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violentdelightsandviolentends · 9 months

Text

Honey Girl. Chapter Three.

Chapter One. Chapter Two. Chapter Four. Chapter Five. Chapter Six. Chapter Seven. Chapter Eight. Series Masterlist. The Playlist.

Chapter Synopsis - You and Bucky get closer. Your choice only gets harder.

Pairing - Dad'sBestFriend!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader - soulmate au.

Word Count - 6.4k

Age Rating - 18+

Warnings - smut. cursing. angst. alcohol consumption.

Author's Note - angels, i can only apologise for the wait!! i've had some stuff going on, and i was on vacation, so this has taken a while. thank you so much for your patience, kindness and support on Honey Girl - it means everything.

as always, reblogs, comments and feedback (even anonymous feedback!!) are immensely appreciated!! your reblogs are the only way to circulate my fics, which keeps me going <3 please, send me your thoughts, predictions, desires!! i will get excited with you!!

Masterlist. Inbox.

The sunlight seeps through the stained glass windows, murmured chatter echoing off the stone walls around you.

You smooth down your dress and adjust your bracelet, smiling at the rare sight of your family and friends all gathered together in one place. Your parents are sat on either side of you, all of you eagerly awaiting the beginning of this exciting occasion.

Man, you love weddings. You always have. So much happiness and joy in one short day, everyone excited about the possibility of eternal love.

You're still sat waiting when you realise, with quiet uncertainty, that you're not sure whose wedding this is. All of your family is here, as well as many of your friends. So why do you feel so confused all of a sudden?

The Priest gestures for all of the guests to stand just as the first notes of the Wedding March begin to reverberate around the room. You turn around, craning your neck to try and get a glimpse of the bride.

You don't know her, but she's... beautiful. Long, dark hair falling in waves over her shoulders, white silk dress hugging her frame perfectly, accentuating every dip and curve. She has kind eyes, warm and brown, and a blinding smile that's infectious and dazzling. Her skin glows in the stained glass sunlight, illuminating her in an ethereal radiance. She has a beauty that belongs on the cover of a magazine, or on the ceilings of the Sistine Chapel.

You eagerly turn back towards the altar to find out who her lucky groom is. He has his back to you, dark suit stretched across his broad shoulders. He turns, and you can't help the gasp that escapes your lips.

It's Bucky.

You're panicking, suddenly. You want to scream, shout, run over to them and object in any way possible. Your Mom grabs your hand tightly from one side, as your Dad does the same on the other.

"Mama, I have to-"

"You can't, sweetheart. It's not fair."

"You made your choice," your Dad says kindly, not an ounce of malice in his voice. "Now you have to let him make his."

White hot tears drip down your cheeks as your chest rises and falls with frantic frustration. This isn't how you wanted things to go. This wasn't supposed to happen.

The lights in the church are suddenly too bright, the wooden pews too hard. There's an incessant knocking noise coming from somewhere in front of you, loud and overwhelming. You swear someone's shouting your name in the distance, among all of the chaos.

"Honey? It's Bucky. Are you okay?"

Why is he asking if you're okay? Of course you're not okay, you're in this living nightmare.

Nightmare.

You're having a nightmare.

You wake with a startled gasp, cheeks wet and warm, sweat dripping down your back. The knocking hasn't stopped, in fact, now it's even louder.

"Sugar? Are you in there? Can you let me in?"

It's Bucky. Bucky's here.

You throw yourself out of bed and race through your apartment, swinging open the door. Bucky is stood on the other side, still in his navy plaid pyjama pants, sweater thrown over himself haphazardly. You look down at yourself and see that you're only wearing an old t shirt, legs bare and feet cold on the wooden floor.

"Are you okay?" he asks gently, stepping forward into your space. "I had this horrible feeling. It was like... like I was panicking. I knew it wasn't me so I figured it must have been you. What's wrong, sweets?"

He snakes his fingers around your wrist and pulls you into him gently, wrapping his arms around you completely. You relax into his embrace, inhaling the warm, cosy scent of him. All the fear leaves your body, and you cling to him tighter, worried that he'll disappear any minute.

