bearing down on you. You could see Wanda, lost in thought, her fingers anxiously twisting the fabric of her jacket, and Pietro, sitting close to her, watching the team in silence, particularly his sister with concern.

Then Tony's voice broke through, sharp and careless, "Well, can't say it's surprising things went south," he said sarcastically somewhat joking, "You let people with a track record of working for HYDRA, what do you expect, just surprised our minds stayed intact."

His gaze landed briefly on Wanda, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips as if it was some joke. But it wasn’t funny—not to her, not to Pietro, not to Bucky and definitely not to you.

You didn’t even think. One second, you were sitting there, the next, you were on your feet, grabbing Tony by the collar and slamming him against the wall of the Quinjet with a force that shocked everyone. “Watch yourself,” you growled, your voice low and threatening, the darkness in you rising to the surface. “You have no right to talk about us like that,” you spat through gritted teeth, “about her,” your grip tightened.

The moment you slammed Tony against the wall, the room seemed to freeze in place. Tony, wide-eyed and caught off guard, raised his hands slightly, not out of fear but sheer surprise at the swiftness of your reaction. His cocky façade shattered in an instant, replaced with a stunned silence as he realized the seriousness of the situation.

The rest of the team reacted in a chaotic mix of emotions. Steve stood up immediately, his hands half-raised as if ready to intervene, his instincts as a leader kicking in. His eyes narrowed, muscles tensed as he took a cautious step forward, though not fully committing to stopping you just yet. He knew you well enough to understand there was more to this than a sudden outburst.

Natasha remained seated, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She leaned back slightly, arms crossed over her chest, her green eyes glinting with amusement. Tony had this coming, and she wasn’t about to step in just yet. She’d seen Tony push buttons before, and to her, this was just another day dealing with his sharp tongue.

Bucky sat stiffly at the edge of his chair, his metal arm twitching almost imperceptibly. His jaw clenched, eyes glued to the scene in front of him. He wasn’t exactly ready to leap to Tony’s defense, but he knew the damage you could do if you were truly pushed. Sam, sitting in the corner, slowly stood up, hands on his hips. He wasn’t rushing to intervene but kept a watchful eye on the situation. He had a deep sense of loyalty to the team, but even he could see Tony had crossed a line.

The air felt thick with a palpable tension. Every second that ticked by stretched out into what felt like minutes, the entire team holding their breath, waiting to see what you would do next.

Wanda, sat up holding her breath. Her eyes were wide with a mixture of care and concern. She had never seen you snap like this before, but a part of her couldn’t help but feel a rush of gratitude that you had stepped in so fiercely on her behalf. Still, the tension in the air left her feeling conflicted—she didn’t want you to lose control, especially not for her.

They had heard stories of your past, of the ruthless, brainwashed assassin Hydra had turned you into, but they’d never seen such an aggressive side of you. Until now.

Tony, eyes wide, raised his hands slightly in surrender. "easy soldier,” he muttered, clearly surprised by the force of your reaction. But your grip on his collar remained firm.

“Apologize,” you demanded, your voice cold. You weren’t letting him off that easy.

Before Tony could respond, Pietro was suddenly at your side. He didn’t touch you, but his presence was a reminder that this wasn’t about to escalate further—not for Wanda’s sake. “That's enough,” Pietro said sharply, his voice tight. You felt him stop just shy of pulling you off Tony, his hand hovering near your arm, unsure if he needed to intervene or not. He wasn’t angry at you, but his protective instincts for his sister were obvious. “She doesn’t need this.”

You met Pietro’s eyes, the unspoken understanding passing between you. He wasn’t accusing you—he just didn’t want things to spiral out of control. With a deep breath, you glanced back at Tony, who was still pinned against the wall.

“I said apologize,” you repeated, your voice hard.

Tony sighed, rolling his eyes. “Alright, alright,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

You held his gaze for a moment longer, your pulse still racing with the leftover adrenaline, before you finally let go. Tony brushed off his shirt, glancing toward Wanda. “Sorry, Wanda,” he added, his tone more sincere now. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

She gave a small nod, acknowledging the apology, but her silence spoke volumes. Tony’s words had hurt her.

You stepped back, returning to a seat further back in the jet away from the team. you noticed Pietro’s eyes still on you. He gave you a small nod—part thanks, part approval. He hadn’t expected you to stand up for them like that, but now he knew just how far you’d go for his sister.

As the Quinjet landed and the tension from the mission—and your confrontation with Tony—finally began to ease, the team started gathering their gear to head out. The air was still a little thick with unspoken tension, but leave it to Nat to break the silence with her sharp humor.

As she passed by, throwing her bag over her shoulder, she gave you a sly, sideways glance. "Well, i didn’t think a teddy bear like you would be such a protective girlfriend," she quipped, a smirk tugging at her lips.

The comment caught you off guard, and you shot her a look, part amused and part flustered. Wanda’s eyes widened a little, her cheeks turning the faintest shade of pink as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, clearly embarrassed but unable to hide a small smile.

“whatever,” you replied, trying to play it cool, though a hint of blush crept onto your face.

Nat just shrugged, walking ahead with that signature swagger. "Hey, I'm not complaining. Just saying, if anyone's got a problem with Wanda, they’ll have to go through you first. And judging by what just happened, I’d pay to see that." She winked, giving a knowing glance to the rest of the team, who had started to loosen up, the mood lifting as everyone filed off the jet.

Even Tony, still rubbing his neck, muttered something about getting off easy, while Steve shook his head, his usual disapproving-but-amused expression in place.

As Wanda and Pietro made their way back through the quiet halls of the compound, the tension from the mission had mostly faded, replaced by the familiar comfort of being with her brother. Pietro, always the one to fill the silence with banter, was unusually quiet at first, glancing at his sister with a knowing look. Wanda walked beside him, her thoughts scattered, mostly focused on you—the way you had defended her so fiercely, the intensity in your eyes as you stood up to Tony, and then how you had softened again, like a storm that passed as quickly as it came.

So…” Pietro finally broke the silence, his tone teasing, a grin spreading across his face. “That was something.”

Wanda shot him a look, raising an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

He laughed, throwing his arm around her shoulders in that casual way only brothers could get away with. “Oh, come on, Wanda. Don’t act like you don’t know.” He nudged her playfully, his grin widening. “You and our little supersoldier over there. It’s kind of hard to miss.”

Wanda felt her cheeks flush at the mention of you. “Pietro, it’s not—”

“It’s not what?” he interrupted, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Not like you’ve been sneaking glances at them ever since we got here? Not like they just threw Tony Stark against a wall for you?” He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Please, Wanda, you don’t have to be a mind reader to see what’s going on.”

Wanda huffed, trying to keep her composure, but Pietro was relentless.

“You need to make a move,” he continued, grinning as he waved his hand as if it was obvious. “I mean, how much more do you need? They’ve been giving you little gifts, making you tea, standing up to Tony— they’re genuinely kind Wanda, but after that I don’t think theyd hesitate to burn down the world for you; you deserve someone like that.”

Wanda bit her lip, turning her face away to hide the smile tugging at her lips. She couldn’t deny it—she did feel something for you. But it wasn’t just the little things, the quiet moments you shared. It was the way you made her feel safe, how you always seemed to be there when she needed someone, without her even having to ask.

“I don’t know,” she admitted quietly, her voice soft. “What if I ruin things? What if they don’t feel the same?”

Pietro stopped walking, turning to face her with a look of exaggerated disbelief. “Wanda,” he said, his voice teasing but affectionate, “they literally went all Hydra-mode on Tony for you today. If that’s not ‘feeling the same,’ then I don’t know what is.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the smile creeping onto her face. Pietro always knew how to get her out of her own head, even if his teasing was relentless.

“You’re overthinking it,” Pietro added, more seriously this time. “You like them, they like you. Just go find them, talk to them. Trust me, you’ll regret it if you don’t.”

Wanda hesitated, glancing toward the window where she could see the dark sky outside. She didn’t want to admit how much she cared about you, how much your presence in her life had already changed things. But Pietro was right—if she didn’t make a move, she might regret it.

With a sigh, she gave her brother a small shove. “Fine. But if this goes wrong, I’m blaming you.”

Pietro grinned, stepping back with his hands raised in mock surrender. “Blame away, but it won’t. You’ll thank me later.”

The night sky was clear, stars scattered like fragments of a forgotten dream as you sat on the roof of the compound, legs drawn up, arms resting loosely on your knees. The breeze was cool, carrying the scent of the trees nearby, but it didn’t do much to ease the weight in your chest.

You had come up here to think—about the mission, about the way you lost control on the Quinjet, and about Wanda. You could still feel the echo of that dark part of you, the part you’ve spent years trying to bury, the part that Hydra had forged into a weapon. For so long, you’d worked to move past it, to be better than what they made you. But when Tony had said those words, it was like flipping a switch you didn’t even know was still there. And now, despite your best intentions, the guilt lingered.

You exhaled slowly, staring up at the stars, trying to ground yourself in the quiet, the peace of the night. But your thoughts kept circling back to Wanda—how overwhelming your feelings for her had become, how they consumed you in ways you didn’t expect. Loving her wasn’t something you planned for; it just happened. But with that love came the fear, the fear of slipping into that darkness again if it meant protecting her.

The sound of soft footsteps behind you made you tense, but only for a moment, because you knew who it was before she even said anything.

Wanda sat down beside you, close enough that her arm brushed against yours. For a long time, neither of you spoke. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, though—it never was. She just sat with you, offering her presence in that quiet, gentle way she always did.

“Thank you,” she finally said, her voice soft. You turned to look at her, confusion crossing your face. She smiled faintly, her eyes warm even in the dim light. “For what you did today. For… everything you’ve done for me, really.”

You blinked, unsure what to say. You’d done it without thinking, out of instinct, but you didn’t want to admit how ashamed you felt for slipping back into that dark, aggressive part of yourself. “I didn’t mean to… be like that,” you murmured, looking down at your hands. “I’ve tried so hard to leave that side of me behind.”

Wanda reached over, gently resting her hand on top of yours. “You were defending me,” she said softly. “You’ve always defended me, protected me, even when I didn’t ask. And today… I needed it. I needed to know someone has my back like that.”

Her words hung in the air, and in that moment, you let your walls drop. The connection you felt was electric, and it terrified you. Taking a deep breath, you moved a little closer, feeling the warmth radiating from her.

"Yeah i’m pretty sure defending you is one of the easiest things I’ve ever done" you mutter look down to your lap, the words slipping out before you could second-guess them

Her touch was soft, grounding. You looked up at her, and the way she was looking at you—full of trust, gratitude, and something deeper—made your heart race. For a moment, everything else fell away. All the guilt, the fear, the darkness—it faded, leaving only her and the quiet between you.

he silence between you both felt heavy, but not with tension—more like an unspoken understanding passing through the air. When you looked back up at her, you caught the way her soft gaze was on you, full of emotion that you’d only dared to hope she felt too.

The world around you seemed to blur as you focused entirely on Wanda, on the warmth of her hand, the closeness of her body, and the quiet intensity of her eyes. There was something so vulnerable in the way she looked at you, something so open that it made your heart stutter.

“I mean it,” you added, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’d defend you forever if you’d let me.”

A small, tender smile curved on Wanda’s lips. Her thumb brushed across the back of your hand in a slow, gentle motion, sending a shiver up your spine. You swallowed hard, trying to keep your cool, but the weight of your feelings for her, the depth of it all, was almost overwhelming.

Without even realizing it, you leaned in slightly, your breath catching in your throat. Wanda mirrored your movement, her face just inches away from yours now, her lips parted ever so slightly as she hesitated. Your heart pounded in your chest, but you couldn’t look away from her, the pull between you both undeniable.

You could feel the warmth of her breath, the closeness of her body. Time seemed to slow down as the space between you disappeared, and then—gently, tentatively—her lips brushed against yours. It was soft, almost uncertain, but the moment your lips touched, a flood of warmth spread through your entire body, like a gentle wave of emotion that you had been holding back for so long.

You kissed her back just as softly, afraid to break the moment, but also craving more. The kiss was innocent, filled with a kind of tenderness that made your heart swell. It was shy, slow, and so full of meaning that it made your chest ache. Wanda’s lips lingered on yours for a moment longer, neither of you rushing, just savoring the closeness, the intimacy of the moment.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested lightly against hers, both of you breathing a little heavier. Your heart was racing, and you could feel Wanda’s was too. For a second, neither of you spoke, letting the quiet settle between you.

Then, in a small voice, you whispered, “Would you… would you maybe want to go on a date? Like… a picnic or something?”

Wanda pulled back slightly, her eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and happiness, a soft smile blooming on her lips again. “Are you asking me on a date?” she teased, her voice barely above a whisper, the hint of a blush rising on her cheeks.

You nodded, biting your lip nervously. “Yeah… if you’d like that.”

She smiled fully now, her eyes sparkling as she leaned in to kiss you again, just a brief press of her lips to yours. “I’d love that,” she whispered back, her voice soft and filled with affection.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

From Chin To Yon Rah (Part 38)

Being sick is very different in a small village than it is in the palace. Illness is never comfortable but it is even less pleasant when the pillows aren’t as plush and fluffy and when she doesn’t have the security of physicians to monitor and care for her nearly every minute.

In Wujing she has to walk to see Min-Min. She is lucky that Hajime is willing to make that walk for her. But while he is gone, there is no one to tend to her, no one to make sure that she is still breathing. No one but Atsu whose idea of helping is occasionally feeling her forehead and declaring, “mmhmm, you’re still sick. I dieg-nose you with not healthy” before springing off the bed to fetch her soup. Soup that is lukewarm at best and clumsily delivered--she now has several wet spots on her sheets to add to her discomfort. He stands on his tiptoes and pushes the bowl onto the nightstand, spilling even more of the broth onto it. He takes the spoon and holds it out to her, dripping broth on to her collar and nightdress.

Azula bites her tongue, it takes all of her will power and then some to not snap at the boy. The boy who is only trying his best to care for her. She parts her lips before Atsu can splatter soup all over her face. She has to admit that he isn’t such a terrible cook. If only he didn’t make great messes while doing so.

“Did I do good!?” He shouts, putting an even deeper pounding into her head.

“You did fine, Atsu.” She coughs. With each cough comes a throbbing like the strides of a soldier, heavy of armor and step. She massages her temples as Atsu holds out the spoon again. This time he holds it too far and she has to crane her neck to reach it. This is how Azula endures the better part of an hour until Atsu hums to himself and declares, “maybe I should hand you the bowl!”

She wishes that he had handed her the spoon or a pair of chopsticks to go with it. Instead--desperate for the soothing warmth and the favors it does for her sore throat--she drinks straight from the bowl. She can practically see father, Zuzu, Mai, TyLee, and everyone she had ever known balking at the unbecoming sight.

She puts the bowl aside and lays her head back all while the spills on the dresser and on her skin drive her mad. She longs to fetch herself a napkin but, spirits, she is so weak. Her pounding head is spinning faintly and she thinks that just trying to stand will leave her feeling entirely nauseous.

She knows that this is it. That this is where she will meet her end. The mighty and proud Azula will have her demise at the hands of an apparently common Earth Kingdom cold.

She bunches in on herself, her stomach does all sorts of flips and flops and she swears that she is going to throw up. She doesn’t even want to move an inch. This is how Hajime finds her. He sighs, apparently noting the mess on the dresser and her skin. “Atsu, you made a big mess!”

“Sorry dad.” He mumbles from the other room.

“Don’t apologize to me!” He rolls his eyes. “You git in ‘ere and ‘pologize to Rikka.”  He shakes his head with a small laugh. “Sorry about Atsu, he was just trying to help. He used to do that to his ma…” he washes away the splotches of soup.

Sometimes Azula wonders about Hajime’s old wife. He talks about her often enough but has never once mentioned a name. She can never bring herself to ask. She doesn’t want to open old wounds. She can’t imagine what it would be like to have a lover die. She can’t imagine that she will ever have to, not when there is no face to picture. At least there is one perk to being unlovable, she will never know that kind of pain.

And yet, Hajime makes her feel like she isn’t unlovable. The way he dabs at her forehead with that wet cloth. The way he smiles at her and brushes her hair out of her face. The way that he assures her that it wouldn’t bother him if he caught her cold while taking care of her. The way that he takes care of her.

It is very different to have someone other than royal physicians to tend to her. She finds that it is significantly less indifferent and methodical. Hajime holds her hand while checking her temperature. He strokes her hand while she drinks her medicine down. He reads to her as she struggles to find sleep.

He is not there when she wakes though. And neither is Hajime. What she finds instead is a prepared meal, her medication, and a note reading, ‘taking Atsu to school and heading to work.’

She understands but wishes all the same that she wouldn’t have to endure this alone. Her stomach isn’t quite as delicate today but the pounding in her head brings tears to her eyes. Involuntary tears, but tears no less. To think that her own body is betraying her like this…

By mid afternoon she is certain, this time for sure, that she will die. That Hajime will find her corpse, still warm, in the bed when he gets back. She sits up to take her medication and the nausea comes back with a vengeance. She doubles over, just barely making it to the sink before heaving.

Yes, this is definitely what death feels like. She slumps to the floor, mouth dry, stomach still queasy, and head still beating. Her body shakes.

She knows that it has been at least an hour, possibly longer than that even. She can’t just stay on the bathroom floor, but every time she moves she feels sicker still. Even so, she forces herself up onto her hands and knees. She takes a deep breath and tries to fight off the dizziness.

Spirits, just what kind of sickness has she contracted? WuJing isn’t exactly a peasant town--well it is in that it is a village for commoners, but it isn’t the dirty, disease riddled variety.

She feels arms under her shoulders. Arms that help her to her feet and a body to lean on. “Hajime?” She inquires weakly. But the body is too small to be Hajime. It is too large to be Atsu. “Seukhyun?” But no, it is too small to be Seukhyun too.

“Not quite.”  Replies the man.

If her nose weren’t so backed up she could have easily smelled turnip on him. Ojihara helps her into bed and uncorks the medicine bottle for her. “Your food’s all col’. I’ll fix you somethin’ new to eat.”

“Okay.” She says, her voice has been reduced to little more than a hoarse whisper.

“You got it bad, don’cha?” He clicks his tongue. “‘S a good thing I came to check on you.”

She can’t disagree. She nuzzles her face against the pillow and clutches her fingers around the bed sheets.

“I have a special remedy that my own grandfather passed down from me. S a secret one…” Ojihara calls from the kitchen. “But it works e’ry time. Seukhyun would cry like a baby when he got sick, this stuff fixed ‘im up good as new.”

Azula decides that she will have to remember to bring that up next time she sees Seukhyun. Not that she hasn’t been doing a decent share of crying herself. He doesn't have to know that.

“Thank you, Ojihara.” She mumbles as she curls her fingers around the cup. She sure hopes that this remedy tastes better than it smells.

She feels absolutely horrible and, by all means, the medications and treatments aren’t as effective in Wujing. And yet, somehow, she thinks that she would rather fall ill here than at the palace. The warmest blankets at the palace aren’t as warm as the company that cares for her here.

That day she learns that a moment of vulnerability will strengthen her in the long run.

.oOo.

The icy howling of the wind alone is enough to drive her grief out and freeze her guilty conscience. There isn’t much room to think pessimistically when the only thing on her mind is how painfully and aggravatingly cold it is.

“How do you people live like this?” She shives, wrapping her arms around herself.

“We bundle up adequately for one thing.” Sokka chuckles. “Here.” He holds out a heavier parka.

“I’m already wearing one.”

“But you’re not used to this weather. And where are your mittens?”

“In my pockets, I was having trouble picking things up.”

“You’ll have more trouble picking things up if you lose all of your fingers.” He snatches her hand and shoves it into a mitten. “And pull your hood up!” He doesn’t give her the chance, instead he tugs it over her head. So far that the fur obscures most of her vision. She slips the second mitten on and moves the hood to a more optimal resting place.

“For someone so smart you sure are…”

“I’ve never been to the Tribes before. I didn’t realize that it would be this cold.” Until now such biting weather has been entirely unfathomable to her. She had always thought that the sun was radiant enough to cast heat everywhere. The sun in the Tribes seems so much weaker than it is in the Fire Nation where it beams down upon her with the same merciless brutality as the people under its rays. “I don’t think...it shouldn’t be possible for a place to be so cold.”

Sokka laughs again. “It can’t be sunny everywhere.”

And in most places in her life, it isn’t. Most things in her life are somehow colder than even this. Than even the sort of weather that has her locks stiff and tinged with frost. She shivers. She wants her world to be warm and cozy again. She wants such in every conceivable way; physically and emotionally.

Sokka cups her cheeks, at the very least, his hands are warm. It puts a tickle in her tummy. A tickle that grows in intensity at the dull reminder that she can be warm and cozy again if she lets herself be. “Can we go inside now?” She mutters. “This snow is up to my knees and I’m tired of walking in it.”

Sokka nods. “That’s what snow shoes are for.” He gestures to his feet.

“Those look hard to walk in.”

“Harder than trudging through mounds of snow that are taller than you?” He quirks a brow.

She fights to keep a pout off of her face. He laughs and ruffles her hair before scooping her into his arms. She hadn’t imagined that, that would be the first thing that Katara has seen of her in several years. And she isn’t sure if it is a good impression or not.

Her eyes lock upon Azula. They follow her across the room to where Sokka sits her down in front of a fire.

“Where’s dad?”

“He’s out fishing with Bato. What’s she doing here.” Katara nods in her direction.

“Wweeell...I was hoping to reintroduce her to you and dad.”

Katara’s brows furrow. “You’re not serious, Sokka! I don’t want to talk to her again.”

“She’s different now, she…”

“I don’t care how different she is!” She practically spits the word care.

“You didn’t care how different Zuko was either…”

“Zuko didn’t kill Aang.”

“He tried to.” Azula points out, quite unhelpfully in the grander scheme of things. At the very least, the woman will be speaking about her to her instead of to Sokka. At least that was the hope…

“Zuko...he was confused. She knew exactly what she was doing.”

She wishes that the same could be said now. Sokka comes to stand beside her and rests an arm on her shoulder. She wonders if he can sense her unease through touch alone. She already feels like a monster, she doesn’t need more confirmation of that.

“Just give her a chance, Katara.”

“She’s already had one and she spent it trying to kill her own mother.”

Azula cringes.

“Well this time she’s ready for another chance.”

But she doesn’t think that she can ever be truly prepared. Not for something like this. It doesn’t matter how hard she tries nor how she arranges her deck. Briefly she wonders if it would be better to chance freezing to death than speaking to Katara a moment longer.

“I’m not ready to give her one.”

“Katara…”

“Why do you care about her all of the sudden, Sokka. Remember what she did to Suki?”

“It isn’t really sudden.” Sokka rubs the back of his head. “I’ve been talking to her for a while now and she’s…” he trails off. “She’s actually kind of a sweet person.”

“I am not.” She grumbles.

“Believe it or not, she’s pretty good with kids.” Azula is certain that he has sensed her discomfort this time because he shares a half truth. “Ursa, ya know, her mom…”

“I know who Ursa is, Sokka.”

“Ursa has this kid…”

Katara rolls her eyes, “I was there, Sokka.” She folds her arms across her chest.

“Well Azula gets along with Kiyi and Kiyi’s, uh, friend, Caihong.” Sokka nods, seemingly pleased with his white lie. “Azula really like Caihong and Caihong is an earthbender. And that’s good because Azula used to only talk to earthbenders if they were Dai Li agents…”

Spirts, she can’t remember the last time she had felt such an intense secondhand embarrassment. She wonders if Katara would buy that the color on her cheeks is the product of cold alone.