"I had a nightmare," you whisper into the soft cotton of his chest.

He pulls back to look at you, large, calloused hands cradling your tear stained cheeks.

"You wanna talk about it?"

You deliberate for a second before shaking your head softly.

"If you change your mind, you know I'll always listen to you. Any time. I mean it."

"I know," you say quietly. "Thank you."

You step away from him and towards the couch, where you curl up with your legs tucked underneath you. Bucky walks over to the kitchen, filling the kettle and placing it on the stove. He makes two mugs of tea, handing one into your outstretched hands carefully. He shuffles to sit next to you, pressed into your side, arm slung around your shoulders. You relax into the broadness of him, the comfort he brings, the safety. The two of you fall asleep intertwined, warm and content, wrapped completely in each other and the blanket of your love.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

You're both startled awake by a phone ringing. The unwelcome melody is coming from somewhere between where you're nestled together, limbs intertwined and bodies connected.

"It's-fuck- is that mine or yours?" Bucky's mumbling as he scrambles amongst the couch cushions.

"Yours, I think," you reply, finding your phone on the floor where you've kicked it in your sleep.

Bucky finally finds the source of the noise, trapped in the arm of the couch. He presses the green button reluctantly, still disorientated from being woken so suddenly.

"Hello?"

That deep, raspy grumble of his morning voice is enough to make you melt back into your original position, the tone golden and honeyed. You slide back towards him and tuck yourself into his side, the two of you fitting together perfectly.

You can hear muffled talking on the other end, which takes Bucky a minute to comprehend. When he does, his eyes widen, and he looks at you like a deer caught in headlights.

It's your Dad, he mouths silently, muscles in his body going rigid.

Fuck, you mouth back, praying that he can't hear the two sets of heaving lungs on your side of the line.

"Yeah, of course. I'll be there. Sounds good, man. See you then."

Bucky's about to hang up the phone, when your Dad makes a noise of complaint. You can hear your Mom yelling something at him in the background.

"They're coming here," he whispers to you as quietly as possible, covering the phone speaker. "Fuck, what do we do?"

"Tell them you're already here... borrowing something. Or giving something back."

You shoot him a look that says trust me. Trust you, he does.

"I'm with her right now. I can ask, if you want? Yeah, just dropping off a couple of tools - last time I saw her, she mentioned a few loose screws in one of the kitchen cabinets. Easy fix."

You can hear your Dad singing his praises and expressing his gratitude, and your Mom asking Bucky to put you on the phone. He passes it to you carefully, as if it's a bomb, bound to explode at any given second.

"Hi, Mama."

"Hey, sweetheart. Bucky get everything sorted for you?"

"Oh, yeah. He's been great. Fixed it in two minutes flat. I just didn't have the right kind of screwdriver."

"He's one of the good ones, huh?" she chuckles. "We called to tell you that you have to come to our get together later. I know it's a little impromptu, but we have so much produce from the garden, too much for just us. We'll have dinner in the backyard, and drinks, and play some games. And we'll tell you all about the wedding!"

Your Mother has a gift for hosting. She's a people person through and through, warm hearted and kind spirited in nature. She loves having people over at the house, loves cooking for them, loves choosing wine pairings for her dishes and explaining each one carefully. It's a gift. She's a gift.

"I'd love to come, Mama. Do you want me to bring anything? I can make desserts?"

"Oh, darling, would you? I'm making a strawberry and cream tart, but you know it's nothing compared to your talent."

"Oh hush," you chide playfully. "I'll see what I can conjure up. Maybe I'll even rope Bucky in to help."

You wink at him cheekily and he laughs, the sound settling gently in your ribs like a caged bird singing it's morning song.

"Glad to be of service!" he yells into the phone, his right hand moving to rest at the nape of your neck. He massages the muscle there gently, and the tension leaves your body just as quick as it arrived.

"What time, Mama?"

"Everyone's arriving at seven o'clock, but you and Bucky feel free to come any time. Did you hear that, Bucky? Any time!"