“Why do you care about her?” Katara asks again.

“Talk her and find out.” Sokka musters up a smile. “You’ll understand why, if you do.”

[brainsforbabyjesus]

A match made in heaven

"It wasn't easy. They couldn't stand each other at first. But when we were done with them: perfect couple." —Cupid

(remember how that cupid said John and Mary were a heavenly arranged marriage? Because I sure do)

    .

The Union of John and Mary Winchester (AO3)

   .

Say you're John Winchester fresh home from Vietnam, and you're alright.

You're fine actually.

You're not like some of the other men you came home with. You can sleep almost every night. You don't yell at your co-workers over trivial things. You don't have to sit in that one spot at the diner. You can talk to customers like a regular guy. You only drink on weekends and you always show up on time to work on Monday.

Everything is great. You're home. You have a job. You're safe. And local enigma Mary Campbell is pretty and charming and she smiled at you that one time when you walked by her on the way to the grocery store.

You talk to her a couple of times. Your conversations are topical; socially appropriate for two strangers passing by on the street. It's nothing special. But.

But it's not awful.

It's...

It's...nice.

She seems nice.

A nice girl in a nice town talking about nice things.

Then you get to know her a little better and she's...she's...nice full of it.

The more you talk to her the more you realize she's the one, you're gonna marry that girl one of those hippy dippy bimbos that go off about the cops being bad at their jobs (one day you'll think that too but not yet), about how there's no honourable wars between humans. And what is that supposed to mean anyway? As if she would know the first thing about being in a fight for her life, about saving people.

You start taking a different way to the grocery store.

Except.

You can't stop thinking about her.

Maybe you just got off on the wrong foot. Maybe she had a brother who died overseas. Maybe her dad was a dirty cop that gave all cops a bad name in her eyes.

It was probably just a misunderstanding.

A week later you bump into each other outside the post office. You start out talking about the weather, twenty minutes later you're sitting down to have lunch with her while you talk about your favourite music.

It's nice. She's nice. You were right. It was all a misunderstanding.

You start walking together to the grocery store a few days a week. You talk about simple things; the weather, town gossip, movies that are coming out. It's simple in a wholesome small town kind of way. And after everything, don't you deserve a little bit of simple wholesome small town life?

This could be your life. Simple conversations with a nice girl in a wholesome small town. You don't have to think about anything you did before. You could just be the nice boy from town who marries the nice girl and live simple lives together. No fears. No pain. No more worries beyond phone bills.

Wouldn't that be nice? It sounds nice.

The more you talk to her the more the small town fantasy falls apart.

She's beautiful weirdly standoffish about simple things. She won't talk about her family. She won't talk about what she does in her free time. She won't talk about why she needs so many weather reports. She won't let you meet her folks.

And she's given you some mildly unsettling hints about running away from her family like she's being held prisoner.

 But it's worth it.

It's all a bit more than you can chew.

Sure, she's nice but nice isn't worth whatever heap of crazy problems shes carrying around. You know you're lucky that you're not carrying around your own. You don't need someone else's.

You tell her that you love her you can't make it to your next walk to the grocery store together.

You don't see her for a week.

You can't stop thinking about her.

Two weeks.

You can't stop thinking about her.

A month.

You can't stop thinking about her.

It's...it's weird. She keeps popping up in your head. She thinks cops are idiots and that soldiers are wasting their time and now that you think about it, she never really seemed to laugh at your jokes. And she likes The Beatles. She's just another silly girl complaining about curfews and screaming at boy bands.

But.

But...

You can't stop thinking about her.

What if she's in trouble? Those hints about her home life, what if they're the only way she can ask for help? Maybe she's not just another silly girl complaining about a reasonable curfew while living under her parents' roof. Maybe her home life is horrific (you're right but you won't remember that) and she needs to get out.

Maybe she needs to be rescued.

You could do that. You've fought a war, been to hell and back. You could rescue one pretty girl from a bad home life. You're a good man. It's the honourable thing to do.

You ask her out for lunch the next day. She tells you she doesn't have time she's missed you and says she likes your jacket. You say you didn't missed her too and tell her you like how she's changed her hair.

She tells you to quite talking to her she's free all week and would you like to meet for lunch again?

You tell her no yes and ask if Wednesday is good for her.

 It's not good for either of you.

You meet on Wednesday for lunch. You talk about your job. She talks about music. It's...nice. She's nice. You smile at her and she smiles back. It's the worst lunch date you've ever been on all picture perfect. You're a good man having lunch with a nice girl.

If you just plucked up the courage you could have this forever. You deserve that don't you? Nice meals with a nice girl who smiles at you and wants you to get lost to be with you.

You meet for lunch every day next week. You hate ever minute of it can really see yourself with this girl five years down the road. Hell, ten years— no, a life time.

On Friday your boss asks what you've been so busy doing all week at lunch break that you turn up late for work every afternoon. You tell him about her. You tell him that you don't have a damn clue why you keep seeing that girl that she's the one. That you're going to marry that girl.

Everyone at work says it's a bad idea congratulates you. They ask you why you're giving a ring to the woman you keep fighting with how you'll pop the question.

You're not really sure why the hell you're doing it how you'll do it, but you'll know when the time is right.

You buy a ring on Saturday.

You come to your senses on Sunday. You don't really know this girl. You don't really get along with her. You're planning an entire life around a woman you've known for a couple of months.

You'll return the ring on Monday.

You go to sleep early. Well, you try anyway. You're up half the night. You want to sleep but...but...

You can't stop thinking about her.

You pour yourself a drink. Just to get to sleep. You won't make it a habit.

You wake up the next morning. Now that you've had a good night's rest you realize how big a mistake you were about to make.

 You return the ring.

You don't return the ring.

You ask her to marry you in the impala and Mary cries because you died, you died! Her dad is a psycho and he snapped your neck! and says yes and you can't stop holding each other like you might die at any moment (you already did that but you don't remember).

You're engaged but you don't even like her. You're engaged to the most beautiful woman you've ever laid eyes. You don't know why you asked her how you got so lucky. The way she looks at you...

But the way she looks at you.

The way she looks at everyone after her parents died in that house fire. You watched her set the fire; listened to her talk about demons and drove home with an empty gas can in your trunk. It's an act of god that really makes you appreciate your life. Makes you want to run for the hills start a family.

But—

But...

But it's not grief hiding in her eyes. It's guilt. It's something altogether different.. It's...it's...

 It's a tragedy.

Terrifying.

There's something in her eyes that makes your dumb animal brain scratch at the walls trying to get away.

She's terrifying.

Why didn't you notice that before? Why didn't you notice the knife in her boot? Or the gun powder on her hands? Or the way she's always looking over her shoulder?

You leave in the middle of the night. You've got a bad feeling that you haven't had since you were overseas. There's a little prickle at the back of your neck (it's the ghost of fingers snapping your bones but you don't remember that). It screams: danger! danger! danger!

You get as far as the first intersection before you stop. You stare at the green light. You should go. You're supposed to go. Now is the time to go. But.

You can't stop thinking about her.

You turn the car around. You walk back inside your house. You strip down and curl up beside your beautiful fiance.

You stare at the ceiling all night.

 What if she kills you in your sleep?

You can't believe you almost left over an itch on your neck. You're so damn lucky to have her. You want to bring her home to your parents. She's the good American country girl that everyone wants to bring home to their parents. But you can't. Neither of you can. You share the same tragic past: parents dead too young to ever see their grandbabies.

All the more reason to start a family now.

The next morning you tell her you love her. She says she loves you. You drive to the nearest church and make it official.

You love her.

 And she makes your skin crawl.

You're married for two weeks and it's perfect you can't stand her.

You can't stand her.

You can't stand her.

Why the hell did you ever get married?

You can't stand her.

Why did you think it was a good idea?

You can't stand her.

You argue. You fight. You leave.

Good.

It was a mistake. You should have never gotten married to her. You've got nothing in common and all you do is fight with each other.

Months go by.

You can't stop thinking about her.

And you can't stop phoning her. Why can't you stop phoning her? You don't want to be anywhere near her. You don't want to hear her voice at two in the morning. You can't stand her.

You keep phoning.

You can't stop thinking about her.

It's a Friday night when she tells you she's pregnant.

You go to her place home the next day.

She says I want a divorce sorry. She says it'll be better now that you've started a family.

You say is it even mine? you're sorry. You've always wanted a family.

You don't think about the months that went by. You don't wonder what she did in between, who she was with. You don't. You're starting a family. You're going to be a father.

You've always wanted to be a father. It'll be...it'll be...nice. Fulfilling. A reward.

You deserve a reward.

A reward for being a good man, a good soldier. You'll be a good father too.

 And then it all falls apart. Monsters are real and they want you dead. They want your family dead. Your wife is in danger. Just say yes. Say yes

 Say yes.

 Say yes.

 Say yes.

 Say yes.

 You say yes.

 You say yes and oh god. Oh god, you see it all reaching back millennia and the brief flash of a future that ends in screaming and blood. You see your boys (you'll raise three, or you'll try to anyway, but you don't know that yet) and they say yes and die screaming trapped inside monsters that want to burn the world.

 Everyone is going to die. You don't have a future. She doesn't have a future. Even those boys who don't exist yet, they won't have futures either. You're all going to die screaming in fire and blood.

The day your son is born is the happiest day of your life. You don't mind the crying and spit up that comes after. You don't mind the sleepless nights.

 You're always tired even when you do sleep. You pour yourself a drink most nights, but just one. Just a night cap to fall asleep after a long day.

You have a nice house in a nice part of town.

 Your neighbours have phoned the police on you three times in three weeks, they're worried about all the yelling.

You have a pretty wife.

 But you fight with her. You fight all the time. Everything she does grates on your nerves. When she looks at you, you know she can't stand you either.

You have a beautiful child.

 And when he looks at you with those eyes, you wonder. You were gone for months. You can't remember if the timing matches up.

It's all worth it.

 You leave. You come back. You leave. You come back.

It's all so perfect.

 You start drinking on Thursday nights. It's almost the weekend anyway. Besides, you always show up for work on time.

 You fight. You leave. You come back.

You can't stop thinking about her.

You can't stop thinking about her.

You can't stop thinking about her.

 Night caps and Thursday nights turn into a few drinks every night but it's fine. You always show up for work. Eventually.

You watch your son playing in the yard. You can't imagine how this could get any better you could leave.

 You could leave right now.

You can barely believe how fast time flies by. You've been together for years now and you hate it. But it seems like a blink of an eye and your son is he even yours? has gone from a chubby baby to a precocious toddler who's too quiet always laughing.

 Why is he so quiet?

It's your anniversary.

 It's not.

 You can't even remember when you met her.

 You can't remember why you got married.

 There's so much you can't remember.

 Why can't you remember?

It's your anniversary and you make the time for date night. Neither of you are planning on making your lives worse better but nine months later you've got another bundle of joy in the house.

 You keep fighting. About everything. About nothing. You can't stand her. You can't stand each other.

 You slam the door as you leave.

 Why did you ever go back?

 Why do you keep going back?

 You don't even like each other.

You can't stop thinking about her.

You can't stop thinking about her.

You can't stop thinking about her.

You have a drink on Friday night.

It's the weekend. You deserve it.

You have a drink on Friday night and you wake up at home in bed with your wife on Saturday morning.

Except.

 Except it's a week later.

 You feel like shit. You stumble out of bed. Your son quickly closes his door as you pass by. You drag yourself into the bathroom and turn the shower on. You can't remember the last week no matter how hard you try.

Your beautiful wife is making breakfast. She smiles at you. She doesn't look happy. You smile back. You don't feel relived to be home.

Your son hunches over his pancakes and won't look at either of you smiles and asks questions about trucks.

 You want to leave. You want to leave so badly.

You sit down and eat breakfast.

 You pour a drink. You pour another. You keep pouring until your legs stop working and you can't leave. But who cares? You lost your job weeks ago. It's not like you have to be somewhere tomorrow.

Your second son is a joy. A perfect baby. How would you know? You've been half in the bag since he was born. Maybe you should have a third.

Those early weeks drag race by. You're passed out asleep in the living room when you think you hear someone screaming. You get up. It's probably nothing but you've had this itch on the back of your neck for years and you've never been able to place why.

You go upstairs.

It only takes seconds for your whole life to fall apart; burst into flames right before your eyes (and this time you'll remember).

You send your kids out on their own. You should make sure they get out first but you can't leave her behind. You can't stop thinking about her even now.

You go back in. There's nothing but an outline, a suggestion of her in flames.

You're a good man, you have to—

You have to—

There's nothing but flames.

You spend the night in a crappy motel (you'll spend the rest of your life in them, but you don't know that yet). The cops come. You try to explain. You can't explain. You don't know how to explain so that they won't take your kids. They're all you have left of her.

The cops hint that the neighbours think you did it. You don't give them anything. There was a fire. You don't know how it started. It's true but not the truth. The police seem satisfied. They write down some numbers and addresses of charities. They leave.

You're on your own with a baby and a four year old.

And you can't look at them without seeing her. You can't hear them without hearing her.

You can't stop thinking about her.

(you will though, just long enough to think about someone else. She won't tear your head apart but when you're with her it's like having a pretty wife and a beautiful son and you'll never be there long enough to argue, but you don't know that yet)

You can't stop thinking about her.

You can't stop thinking about her.

You bury her. What's left of her. Ashes and teeth. That's how they identified her body, the teeth.

You buried her.

She's dead.

She's dead.

She's dead but you can't stop thinking about her.

You can't stop thinking about her.

You can't stop thinking about her.

You can't stop thinking about her.

You can't stop thinking about her.

You can't stop thinking about her.

You can't stop thinking about her.

[upsmymindwanderedagain]

Story of The Ice Wolf

PART 5

OTHER PARTS: 

PART 1    PART 2    PART 3    PART 4.1    PART 4.2    PART 6

WARNINGS: mentions of grief, torture (inflicted on reader), blood.

By the way this chapter is almost 5K.

Hey fellas! as I stated last chapter, there’s more story coming, we will see a little more of backstory of the reader and the twins. Now regarding this background, as I mentioned beforehand, in this story the twins Wanda and Pietro are not portrayed as we typically see them in other stories or even the MCU, sure they have the essence and personality (I hope) but this story is not flowers and sunshine, just have that in mind while reading. If something makes you feel uncomfortable or just something doesn’t feel right for you, send me a message and we can chat it out.

As always typos and errors are my bad, sorry.

"We will keep the details of the mission and what happened behind closed doors. The official statement is that Y/N and Bucky are on an undercover mission. We can't let the truth be known, not until we have an answer solid enough to reassure people peace of mind" Maria takes over "We will have a private ceremony..." "No" Tony interrupts Hill. "Bucky and Y/N were not that kind of believers" If you want to do one is up to you, but I'm sure that where ever they are they will laugh at us". "Stark is right, drink it off don't cry it out" Her best life counseling, even Barnes agreed on that one, May says. Everyone chuckles lightly. "Let's drink it off in their memory".

----

The pressure on your brain slowly pulls you out of the dark oblivion, your body feels trapped, something cold kisses your exposed skin, your brain begins to register the pain of your joints. A disgustingly familiar Russian voice starts to beckon you. "Ice Wolf, open your eyes asset". "Ice Wolf" There's no third call. A surge of electrical discharge shakes you to the core, making you open your eyes as you scream in agony. As your body rides the aftershocks, a hand grips forcibly your hair lifting your head. "Captain is good to have you again on our ranks" he says in Russian. You sneer a dry "Fuck you Yuri". His open hand slaps you hard and unforgivingly, making you spit blood as your face is turned to the right "That's no way of talking to your handler asset". Your voice is a gruff hiss "You are not my handler sergeant" you are quick to spit blood and drool straight to his face. You try to launch yourself at him, but you are clasped to a metal wall, the wall mounted handcuffs give you no space to move, you trash with all your strength but the burn in your veins tells you that is in vain, the flesh in your joints and neck end up raw and bleeding. He only stares blankly at your before letting out a mocking boisterous laugh "I want you to meet your new handler and team mates before we make you forget them" he calls them to come in. A tall bulky Russian man comes in followed by two girls, one has dark mist swirling around her hands her face is stern and uninterested, the second one has a smirk on her face and archangel wings (Anika?). "Captain Ice Wolf a 'honor' seeing you again" he says sarcasm heavy on his voice. "Go to hell Salarov" you voice is harsh and hateful. "Allow us to greet you properly" he lifts a syringe full of a nerve wrecking familiar dark liquid, he jabs the needle in your neck, the dark liquid starts making your veins feel even more on fire, you don't scream instead you set your jaw and groan in pain, the veins and tendons on your neck bulge under the strain. When the initial burn starts to wear off you notice the sinister smile on the men faces, Yuri hands Salarov bright almost white branding iron shaped with Hydras symbol. The dark serum is awfully painful on its own, but is meant to weaken you and make every single wound unbearable while you are able to withstand deadly wounds, making it hard for you to die still there’s a breaking point in that. The Salarov juggles with the metal branding mockingly, with no warning he jabs the metal on the old scared flesh on your chest re-doing the branding, you can’t hold back this time you scream in agony, muscles tensing up in pain. ---

Six months have passed since the day Bucky and you made the ultimate sacrifice, and Wanda still can wrap her thoughts around the fact that you are no longer there.

She is on a constant limbo of sadness, bitterness and anger, she is angry at Fury for making the call, she is angry at you for doing such a stupid thing, she is bitter because the four of you saw the clues and still walked in, and she is sad, that deep hollowing sadness that not even revenge call fill up.

She is curled up in the sofa of your shared loft, she is wearing one of your leather jackets that still smell like you, she eyes at the guitar resting on the wall that one was yours, cup of tea in her hand, she knows better than get smashed in the middle of the day.

She is not fool or naive, since the first time they saw you bloodied, beaten, tumbling into the warehouse you all used to call home after their parents were killed, they realized that death was a stalking companion. They understood how possible it was that you might not come home again or even them, the sokovian streets were a mess.

That's why after a lot shouting and fighting they convinced you to let them fight too and get involved in all the not so legal things you did to get money, sure you put rules and you were taking the worst part of the burden and responsibility, but not all anymore.

Since the day they found you bloody beaten, they took you in. Their parents knew nothing about you. You said you were seven, but you looked at least two years older, you were bigger and way stronger than the other kids. The lack of your papers and the thin financial situation of they were in resulted in you not being able to go to the school (besides you got expulsed before getting in for beating down a group of kids making fun of the twins in the school yard). Wanda can't hold back her jiggle at that memory.

Instead their mama taught you everything at home, how to read, numbers, equations, you learnt English from her and Spanish from an ex-CIA neighbor, Grace she was a hacker so she taught you how mend around technology and you avidly learnt, somedays she took you outskirts to shoot but you already knew your way around weapons, she used to call you 'lil Sokovian devil' some time later she nick named you "Sokovian Ghost" due to your hacking skills and your tendency to lurk in the shadows gathering intel.

She smiles at the good memories coming to her head. You were family even before you were her lover, always taking care of them and even helping others.

While their parents were still alive, the three were trouble always on the run, you taught them how fight to defend themselves, their parents learnt that fact when the twins got suspended for kicking their bullies asses. You were so excited and proud of them that you fist bumped them in front of the director of the school, he yelled at you for encouraging them and you simply stared at him and shrug it off. Their parents couldn't hold back their laughter at you not giving fucks about it, if something the week they got suspended you taught them grappling.

When things got rough you stayed strong, even though your adoptive parents home was available after their deaths, the three of you slept most of the time in a warehouse or in Grace's place to avoid social services, she didn't mind, those were the days that you all eat better, specially you (you avoided meals to buy them treats but they didn't knew).

Tears start gathering in her eyes, they knew the risks of their lifestyle, they spent 4 years in the streets making jobs for drug dealers and informants. Later at the age of 17 you 18 behind Hydra's back the three of you took over the Sokovian illegal affairs from weapon traffic to drug dealing that's how you meet Zemo and his unit then partnering up with him, he was the official face you three were the master minds and the ones doing the extra dirty work, the streets were less messy and now it was yours.

She misses the constant presence that you were in her life, you were fiercely protective of her you even killed on spot stupid guys cat hollering at her (mostly in your Hydra days). But you also made her feel strong and confident on her own, you never down talk her or keep her from doing things and missions.

Pietro, Wanda alongside Natasha they have become ruthless and merciless in the missions, to the point of plain slaughters, resulting in awful scolding’s from the star spangled cap and lectures from Fury, Hill is in the middle, she doesn't scold them, she is more empathic but always reminds them that they are better than that.

She plainly misses you, the hard-cold facade you built around you to show the world was that, a facade a mask. Pietro and her knew the real you, the caring person that loved cuddles a fluff ball with her, you loved sneaking out just the three of you, sometimes Loki will tag along even Zrinka and Costel when they visited, you all went outskirts to make bonfires and drink off the night while playing guitars like the small rock band trio that you were. 

She misses how at her comeback from missions you always had something prepared to make her feel at home helping her wash away the mission followed by cuddles and a glass of wine, other times if she wasn't too tired or hurt you'd take her to extravagant dinners or you'll make a homemade meal, you didn't best her at cooking but you were far, far better than Pietro, he is a lost cause, even their mama recognized that when they were little.

Sometimes when she is trying to relax at the bathtub after a mission her minds tricks her, sometimes she foolishly think that you will walk in the bathroom to lift her in your arms to take her to your shared bed. Her heart breaks again when the truth seeps back in her mind.

She misses the sex because it never was plain sex, the two of you were vanilla in that aspect of your intimacy, the tough life and the scars you both have is the testimony of you not liking kinky hardcore things. You were gentle and caring with an edge of roughness is she asked you to be, but you were a dork as much as smooth, charming talker you were you always made her laugh in glee. 

She shamelessly used her powers to spice things up though, but that was as kinky as you two went, she ghostly caressed your skin with her powers, red energy dancing on your skin, shivers of pleasure trailing along the places she touched or holding off your hands with her powers as she made you come undone under her ministrations. 

You were always teasing her of how the sweetest and most innocent looking of the trio was the kinkiest dipshit, regardless you adored her always looking at her like a lovesick puppy.

She can see how much Pietro misses you, you were his sistra in every sense of the word, for him you were that immoveable force strong, confident and caring. You helped him get a hold of his powers and break barriers, go beyond his limits just like you did with her, during this process you even end up hurt but you always brushed it off telling them how someday they might save you with their powers.

Pietro was fiercely protective of both of you, but he always respected your rank and dynamic, however in the moments you faltered or just needed a break he was there to support you, and take over the lead until you were back on your feet.

He admired you, he wished that someday he could be as strong as you. They saw you being tortured in Hydra's grasp how they piece you back together with steel with no regard of your mental state or body. They went through the training with you, however Hydra's trainers always pushed you to breaking points to make you the finest weapon. Still you swallowed your revenge feelings and worked for them, never losing the soft caring side reserved only for them.

You fulfilled your promise, you got them out of Hydra to a better life, that's the life you've been having this past five plus years. Pietro always pictured you on it, he was thinking on marrying his girlfriend Zrinka but he couldn't bear the thought of you not being there, not when even their parents wouldn't be there. Wanda was his only family left, sure Zrinka and Costel are family but the bonds and the experiences you've been through together makes it impossible that someone will fill the void that your absence has left.