"Loud and clear," he chuckles. "See you soon, Lori."

"Bye, you two. Call if you need anything. Love you, sweetheart."

"Love you too."

She hangs up the phone and you're plunged into silence, the two of you panting like you've just ran a marathon.

"Fuck," Bucky breathes.

"Yeah, fuck," you exhale. "Now my parents think I'm not capable of fixing a loose screw."

"It was the first thing I thought of! Sorry, honey. Didn't mean to undermine your DIY skills."

You fake angry, but you can't keep it up while he's looking at you like you hung the moon just for him. The corners of your lips twitch, and before you know it, you're grinning at each other like idiots.

"Now I have to make dessert," you laugh. "There go my plans for the day."

"You offered."

"I panicked!"

"I'll give you a hand, if you need it. I don't have to be at work for another hour and a half."

"It's okay," you reassure, reaching out to link your fingers with his. He's still absentmindedly tracing patterns across the back of your neck, the sensation almost soothing you back to sleep.

You relax into Bucky, and he pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you. He's so warm, and soft, and broad. You realise that there's been two occasions recently where you've slept like the dead. Both were in Bucky's arms.

"You wanna help me make breakfast?" you whisper, careful not to disrupt the golden glow of the morning sunlight. The orange hue of the room feels fragile, sacred even. You don't want to ruin it.

"Of course. I can't bake, but I can cook. I have my uses."

"That, you do," you tease, leaning back into him as he places a tender kiss on top of your head. If you could bottle up this feeling of complete tranquility, you would. For a moment, everything else disappears. It's just you and your soulmate. Nothing else matters.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

Bucky, as it turns out, is a decent chef.

Sure, he's not Michelin star level, but neither are you.

You're sat on the counter, bare legs dangling over the side as you watch him move around your kitchen with ease, as if it's his own. You can't help but notice the way he belongs here. Like he's been here all along.

Bucky leaves everything cooking on the stove to come to stand in between your legs, warm hands splayed across your thighs. He rubs comforting circles into your skin while his steely blue eyes look at you intently.

"You okay?"

You smile at him softly, draping your arms around his neck to play with his hair.

"I'm fine."

You're not fine. The words California and Bakery and Dream Job and Bucky keep circling around your mind like horses on a fairground carousel. The more time you spend with Bucky, the more your Tethering makes sense. The two of you work. This connection you have is made of threads of gold, braided into both of your souls.

"You've been quiet all morning. And... I can feel it, you know. This anxious, sinking feeling, deep in my chest. There's something really bothering you, honey."

You take a deep breath and grasp onto his shoulders tightly, grounding yourself back down to Earth.

"I'm okay. There's just a couple of things I need to work out, and I think they're giving me some anxiety. I'm just stressed, I think."

"Are you trying to convince yourself, or me? Because you're not doing a very good job of either."

He's only teasing, but the way he's looking at you makes your breath hitch. It's as if everytime he looks into your eyes, he's also looking into your soul. It's like he can read your mind. Your heart is covered in braille and he's running his fingertips over it gently. You suddenly feel very exposed, shrinking down into yourself on the counter.

"Hey, pretty girl. Look at me. Please."

He uses his finger and thumb to tilt your face towards him, holding onto your chin gently.

"I'm sorry. I'm not trying to push you, or anything. I'm just worried. It's weird, being able to feel what you feel. I think I'm still getting used to it."

You smile at him carefully, running your fingers over the stubble on his cheeks.

"I appreciate you looking out for me, Buck. It's just... overwhelming, I guess. Nothing's a secret between me and you anymore."

You both know that's not true.

"You know, if there's anyone who understands how you feel... it's me."

"You're right," you laugh, "on account of the whole half-of-my-soul thing, I guess."

"Exactly. It's scary, but you're not alone in this. The two of us will figure it out. I know we will."

He has so much faith in you it makes you want to cry.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in closer to you. He leans down and presses a sweet kiss to your lips, firm and reassuring. It's like he's reminding you that he's right here, in front of you. He's not going anywhere.