Wanda was always teasing you at how now that you were Avengers it was more plausible that you two would end up in jail due to your shenanigans. Pietro being the flirty shit he is, loved going to bars and strip clubs to wreak havoc and you were always with him, even she would tag along just for the fun of it and get you worked up. 

Most of the time only you and Pietro would go to street racing, she was wishing you two would end up caught up by the police so she could witness Tony and Steve making an excuse to bail you out, you never fell in jail.

Clint now more than before has been acting like a father figure for them, he is making sure that they don't do reckless things, making sure they eat properly and trying his best to cheer them up in his Clint fashion way, but is hard because not only the twins are hurting, Nat is hurting too she is closed off and distant, even when she partners up with the twins the rest of the time she keeps to herself.

Tony and Steve are still a little uneasy on how to approach the three of them, Tony is blaming himself and his ego, Steve is just lost he puts on his strong face but behind closed doors he is not better than Pietro, Bucky was his only family left, he lost the only person that know him before all this mess, he lost a brother too. Besides he respected you, even when the two of you had a rough start, he admired you just like he admires Natasha, it breaks his heart knowing that a wrong call did this much damage.

Tony, the billionaire is trying his best he even tries to cheer up Pietro buying him a new car, but the silver haired man, politely refused telling him the story of how the first car he ever had is a Dodge Challenger RT 73, you had it restored and tuned for him, three weeks later he crashed the right side during a street race. when he told you just laugh it up telling him that you bet Wanda a week until he crashed it, and you lost the bet and regarding the car it was now his problem to have it repaired, pretty much was a 'work your ass off to pay the repairs' with a pat of his back. Tony laugh wholeheartedly at the story, you indeed were something.

--

The next days (months?) are a complete blur you can hear yourself scream, other times you hear Bucky scream in agony, that's the only way you both know you are still alive. Both are being beaten to make you comply obedience (They'll need more than that). They refused to wip you both, they now know that Wanda will be able to snap you out of it. Even though you are being beaten to unconsciousness on daily basis, you learn two things, the one with the archangel wings code name is 'Dark Angel' (so original, and is indeed Anika) she can blast you with energy spheres. The other girl is called Dark Mist she can play with your mind and hurl you round with her telekinesis like a ragdoll, both of them can knock your ass out. The next time you regain consciousness you are strapped to a metal chair, Salarov and his two companions enter the lab room, he has a spider like dispositive on his hand. "Time to obey asset" there’s other two soldats that you know well, after some wrestle they forcibly shove a mouthguard on you. You are not stupid, you know what is about to happen, the scientist fiddle with the equipment setting it up, they lower the head piece in place, you try with all your strength to scape, but is in vein, Salarov only laughs at you “Do it” the scientist turns the machine on. You can feel the electricity swimming in your head, the pressure on your brain makes your sight fill with black dots, then it becomes white, the mouthguard can’t stop the agony screams and grunts, the other soldiers stand unfaced at your suffering.

They repeat the process at least a couple of times at the end your jaw is locked close like a Rottweiler, they pry out the mouthguard leaving you panting like a wounded animal. Your head feels crushed, pain is all you can register, you can hear Russian voices around you, several heartbeats (or is just yours?) you sight is blurry, but slowly it clears out. When Salarov ugly mug comes in sight you growl at him, you don’t know how you end up there, but in the back of your mind you know that Bucky is somewhere near.

The soldiers unclasp the handcuffs, but your body feels out cold, they haul you off the seat to toss you to the cold unforgiving floor. Your body is so heavy and beaten that falls like a sack. The sergeant nods at the soldats who land hard merciless kicks at your midriff, you growl and fumble in pain. After tasting a couple of boots, they forcibly make you kneel, your body hunches to the front, a dark oblivion is tempting you to surrender. The Mist traps you in place her energy makes your skin shiver in disgust. Salarov crunches before you he makes the spider like dispositive pierce your scalp, skull and the metal plate on the right side, you feel tentacles swimming beneath your skin running down your neck, a new burn runs through your veins.

(I can only hope that Bucky is dead to avoid being through this). "Status report soldat". "FUCK YOU" you venomously grunt spatting blood at him. He forcibly wipes out the blood off his face. "Increase the poison". You hiss in pain as your voice starts to falter, sight getting even blurrier. "Status report soldat" "F-FUCK YOU" your words are slurred but not less despiteful. "More" he grunts. You can’t voice a thing, your body shakes but you refuse to comply. They up the dose more, you can feel your thoughts drifting away, mind starting to blank even the pain starts to shut off. "Status report soldat" he angrily request. You voice is cold, emotionless, void of any human trait, after all the screaming in agony your voice is husky "Ready to comply" you mind is blank you don't longer feel or think, your stare is stern cold and unforgiving. "Code name" he request the glee in his voice is clear. "Ice Wolf" a kick of a boot sole your left cheek snap your face to the right, but you are unfaced staring blankly at the unknown. "Wrong, code name: asset 1. Repeat code name soldat" "Asset 1".

---

The soldats drag you to other lab room, where the doctors patch you up, before they store you, they show you some pictures requesting you to tell the names of the people framed, in the beginning you can name them all, but after awful discharges on your head you start forgetting the man with a slug smirk and dark brown eyes, the one with blue eyes an a shield, a redhead with green eyes, the man with metal arm, the one with the patch, a stern woman with blue eyes, an Asian woman with confident stance…every single one of them get lost in a void, the last ones you forget is a grey haired man with piercing blue eyes and a brunette woman with bright green eyes, they are replaced with enemies, a group call avengers they are targets to be eliminated given the order by your handler. The last thing you register is cold, is almost like a déjà vu, cold…cold until everything shuts off.

--- It's been two plus years since that mission, the avengers have taken down a several of Hydra's bases and hideouts. But despite all this effort a new Hydra unit has appeared three soldiers and two enhanced, they've been responsible of assassinations of important politicians some ex-Hydra high ranks and even done some terrorist attacks, their moves are always deadly precise and organized, the avengers have encountered them a several times.  The only intel they have is that the leader is called the Dark Tiger, his fighting style and armor like T'achalla's of course in no way as advanced as the king’s. He is always flanked by two soldiers (suspected super soldiers) they are always acting like shields to him, the intel says that this two are new advanced versions of the Ice Wolf and Winter Soldier (mocking the fallen ones with the names). The first enhanced posse’s electricity generation and telekinesis her code name Dark Mist, the other one poses archangel wings, can create energy blasts and has teletransportation, code name Dark Angel. The last members of this team are two 4’0 tall black wolves, one of them has bionic front limbs with long sharp claws the second one has bionic back limbs and bionic front paws they are always close to the Dark Wolf and the Dark Soldier. --- [Avengers Compound]

The avengers are gathered in the kitchen and dining table, some of them eating others talking. Wanda is currently talking with Natasha. As the news are playing in the background. *Breaking news, the truth about S.H.I.E.L.D's last failure*. The avengers pay no mind, since the Hydra mew group showed up some TV hosts have taken as their mission to talking crap about them. *... Well Charles, guess what we have here, you know about the rumors of the Wolf and the Winter Soldier, the Avengers said that the 'former' Hydra soldiers are on an undercover mission. Well unless this mission involves going to hell with no ticket back..."  Everyone halted what they were doing. Steve turns up the volume. Wanda's eyes turn red in anger while Natasha schools her features. *An anonymous source has leaked footage of a carnage almost two years ago...* The video shows footage of the fight *As you all can see the almighty heroes and S.H.I.E.L.D agents had their asses busted, but hold on, the best part is coming...* All the avengers stop what they are doing to look the news, they make their way to living space. "...The Wolf and the Winter Soldier were the chosen bait, they stayed back and end up blown to pieces, the last thing you see is Thor and Vision recovering some of their weapons and their masks all the items bloodied and beaten. And we are not done yet, this anonymous source was kind enough to reveal that our ‘beloved’ Wolf was in no way a hero, she was a high ranked Hydra member, high in the command chain, Y/N was a captain known as the Ice Wolf. Responsible for this* A large file package is shown. *She did all this with no brain washing or mind control, she was a mercenary, a cold blood mons...* the sound is turn off. Nat tries to calm down Wanda who right now is livid and crying. Pietro goes to them to engulf them on a big protective hug, his voice is full of anger “I’ll be right back, I’m going to kill him”, when he tries to rush out of the door Clint halts him with a hand on his chest “Hold your horses speedster, think before you do” Pietro groans in annoyance and goes back to his twin holding her close and kissing the crown of her head. "F.R.I.D.A.Y trace the source and shut down the news broadcast, erase everything available on the red". Rushing heel clicks can be hear nearing, Pepper comes running "Tony turn off... Guys... I'm sorry". A hologram is displayed in the middle of the coffee table. *Stark we need to do damage control*. "I'm on it, F.R.I.D.A.Y is taking down everything" Tony says jaw set and voice stern. *Call a press conference, Rogers take care of that mess. Be prepared for an attack, Hydra is making a move* the dark skin man says his voice hinted in anger. --- [Hydra base] --- *Message delivered sir, the avengers are calling a press conference*. *Tiger, ready your unit, you are crashing their conference, make sure is a big play, don't kill them yet*. *Yes, sir*.

The bulky Russian man walks to the living room of the safehouse "Company we have a mis... Mist where the fuck is Angel?!".

"She is playing with her sex toys".

[Angel's room]

I can hear a female voice chatting, her voice is quite lively and lately is the only thing that's reminds me I'm alive, most of the time I just feel pain and my body moving, others I just feel an overwhelming cold, on the best days I get glimpses of what Hydra wills me to do. Never in my twelve years serving them I felt like an asset, now I'm just that, and seems that Bucky couldn't avoid this fate again.

"What ya think Bucky, should I pretend is you this time or Wolfy?" She gets close to me.

My voice is barely a broken whisper "Last time... Was Buck".

"Oh?" she tilts her head "Hey Wolfy did I lowered the poison that much?" she only jiggles.

Our bodies are slumped against the wall, handcuffs keep the arms above our heads, the ankles are shackled too, collar and chain included.

She gets close to straddle my lap and lean in to whisper in my ear "As soon as they find out about you I'll help them get you back... Now behave he is coming" she presses a button of the controller.

I feel the burn in my veins increasing, slowly my mind drifts away.

She fakes kissing your neck as the door is slammed open.

"Angel! stop fucking them, we have a mission".

She groans in annoyance "Fine" pressing another button the shackles are open.

"Soldats! Gear up" he shouts, voice full of anger. Methodically like robots, both of you get up and walk out of the room following orders.

They wip you both before heading to the mission.

A/N: I hope you all enjoyed the chapter, as I said buckle up and twist your undies.

I might post another chapter this week, since my holydays end this week.

PART 6

[fandammit]

Oh god I’d read anything you decided to write, if I had to pick though I’d be curious to know how you’d headcanon the following scenario: flashback to the first time Hopper and Joyce meet after he settles back in Hawkins following her daughter’s death, and the flashback is linked to a situation happening in the present time.

You will love again (the stranger who was your self)

[A/N: On Ao3 || Title from “Love after Love” by Derek Walcott || big ups to @abbykomskaikru for her encouragement and edits as I attempt to write in this new fandom]

Hawkins is the same as always, even if he isn’t.

He spends his days wandering the same tidy streets of his youth, driving down the same quiet country roads; spends his nights chasing drink after drink in the same bars he used to walk past as a kid.

There’s that same ache in his chest he always felt when he lived here before.

But that ache had been a vague, dull kind of pain that had pushed him to leave, to go, to run as far and as fast as he could once he turned 18.

This ache is different.

It expands from the center of his chest, ripped and cavernous, a throbbing sort of pain that never dulls, never fades, no matter how many whiskey bottles he goes through.He wonders if it will kill him. Wonders, on those empty, lonely nights when the pain of loss cuts jagged across his heart, why it’s taking so long.

It’s winter in Hawkins.