You might be, though.

"We've got all the time in the world, remember?" he murmurs against your mouth.

"All the time in the world," you echo, tucking your head into his chest.

He holds you close until your breakfast starts to burn. The impending fire on the stove is nothing compared to the impending fire that feels like your future.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

The two of you eat on your balcony, tangled together on the love seat chair. The sun is beating down, beams of light illuminating Bucky, setting him aglow. He looks like an angel, the golden hue creating a halo around him. You wonder for a second if he is. An angel sent just for you.

"Oh hey, did I tell you?" he asks, turning as much as he can in his spot to face you.

"Tell me what?"

"Leonie and Eli are having a baby."

"No way!" you exclaim, grabbing a hold of his hands in excitement. "I'm so happy for them. Man, it feels like yesterday that they found each other."

"Right? Hell of a story, too."

"Rough one, though. I mean, imagine it. You introduce your brother to your new girlfriend, and turns out they're soulmates."

Bucky's laughing so hard that he's clutching at his stomach, shaking the chair and you along with it.

"That's fucked," he wheezes. "It's so fucked."

You can't contain your own laughter, not when his is so contagious.

"It's not funny," you breathe, but you're giggling so hard your sides hurt.

"Not funny at all," he chuckles, pinching your thigh.

"If you think about it, our Tethering is a little fucked up too. I mean, you're my Dad's best friend."

"Yeah... not ideal, huh?" he teases, still laughing.

"Not ideal at all, really," you agree playfully.

You sit in the quiet for a moment before you speak again.

"What do you think they'll say? When we tell them, eventually?"

Bucky thinks for a moment, cogs turning in his brain. He considers carefully before he answers you.

"...I think they'll be happy for us. Your Mom'll be excited. It might be a little harder for your Dad to navigate, I guess, but... he'll be okay."

"Yeah. You're probably right."

The rational part of your brain is telling you that he is. They'll be ecstatic that the two of you have found your person. The celebrations will be endless.

But there's a tiny, nagging piece of your mind that won't let you rest. It's taunting you, telling you that they're going to be confused, shocked, upset. That they won't accept the two of you. You can't lose them over a soulmate. You won't.

You clear your throat and stand from your spot, picking up your empty plates.

"Don't you have to be at work soon? I doubt you can show up in pajamas."

"I'm the boss, pretty girl. I can wear whatever the hell I want."

You raise an eyebrow at him, and he relents.

"Fine. I need to change. But I'll see you later? At your Mom's?"

"Yeah, of course. I'll see you there."

You walk Bucky to the door, opening it expectantly. He looks at you for a moment too long, still unconvinced by your reassurances from earlier.

"If you need anything, just call me. You know you can talk to me anytime, yeah?"

"Yeah," you confirm, absentmindedly playing with the hem of his t shirt. "I know, Buck. Thanks."

He leans in to kiss your forehead before leaving you in the doorway, more confused than ever.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

You commit your day to baking your feelings away.

As soon as Bucky left your apartment, the space felt empty, incomplete. Much like you do. As much as you hate to admit it, you feel better when Bucky is around. You know it's the whole Tethering thing, but still. Your heart feels fuller, the world seems brighter, the sun on your skin is warmer. Everything's easier when your soulmate is next to you.

You click on the radio, a soft, jazzy melody filling your kitchen. You begin to measure your ingredients, picking up bowls, utensils and your piping bags as you go.

This is the only thing you've ever felt like you were made to do. Sure, you've had hobbies as you've grown up. You're a good swimmer, you enjoyed soccer, you weren't too bad at dance. But nothing compared to baking.

Which at first, sounded ridiculous. Grown ups would ask you what you wanted to be when you were older, and when you said Baker, they'd laugh in that patronising way that adults do. It didn't stop you, though.

Your Grandma bought you a half empty recipe book for your tenth birthday. You can create your own and add them, she'd said. You'll be publishing a book with your name on in no time.