Snow falls steadily in the morning, leaving sheets of white across Hawkins’ quiet neighborhoods.

He tries not to look at the huge drifts of snow, because looking at them will remind them of Sarah. Her red snow coat that she couldn’t wait to wear, the sound of her laughter as she crunched her new boots in the snow, the feel of her hand in his as she warmed her frozen fingers.

He curses at himself for deciding to walk to the liquor store rather than drive. There are snowmen and snow angels everywhere, and he thinks that his chest might collapse every time he walks past one.

He’s walking quickly past the park, almost jogging, when he hears it.

Laughter, bright and sparkling in the cold afternoon air. The high tones settle against him, spark at some memory he thought he’d forgotten.

He looks past the chain link fence beside him, out into the playground in the middle of the park. Sees a young boy smoothing down the sides of snowman, an older boy - barely in his teens - who looks similar enough that he must be his brother surveying the work like a doting father. He pinpoints the source of the laughter.

Joyce.

She turns and looks at him from across the field, and he’s close enough to see the moment she makes up her mind to come over and talk to him.

It startles him. Being seen.

His grief is a cloak, is a curse. His loss renders him invisible. His pain makes him untouchable.

His sorrow has made him a ghost.

He catches Joyce’s stare with a flat look of his own. It’s a look that says no, that says not today, not ever. It’s a look from adolescence, honed from years on the police force, perfected by a thousand moments of anger.

It works on everyone else.

It doesn’t work on Joyce.

It shouldn’t surprise him – Joyce never cared about that look. Not when they were kids and stood side by side at the same height; not when they were teenagers and his tall frame dwarfed her smaller size.

She stands on the other side of the fence, hands to her side, a cigarette dangling between her fingers. She doesn’t give him an awkward smile, doesn’t use a special voice the way everyone else does. She just looks at him with a mix of warmth and sadness, and for some reason it doesn’t make him angry.

“Hey, Hop,” she says quietly, the nickname dropping from her mouth like it hasn’t been 20 years since she’s used it.

He gives her a long stare. Considers just walking away, the way he’s done to countless other people in this town.

“Joyce,” he hears himself say instead, his voice rough and gritty with disuse. He tries to think of the last time he talked to someone. Realizes he doesn’t know.

There’s a shriek of laughter behind her and they both glance back towards the playground. The boy - the smaller one - is sitting in the snow, gripping his sides as he laughs; the older one is brushing snow from his hair, a crooked smile on his face.

It makes his throat constrict. There’s a ringing in his ears as he reaches out and grips the metal bar of the fence, pushes a question out through gritted teeth as he tries not to think of red winter coats and fine blond hair.

“The younger one is Will - he just turned ten,” Joyce is saying, shocking him back to the moment, alerting him to the question he hadn’t planned on asking. “Jonathan is thirteen.” She glances over at him, at the way he’s clutching at the railing.

He nods curtly but doesn’t say anything. He wants to move, to walk away, but he doesn’t trust his legs to hold him steady. He looks at the two boys, the way that Jonathan is helping Will stack the final rolled ball of snow atop their snowman, how he rests his hand gently on Will’s shoulder to survey their work, how Will leans into him and snakes his arm around the older boy’s waist.

It draws him painfully back to Sarah’s last winter before she got sick. The seriousness with which she had approached snowman building, the way she had insisted on making it a snowlady rather than a snowman. Something cracks in him and he knows that Joyce must see it.

He swallows thickly, clenches his jaw to distract from the burning behind his eyes.

He nods at Joyce, who’s looking at him with a mix of sympathy and sadness that makes him angry even as it lessens the tightness in his throat. Glances over at the boys, at a life he had once and lost, at a past he both wants to escape and to preserve, and walks the other way.

Hawkins looks the same as always, even though he knows it isn’t.

He spends his days chasing after lost dogs and talking to irate neighbors, spends each case trying to figure out if there’s something hidden, something nefarious underneath the banality of it all.

His nights are different now – no longer lonely, tiresome things filled with too much booze and too little human contact. Instead, he rushes home every night, tries to make it before 5:30, calls if he’ll be later than 6:00.

Most nights are quiet, filled with hot meals and soft music and homework to review. Some are loud and headache-inducing; dinners that are filled with too many screaming, laughing, fighting kids and a mismatching set of menu items – a perfect casserole from Nancy, slightly undercooked pasta from Will and Joyce, store bought cake from Steve.

There’s a different feeling in his chest, now. It’s not an ache, though it nestles in the center of his chest in the same way, burrows into his heart the same way that hurt used to.

Not love, though it’s that, too. Not happiness, though he could call it by that and be telling the truth.

He looks at Eleven’s thick, brown curls, long enough that it’s at her shoulders. Looks at the way she smiles at the utter pandemonium at the dinner table, the way Joyce reaches out to her with a soft smile and soft touch. Thinks about that feeling in his chest – how expansive it feels, how little he feels like he deserves it.

Contentment, he thinks, the word blanketing him the same way that grief used to.

He wonders when that happened. Wonders, in the middle of the barely contained chaos they call Thursday night dinner, how he ever thought just surviving could be enough. 

There’s snow on the ground, six years from his first winter here.

The front yard of the Byers house is blanketed with it , rising up in huge drifts, making the world seem cleaner and crisper than it ever really is.

It would be peaceful, if not for the loud shouts and peals of laughter ringing out through the air, the crunch of nine different pairs of boots running around the yard.

The snowman competition had been Nancy’s idea, a way to let out everyone’s energy after a string of blizzardy days. He hadn’t been sure how much it would take out of them, really, but he has to admit that he also didn’t realize they’d all take the competition as seriously as they seem to be doing.

He hopes this means dinner tonight will be less of a stampede and more of an actual shared meal, but he’s not counting on it.

He brushes his fingers over the three handmade ribbons in jacket pocket, pushed furtively into his hands by Nancy as soon as she and Mike had pulled up to the house.

(“What do we need three prizes for?” He asks, puzzling over the three intricately crafted ribbons in his hand.

Nancy waits for the rest of the group to clamber into the house, Dustin yelling a string of curse words as he stubs his toe on the top step.

“I think everyone should get a prize, don’t you? The kids have all been planning their snowmen for weeks.”

He stares at her, raises a skeptical brow.

“Everyone getting first prize kind of defeats the purpose of a prize, doesn’t it?”

“They’re not all getting first prize – look at the stitching.”

He looks down, studies each ribbon in turn: one for ‘most creative’, another for ‘most personality’, the third, slightly more elaborate one that reads ‘best overall’.

He motions to the one at the top of the pile.

“What the hell does most personality mean?”

She shrugs her shoulders, though there’s a smile on her face as she does it.

“I’m pretty sure you’ll know it when you see it.”)

Jane, Max and Nancy are hard at work on what is, quite honestly, shaping up to be a pretty damn impressive snow woman. She’s holding Max’s skateboard in one hand, stick arm outstretched in front of her, a nicely braided brown wig on her head. The two younger girls are bent close to one another, shaping the body, while Nancy works intently on carving out details on their snow woman’s face.

Jonathan, Will and Mike look like they’re creating something that looks like one of the drawings that Will has tacked up on his bedroom wall. Jonathan is working on a pile of snow that looks vaguely like a wizard’s hat, while Will and Mike work on sticking in a bunch of dried twigs that look like they’re meant to be a beard.

Dustin, Lucas and Steve are…trying, which is the best word that he can really give to whatever it is they’re putting together. There’s a wide, flattened base that is just that, with a bunch of smaller rounded snowballs surrounding it. They spend an equal amount of time arguing with one another as they do actually working, though it’s to Steve’s credit that they seem to be getting anything done at all.

“The first time I saw you again was when Jonathan and Will were building that snowman in the park,” Joyce says quietly, her eyes twinkling up at him. Her hands are wrapped around a steaming mug of hot chocolate, her small frame leaning ever so slightly into his. “Do you remember?”

He nods, takes a drink of his own hot chocolate before he looks over at her.

“I think that was the first conversation I’d had with anyone after moving back.” He taps his fingers absently against his mug. “I guess conversation is a bit of a stretch.”

Joyce shrugs, the corner of her mouth lifting.

“You gave what you could at the time.” She takes a small sip. “I understood.”

He nods, holding the mug against his chest. A breeze blows in through the woods, and he steps in closer to Joyce when he feels her shiver. They’re quiet for a long moment, the sounds of Steve and Dustin arguing, of Jane and Max laughing, rising up into the bright, cold afternoon.

“I haven’t made a snowman since Sarah died,” he says after a long moment, his voice faltering over the syllables of her name. “She had this new red coat – those little, um, poms attached to the zippers, with a white stripe up the arms.” He blows out a breath. “God, she loved that coat.”

He sets down his mug on the railing in front of him to hide the tremor in his hands that he knows has nothing to do with the cold.

“I must’ve spent hours on that thing. She tried so hard to help me - you know how kids are. I’d roll up a snowball and she’d pat loose snow into the sides, and half of it would just fall back down onto the ground.” He huffs out a laugh, though it hurts his throat to do it.

He doesn’t know why he’s telling Joyce this. It’s not like she asked. It’s not like she’s ever asked, ever pried into that part of his life. All he knows is that now that he’s started, something in him doesn’t want him to stop. “It ended up so lopsided, but it didn’t matter to her. She had all these pretty little rocks and beads and shells that she’d been collecting from God knows where, all tucked away in the pockets of her jacket. I just stood there and held her up as she decorated our snow lady with them.” He smiles at the memory. “It was - ,” he sniffs and laughs softly, and this time it doesn’t hurt so badly. “It was really fucking hideous.”

Joyce laughs out loud next to him.

“I bet she loved it though, Hop.”

He smiles, a small, shaky thing.

“God, she did. She really did.” He clenches his jaw, blows out a breath through gritted teeth. He feels Joyce’s small hands wrap around his own, lacing their fingers together and squeezing them. Her touch loosens the tightness in his chest.

“She would’ve stayed out there for hours looking at it, but I made us go inside as soon as it got dark. I didn’t want her to get sick.” He shakes his head. “I was the one who ended up getting sick – caught the damn flu two days later. By the time I got better, the snow was too slushy to be anything but annoying.”

He takes another deep breath in, lets it out slowly.

“It was early in spring when she got sick. By the time winter came around again…” He lifts one shoulder. “Well, you saw me.”

Joyce looks up at him, her eyes brimming with affection and sympathy and sadness. She doesn’t say anything, just lifts their intertwined fingers to her lips and presses a kiss against the back of his hand.

The movement is easy and honest, as though it’s something they’ve done a hundred times rather than a moment of affection he feels like moves across this invisible barrier they’ve constructed. He tries not think about how natural it feels, how it soothes the hurt and longing in his chest. Just focuses on the feel of her delicate fingers wrapped around his clumsy ones, the press of her body as she leans in against him. Somehow it feels like she’s the one who’s holding him up, even though he’s a full foot taller than her, an easy hundred pounds heavier.

He sighs and closes his eyes. His heart feels scraped open and raw, but it doesn’t hurt like it used to. He feels lighter, too – like he’s finally set down a heavy weight he didn’t know he was carrying this whole time.

He looks down at their intertwined fingers, pressing the tips of his fingers into the soft ridges between her knuckles, before looking back up at her. She meets his gaze and for a moment, it seems like the rest of the world fades out behind him. He drops his gaze momentarily to her lips and –

The sound of an alarm clock pierces through the moment, startling their gaze away from one another. It cuts through the voices of the kids, though for a moment it serves only to make them even louder.

“Everybody shut up,” Nancy says in a commanding voice, glowering at the yelling group of boys to the right of her, and suddenly everyone just…does.

Joyce chuckles, the heaviness between them dissipating in the cold January air.

“Looks like someone’s been taking pointers from you,” she says teasingly, looking over at him.

He huffs a laugh, though he can’t help but be impressed.

“I should’ve taken her as a deputy in training rather than Steve,” he mutters, grinning down at her when she leans into him and laughs.

“Mrs. Byers, Hopper,” Nancy calls to them, “Are you ready?”

Joyce squeezes his hand tightly before letting go and walking down the steps. He stares after her, flexing his fingers, before he ambles down the steps after her.

Jonathan, Steve and Nancy make all the kids stand back by the porch, which he’s grateful for. The last thing he wants is for a group of 14 year olds to follow his every step as he walks around pretending to judge their snowmen.

“So do we actually have to judge these?” He murmurs in a low tone to Joyce, who looks at him with fake indignance. He lifts his hands up in a ‘what?’ motion. “I mean, isn’t it obvious?”

She tilts her head at him and crosses her arms in front of her.

“Hop,” she warns, and he can’t help the way warmth blooms in his chest at the way she’s looking at him, fond and affectionate and exasperated all at once. “We need to take judging this snowman competition incredibly seriously,” she says, though she can’t quite hide the glimmer of laughter in his voice as she does.

He rolls his eyes – a movement he’s unfortunately picked up by being around a teenager so much – but lets himself be led to the nearest snowman without further comment, Joyce’s arm threaded through his.

Nancy, Jane and Max’s snow woman is obviously the best, with its impressive detail and creativity. It actually looks like a person, for one, clothes and accessories carved into the snow and draped over the form. He glances over at the stack of tools the girls used – a mixture of what looks to be pumpkin carving utensils and common household tools. He’s honestly sad that it’ll probably melt in the next few days, what with the weatherman predicting warmer temperatures for the end of the week.

They move onto Will, Mike and Jonathan’s. It’s more traditionally snowman shaped, but still obviously planned and well thought out. There’s a snowy wizard’s hat on top of its head, glow in the dark stars stuck to it, and a beard made of sticks that hangs over a dark blue robe. It’s holding a large, gnarled staff in one hand that has a lantern hanging from the end. The other stick hand is facing straight out, thin branches coming out of the end that make it look like a hand splayed out. Attached to it is a bright blue glass ornament, like a burst of blue energy coming out from its hand.

They move onto the final entry from Steve, Lucas and Dustin, which is less of a single snowman and more of a scene of sorts, from what he can tell.

It’s a group of snowmen gathered around a long, flat oval – except that the snowmen (and snow women, he guesses, if the wigs are meant to be any indication of gender) are not so much even snow people as they are vaguely shaped lumps of snow with accessories draped over them.

He glances over at Joyce, who looks just about as confused as he feels.

“Alright kid - kids - explain this to me,” he says, looking over at the group of teens to his left.

Steve scrubs a tired hand over his eyes while Lucas just looks away, embarrassed.

Dustin, however, looks exasperated at the both of them, as though it’s their fault the snow scene has no discernible shape or purpose.

“It’s us!” Dustin says, gesturing wildly to the lumps of snow in front of them as if that explains everything. “All of us – at Thursday night dinner.”

“What do you mean – .” He stops, takes a closer look at the figure directly across from him.

He can’t help it – he throws his head back and laughs. Because now that Dustin’s explained it, he actually has no problem figuring out who’s supposed to be who.

There’s a short figure with a blue and white hat on its head, sticks arms outstretched, rock outlined mouth open wide. It faces another snowman with stick arms also in the air, a camo banana wrapped around its head. Next to them is a snowman wearing an outrageous brunette wig, an l-shaped branch stuck to its side that makes it look like its rubbing its snowy temple.

At the very head of what he now realizes is meant to be a table is a figure with dirt smudged around the bottom half of his face – a beard he assumes – his stone mouth a straight, disapproving line. Its arm sticks straight out, resting across the back of a smaller snowman wearing a green jacket, its stone mouth curling up in a smile.

He looks over at Joyce, who’s staring at their snowy doppelgangers with a faint smile on her face, and nudges her with his elbow.

She glances up at him,her expression soft.

“Well,” she says, grinning, “it certainly has a lot of personality.”

He chuckles and nods, bringing out the ribbons from his coat pocket. He gestures between each individual one and the snowmen in turn. She nods at his suggestions, laughter in her eyes.

Together they award “best overall” to the snow woman, “most creative” to the wizard and “most personality” to the dinner scene.

The kids are solemn as Joyce announces the winners, each team cheering on the others. He can’t imagine there can be any real surprises – he’d basically known who was going to win the minute the kids all announced the teams. The kids must know it too, considering how little debate there is among them. At one point during the ribbon ceremony Dustin starts to speak up, but claps his mouth shut when he gets a look from Steve.

“Nice job, everyone,” Joyce says, smiling widely at all the kids, “now go inside and warm up. Dinner should be ready in another fifteen minutes or so.”

That breaks the polite mood among them, all the teens suddenly talking at once, moving up the stairs at once – a wave of shouting and laughing and shoving that simultaneously makes his head hurt and his heart swell.

Only Jane lingers, coming over to him and reaching over to wrap his hand in her own.

“Are you ok?” Jane asks, looking up at him with those wide brown eyes, concern hovering at the edges. “You seem…” She wrinkles her forehead as she concentrates on finding just the right word. “You seem pensive,” she finishes up, a flash of victory in her eyes that makes him exceptionally proud.

He smiles down at her, running his hand over her hair and dropping a kiss into her hairline.

“Yeah, kid, I’m alright.” She looks at him a moment longer, considering his words, then throws her arms around him, squeezing him tight around his waist.

“I love you, dad,” she says quietly, her voice muffled against his coat.

He swallows thickly, pulling her close. He’s still struck, sometimes, by how extraordinary his life has become. Not because of monsters and alternate dimensions and lost children come back from the dead – but because of moments like this. Moments he thought he’d lost forever, emotions he thought he’d never have again. So he lets himself relish the moment – the simple sincerity with which she says it, the slim warmth of her against his chest.

“Love you, too, sweetheart,” he says, his voice gruff as he rubs his cheek into her wild mess of hair. He lets go and nudges her towards the house. “Now get inside and get warmed up. You’re freezing.”

She nods and walks quickly up the steps, the door banging shut behind her.

He turns around and walks over Joyce, who’s standing in the middle of the yard staring at the snowmen with a faint smile. He follows her gaze and finds that he can’t help the smile that creeps over his face, either.

She glances at him, shifts over until she’s standing directly in front of him. After a moment, she steps back into him as a shiver lances through her, the top of her head brushing up against his chin.

He hesitates, wanting and unsteady, his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides, but then another cold breeze sweeps over them and it feels only right to lean down and wrap his arms around her.

“Next year,” Joyce says, her voice soft and warm, “we can build our own snowman for the competition.”

[ewinglogan93]

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[kaylahill94]

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[cyanoscarlet]

on the other side is hope

#yoiweek2017 Day 4 (The Inferno) - anything related to emotions

Viktor, before and after Yuuri’s death.

(stories on (and off) ice)

.

"Tadaima, Yuuri!" Viktor announces himself cheerfully as he enters their room. It's funny how the familiar Japanese phrase still does not roll off his tongue quite right despite years of use.

Yuuri looks up from the book he's reading. More than two weeks have passed, but he is still only halfway through. "Sitting up for long hours no longer agrees with me," he had once said. The dark circles under his eyes seem to get worse despite spending almost the entire day sleeping.

It breaks Viktor's heart every time.

"Okaeri, Viten'ka," Yuuri returns the greeting in kind. He manages a smile, at least. He always tries his best, the way only he can do. It's been so long; Viktor should know - they know each other the best, after all.

.

Phichit and Yurio are the first to arrive at the hospital. The former practically bursts his way through the room, as if getting there even a second earlier would change everything.

Viktor watches the gray skies from the window. He barely registers anything -- not the somber mood, not the comforting words, not his friends' tears.

Of course, it changes nothing. Just like how he feels now.

Nothing.

.

Yuuri has always been the one to reassure Viktor, even when he did no better himself.

It was in the small trick with the crumpled tissue paper. It was in the decision to do the Rostelecom free skate alone. It was in the complete confidence and pride with which he gave the performance of his life. It is in their most intimate moments, those loving eyes full of trust as he says yes -- yes, he wants this.

And it is in his brave, unfaltering smile, now, as he accepts everything and prepares to let go.

Viktor doesn't. He fights, he pleads, he begs with so much tears streaming down his face to please don't do this to me! You can't go! I love you so much, and --

He is enveloped in a bone-crushing hug, in unusually strong arms that should have been weakened by months of illness and disuse. Viktor tenses as he feels Yuuri's actions betray his words.

"Please, Viktor. It's enough."

It's okay. I'm happy, he supplies Yuuri's unsaid words in his mind as hot tears stain his shirt.

.

It is all too surreal, Viktor thinks. There are too many flowers, too many candles, too many people in black -- formal, subdued, crying.

He almost trips over his traditional hakama, also black. The smell of burning incense is nauseating.

Chris -- he thinks it's Chris -- leads him out of the room. The black suit looks absolutely terrible on him.

Viktor has never hated a single color this much in his life.

.

They go out on one of Yuuri's better days. Viktor excitedly points out to various things as he pushes the wheelchair along the park. Everything seems more beautiful, more lively, more colorful than ever.

Yuuri knows he's exaggerating. Points it out, even, like he always does whenever his insufferable grown-child-of-a-husband is being ridiculous.

It's like the old days, really, if he thinks about it -- if he wills it hard enough. Some days, it works. Hopefully, today can be one of them.

The illusion holds throughout the day, over a barely-filling meal and a bouquet of false flowers, and as their golden rings reflect the red of the setting sun.

Yuuri kisses him tenderly, and as the bitter taste of medicine lingers on his lips, Viktor lets himself believe.

.

It suddenly hits him all at once -- in the restroom, of all places.

One minute, he's adjusting his uncomfortable, black haori before the mirror, and the next, he's curled up and trembling on the floor, big, violent sobs wracking every fiber of his being. All the pent-up feelings of grief and denial he'd held for the past three days -- perhaps even longer than that -- come down on him like a ton of bricks, and he is unable to think, unable to do anything, unable to shake off the horrible feelings of hurt and longing and despair that he refused to acknowledge until now.

Funny how he truly, finally understands how Yuuri must have felt when he lost both poodle and podium in Sochi, after the man himself died.

Funnier thing is, he thinks he does .

Where does he even begin?

.

Moonlight filters through the window blinds as Viktor sits by his husband's bedside, lazily drawing compulsory figures on the thin, white sheets. "It's a nice substitute for dancing on the ice," he says.

Yuuri laughs weakly, sharing in the joke. Even in his worn state, his brown eyes shine as bright as ever, like they always have. His gaunt finger joins Viktor's on the soft fabric, tracing old programs from memory, adding jumps in the appropriate places.

Viktor's finger stills as Yuuri's meets it halfway, as if asking for a dance. They move together in time with the music, and if he tries hard enough, he can hear it echo loudly -- Stammi vicino, non te ne andare.

It was a plea he'd made long ago, alone on a big expanse of ice. It was a plea answered, as they danced together on the same ice, promising to never let go.

And now...

"Promise me you'll live on," Yuuri whispers his own plea. "Live for yourself, and for all the people we love."

Viktor nods, clasping both their hands together. He'll live a thousand lives more, if Yuuri wishes for it.

.

Viktor spends the next few weeks at the Yu-topia inn, helping out with the work however he can. Though Yuuri's death has shattered them all, life goes on, and so must they.

The atmosphere is a lot more subdued, a far cry from the warmth and happiness he has always associated with the place. It is as if a great snowstorm had come and passed, leaving everything frozen in its wake.

Perhaps, it is only Viktor's own heart that is frozen, numb from the hurt, unable to move on.

Everyone calls him at some point, some even more persistent than others. He exchanges empty pleasantries, gives noncommittal answers, says the same things over and over, as if his own beliefs will change in time if he just keeps at it.

He doesn't even know anymore.