Your parents took you on a European vacation when you were sixteen. In Amsterdam, you passed this tiny little bakery, tucked away down a back street. It was red brick with a big window in the front, showcasing the cakes and endless sweet treats they had to offer. When you peered through the glass, you watched as the woman who you assumed was the owner went about her day. She looked so happy to be serving her customers. You decided then and there that was going to be you one day. A Bakery of your own. A happy life.

Which is why you're having such a hard time. You haven't talked to Stella since she called you, and you're worried she's going to change her mind if she doesn't hear from you soon. You haven't talked to Bucky about it either, even though he presented you with opportunity after opportunity this morning. It's starting to feel like the walls are caving in.

So, you do what you do best. Bake.

The day passes by quicker than anticipated, lost in a cloud of cinnamon and powdered sugar. You're wiping down your counters when your phone rings, Bucky's name lighting up your screen.

"Hi, Buck."

"Hey, pretty baby. You want me to pick you up later? I'm passing your place anyway."

He's always thinking of you so selflessly. The thought makes your heart stutter for a moment.

"You sure you don't mind?"

"Course not. I can drop by at six? Gives us enough time to help your Mom set up."

"Sounds perfect. Thanks, Buck."

"See you then, honey."

You hang up the phone and realise the hours have completely escaped you. You jump in the shower and do your hair and makeup in record time, miraculously. You're stood in a towel in front of your closet when you feel Bucky pull up outside. The tension in your chest eases a little, and you take a deep, full breath. He knocks on the door, and you completely relax.

"Hey, you," he greets, leaning in to press a kiss to your cheek.

You take a step back to look at him, and almost lose your balance. He looks ridiculously handsome. He's wearing a dark short sleeve button up that hugs his biceps so tightly, you're worried it might burst open. His jeans cling to his thighs deliciously, and the leather jacket slung over his shoulder adds a ruggedness that most men couldn't pull off. Your eyes rake over him slowly, taking him in from top to bottom. He lets you devour him, smirk never leaving his lips. Eventually, you meet his gaze.

"You see something you like?"

"You clean up real nice, Barnes," you tease, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing a sweet kiss to his lips.

You untangle yourself from him before you jump his bones, and walk back to your closet. He follows you and sits on the edge of your bed, watching your every move like a hawk.

You pick out a sage green sundress that skims your thighs and hugs you in all the right places. It's a warm night, and your Mom loves to start a bonfire when it's cold.

"Close your eyes, playboy," you scold jokingly, laughing when he flops backwards to stare at your ceiling.

You slip the dress on, and realise it has a zipper at the back that you can't reach.

"Buck? Can you zip me up, please?"

He rises from his spot on the bed and strides over to you, standing a little closer than necessary. He pulls the zip upwards ever so slowly, fingertips brushing your spine as he goes. He's so warm and so broad behind you that it sends a shiver through your body.

Bucky brushes your hair to one side and leans down to press a featherlight kiss the place where your neck meets your shoulder. You hum in contentment, which only spurs him on. He begins to leave kisses wherever he pleases - your shoulder, your neck, behind your ear. You practically melt into him, and he wraps his arms around you to keep you steady.

"You look so beautiful," he murmurs against your skin. "Prettiest girl I've ever seen."

You smile at his words, leaning your head back to rest on his shoulder.

"Says the man that looks like a goddamn supermodel."

"Oh, angel. Now you're just lying to me."

His chuckle rumbles through the both of you, the sound lighting up your nerve endings.

Your eyes flick across the room, where you notice the clock on the wall.

"Baby," you whisper. "You gotta stop. We're gonna be late."

He groans lowly and lets his head loll into the crease of your shoulder.

"I was fine until you called me baby," he murmurs. "Now that's all I'm gonna be thinking about for the rest of the night."

"Sorry."

"You're not."

"I'm not."

You both laugh and untangle yourselves, you moving to put on your shoes while Bucky straightens himself out.

"You gonna be able to keep your hands to yourself, lover boy?"

"I'm gonna have to," he grumbles, trying to hide the smile that's fighting to take over his face.

You lean against him as you do up the straps of your shoes, dancing your fingers down his arm to interlink your hands.