A month passes, and Viktor is called by Mama Hiroko  to Yuuri's old room.

They quietly sort through Yuuri's old belongings, some for Viktor to take home, others to be given away. Some items evoke certain memories, and he finds himself in tears again.

Mama Hiroko isn't any better, either, but God bless her, she tries.

Ah, Viktor realizes with a start, Yuuri's just like his mother.

"Vicchan," she  begins with a shaky voice, "I know how difficult this has all been. All this..." She starts to cry again, unable to continue. He opens his arms for an embrace.

"Thank you for loving our son," she goes on after a while. "For staying with him, for making him happy, up until his last moments." Viktor nods. He, too, thanks all the gods for giving him Yuuri, for giving him a special ray of light when he was lost.

For giving him back life and love, and everything else.

He feels the ice in his heart gradually melt again. He has a life to live, and live it well he will.

.

Viktor returns with a takeout from the downstairs cafeteria. He sets it down on the side table and starts talking about this funny thing that happened while he was waiting in line.

Yuuri doesn't answer.

The katsudon remains uneaten, growing colder with each passing minute.

.

They run through the choreography over breakfast, with Kenjirou excitedly asking questions between mouthfuls of food. Viktor stifles a laugh as the boy chokes, offering another glass of water.

After cleaning up and doing a final check of their luggage, the two stop by the row of framed photographs in the living room. Kenjirou puts his hands together before a picture of Yuuri, silently praying for luck and guidance for the upcoming competition. Behind him, Viktor kisses his wedding ring, before letting his hand linger on Yuuri's own band, which he now wears as a pendant around his neck.

He imagines his husband lifting the ring and bringing it to his own lips.

'I will always watch over you, my Viten'ka,' he hears, quietly whispered in the air.

Viktor smiles, contentment washing over him. "Ittekimasu," he breathes out. "Ya lyublyu tebya."

'Itterashai,' the response comes, completing the ritual. 'Aishiteru.'

It's enough.

[sherristockman]

Keys to Coping With Grief During the Holidays Dr. Mercola By Dr. Mercola Dealing with the loss of my mom, who died this past July, I have a new appreciation for those who experience intensified feelings of grief and loss during the holiday season. Grief is a valuable feeling but can be an “emotional rollercoaster.” Given its ebb and flow, it can be hard to know how to embrace, process and express feelings of grief, especially during the holidays. The most important resource to help me resolve the grief with my mother was the last book that Dr. David Hawkins wrote before he passed, “Letting Go: The Pathway to Surrender.” He teaches a simple yet profoundly effective strategy that helps you fully experience your feelings until they morph and change. This was one of the best books I read this year. If your heart is heavy this Christmas, while the “rest of the world” seems to be experiencing a time of joyous celebration, you are not alone. Everyone deals with grief and loss at some time in their lives, and many more are actively suffering than you may realize. Thankfully, there are numerous tips and tools to help you cope and get through this sensitive time in ways that honor you and your deceased loved one. Why Do Holidays Compound Our Sense of Grief? No matter how much time has passed since the death of a loved one or how much emotional healing has taken place, something about the holidays tends to bring feelings of grief and loss rushing to the surface all over again. Intense feelings of grief can cause you to view the holiday season with dread. You may come to see it as something to “get through,” rather than a series of occasions to be celebrated and enjoyed. While some view the winter holidays as the most wonderful time of the year — especially as it relates to the many festivities enjoyed together with family and friends — after a loss, these occasions are not only less wonderful, but can also be stressful and depressing. Emotions run high, especially the first year immediately after the death of your loved one. While you may feel better equipped to deal with the emotions in subsequent years, some aspect of the grief will undoubtedly linger. As such, the holidays may always be difficult to some degree without the presence of that special person. Dr. Anthony Komaroff, professor of medicine at Harvard Medical School, practicing senior physician at Brigham and Women's Hospital in Boston and editor-in-chief of the Harvard Health Letter, who experienced the loss of his father one month before the holidays, knows firsthand how difficult it can be to celebrate the holidays while grieving the loss of someone dear. He states:1 “Family and togetherness are key themes for the holidays. That can make the holidays awfully difficult for people who are grieving the loss of a loved one … Although grief is nearly universal, it expresses itself in many different ways … Frequent crying spells, depressed mood, sleep disturbances and loss of appetite … Grief is not a tidy, orderly process, and there is no right way to grieve. Every person — and every family — does it differently. This can cause emotions to collide and overlap, especially during the holiday season …” Writing for the Huffington Post, Rhonda O’Neill, author, grief survivor and pediatric registered nurse, who has successfully navigated a number of holiday seasons while grieving the deaths of her husband and a son, writes:2 “Society sends us the message that we are supposed to be joyful and that the holidays are a time for celebration and connecting with people we love … We are required to show up to family gatherings, with a vital part of our family missing, and pretend that we are fine. We are not fine. The reminder of our loss is never as obvious as when we are surrounded by our extended family and friends, [because] their [families] are whole and together. Our family has an obvious vacant spot and will never be whole without our missing loved one … [T]he holidays will never be the same again without them there by our side.” Tips on Dealing With Grief During the Holidays Because feelings of grief and loss tend to be intensified during the holidays, it’s important you mentally prepare yourself beforehand. By being aware the holidays will likely trigger heavy emotions, you can take steps to care for your tender heart as you go through them. O’Neill offers the following suggestions for grieving during this festive time of year:3 Be gentle with yourself Rule No. 1 for dealing with grief during the holidays is be gentle with yourself. You may not get as much accomplished as you’d like. You may not be able to cook, entertain or shop. Go slow. Be kind to yourself. Lower your expectations. You are in pain and most of your energy is needed to deal with the grief. Listen to your body and your emotions Trying to ignore your body and your emotions during the holidays seldom works. To get your attention, your body may simply shut down, making you physically ill. This can happen even if your issues are mainly emotional in nature. Rather than battle an illness during the holidays, make time throughout the season to check in with your body and engage with your emotions. Seek out activities and people that lift your spirits When dealing with grief during the holidays it is especially important to choose activities and people that will enliven your mood and lift your spirits. The last thing you want to do is apply your limited emotional and physical energy to activities and people that will further drain you or add to your emotional pain. Avoid the tendency to isolate Hiding away is a common tendency for people who are experiencing grief, sadness and loss. It’s scary to be around others because you never know what people may say in response to your grief. While it’s somewhat risky to be social, loneliness is worse, and you need human contact and emotional support. Even short visits with safe, emotionally-healthy family and friends are better than no visits at all. Don’t overextend emotionally or physically As a grieving person going through the holidays, you will probably notice you don’t have as much emotional and physical energy as usual. This is normal and OK. You don’t have as much to give others right now, and it’s perfectly acceptable for you to be on the receiving end for a time. Set some boundaries around how much you’ll do, whether it be cooking, entertaining or shopping. Be realistic and don’t be afraid to turn down invitations and offers, even at the last minute. Learn to say no “No” is a powerful word that can help you set limits around what you will and will not do as you go through the holidays. Unfortunately, some family members and friends will not receive this word very well, but that is not your problem. You are not responsible for what other people think or feel about your limits. Your goal is to take care of yourself and to move through the holidays as best as you can. Saying no can help. Talk about how you’re feeling Especially at the holidays, you will benefit from having a counselor, friend, pastor or support group to talk to about how you’re feeling. In the absence of a caring person, you can most certainly record your thoughts in a journal. Talking and journaling can help you work through intense feelings. These activities take swirling thoughts out of your head and provide emotional relief when you are feeling overwhelmed. Consider volunteering or helping someone in need One of the best remedies for taking a temporary break from intense feelings is to put your focus on serving or helping someone else. Volunteer opportunities abound during the holidays. You can take a break from heavy emotions by serving at a soup kitchen, helping at a homeless shelter or supporting a church, community or school event. Reflect on the holidays you shared with your deceased loved one One way to honor the memory of special people in your life is to remember them during the holidays. What role did they assume during times of celebration? What were his/her favorite aspects of the celebration? What memories do you have of them at this time of year? You may want to get out photos, letters and other items that remind you of him/her. Playing music or serving food your loved one enjoyed are other ways to honor them. Creating New Rituals Can Help You Honor a Loved One While some aspects of the holidays are changed forever due to the absence of your loved one, you can remember and honor them by creating new rituals focused on them.4,5 Some families remember a deceased loved one simply by maintaining an empty chair at the table during a holiday meal. Others place a photo in a special location and surround it with holiday decorations, a memorial candle or other memory-evoking adornments. If your loved one made a special dish for your holiday gathering, you might want to get the recipe and make it in remembrance of him or her. Perhaps your deceased family member or friend was an avid holiday volunteer. If so, consider participating in a charitable event or service project as a way of honoring them. If you are unable to serve, consider sending a monetary gift to a favorite charity in recognition of them. EFT Can Help You Cope With Grief and Stress During the Holidays The Emotional Freedom Techniques (EFT) is a useful tool you can use to help you cope with feelings of grief and loss during the holidays. EFT is an energy psychology method designed to help you process emotions and reprogram your body's reactions related to them. As a kind of do-it-yourself form of emotional acupuncture, EFT stimulates your body’s energy meridians as you lightly tap on key points. EFT is an effective means of releasing trapped emotions and the mental and physical pain associated with them. In the video above, Julie Schiffman demonstrates how to use EFT for grief. Even if you have never used EFT before, take a few minutes to learn the technique and then use it whenever grief surfaces. What I love about EFT is that you can apply it to virtually every type of emotion. If you find yourself having trouble coping at a holiday event or meal, step into a private area and tap. You’ll be surprised at how quickly EFT can knock down the intensity of your feelings and help you effectively deal with holiday stress. Stress Management: An Essential Part of Your Holiday Plan Besides creating new rituals and using EFT, there are a number of other stress-management strategies you can employ as you navigate the holidays. A few of the most important ones are: Eating a healthy diet: Avoiding alcohol, processed foods and sugary treats will go a long way in helping you feel good during the holidays. While you may think it’s OK to “live a little” during this festive time of the year, you will most likely regret the extra weight, depressed mood and other ill effects that will result if you overindulge. A far wiser approach would be to incorporate organic fruits and vegetables, grass fed meats, healthy fats, fermented foods and a high-quality probiotic supplement in your daily diet. Getting daily exercise: Studies have shown tranquilizing chemicals called endorphins are released in your brain during exercise. As such, daily exercise is a natural way to bring your body pleasurable relaxation year-round. During the holidays, exercise is even more vital to your well-being because it is a great stress reliever. Sleeping enough: Failing to get enough high-quality, restorative sleep can damage your health even if your diet and exercise programs are stellar. Most adults need seven to eight hours of sleep a night, and you will need even more during the holiday season, especially if you are grieving. If you want help in this area, check out my 33 tips to help improve your sleep. Spending time in reflection, meditation or prayer: For many, the holidays are a spiritually-oriented time involving reflection, meditation and/or prayer. When practiced regularly, these activities are natural stress busters. They are also helpful in addressing feelings of grief and loss. Taking supplements to cope with holiday stress: There is no doubt the holidays can be stressful. Seven supplements that help fight the holiday stress are ashwagandha, L-theanine, lavender oil, magnesium, potassium and vitamins B12 and D3. If you can only take one, I suggest vitamin D3 because it has the greatest potential to boost your energy and resiliency year-round, and most particularly during the winter holidays. I know from personal experience that dealing with grief and loss is a challenge regardless of the time of year the feelings arise. Given the focus on relationships and togetherness, there is something unique about the holidays that makes these feelings more intense. Regardless of how you spend Christmas or ring in the New Year, you owe it to yourself to take action to safeguard your heart and your emotions this holiday season. Choose one or more of the tips above and apply them as best you can. In doing so, you will be able to move through the holidays connected to yourself and, equally importantly, connected to the warm feelings and positive memories you have about your loved one.