"Ready?" you ask, looking up at him with big doe eyes.

"Ready," he confirms, leaning down to kiss you chastely.

"A night of pretending that we're not soulmates. How hard can that be?"

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

Pretending that Bucky isn't your soulmate is one of the hardest things you've ever done.

You haven't even made it inside yet.

Buck parks his truck in your parents driveway and turns to look at you. You've been silent the entire ride over, and it's making him anxious. He reaches over and places a warm palm on your bare thigh, thumb rubbing patterns back and forth.

"You okay?"

You take a deep breath, which is all the answer he needs.

"It's alright, baby. I'm nervous too. We've got this. We're alright."

You look into his eyes for the first time since you were in your apartment, and have to fight to stop yourself from crying. You nod and bite your lip, inhaling and exhaling carefully.

"You're okay. I promise. It's me and you, honey girl. It's me and you."

You want to crawl over into Bucky's lap and bury your face in his chest. You want to curl up in his strong arms and let his scent envelope you. You want to tangle your fingers into his hair and smash his lips to yours, until you don't know where you end and Bucky begins.

Instead, you bring his hand from your thigh to your lips, and kiss each of his knuckles tenderly. The gesture makes his heart beat so fast, he's a little worried he's about to pass out.

"Come and talk to me anytime tonight, okay? I've got you. I've always got you."

You nod again, and take another deep breath.

"I know, Buck. It's the only thing I'm sure of."

✵ ✵ ·　 �� 　　 * · ✵

"My baby!"

Your Mom smothers you in a hug the minute you knock on the door, almost tipping you over in the process.

"Oh, you look so beautiful. This colour is gorgeous on you, sweetheart."

The heaviness of your heart gets a little lighter at the sight of your Mother. She's magic like that.

"Thanks Mama. Is your skirt new? It's pretty."

She gives you a twirl, the skirt billowing around her like a princess. Both you and Bucky smile when you catch each others eyes briefly.

"I got it on our trip! Your Dad got a new shirt too - he looks so handsome."

She's grinning from ear to ear talking about him. Your smile only gets wider.

Bucky gives your Mom a one armed hug, and hands her a white box with a bow on.

"I wish I could say this is from me, but I don't have nearly enough talent for that."

"You're plenty good at other things, Buck," she laughs. "What's in here, sweetheart?"

"Apple, carrot and cinnamon cake with cream cheese frosting. I piped little bunny rabbits on top, too."

Before she can say anything else, you take the box from her hands and walk into the house.

"We better put this in the refrigerator before the frosting melts!" you call as you leave.

"Come on Buck, let's get you a drink. Jack bought your favourite."

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

Your parents backyard looks incredible.

Golden fairylights adorn the deck, illuminating the dining area that your Mom has set up. The table is covered with a white lace tablecloth, and littered with tea lights and candlesticks. Each place setting has a wine and a water glass ready, fringed cushions perched on each wooden chair. There's a beautiful bouquet of flowers in a stained glass vase as the centerpiece, more flowers scattered across the entirety of the table.

The sun hasn't set yet, and the entire garden is dripping with the glowing orange hue of the evening. The air is warm and calm, salty ocean breeze only disrupting the peace occasionally. If summer were to be summed up in a night, it'd be this one.

Your Dad is pouring water into all of the glasses from an ornate painted jug when you walk into the yard.

"Hi, Papa."

"Oh, sweetheart!" he smiles in surprise, abandoning his task to come and give you a hug. "You look amazing. I like your dress."

"Thank you - hey, is this your new shirt? It suits you!"

"It's nice, right? Your Mom picked it out. She said the colour brings out my eyes."

You look him up and down comically, crossing your arms over your chest like a cartoon detective.

"Hmm... she's right. It definitely does."

You're both laughing when your Mom and Bucky join you, the two men immediately smacking each other on the back affectionately.

"Where you been, Buck? Work keeping you busy?"

"Stupidly busy - you wouldn't even believe."

"Well, it's your night off, so no shop talk!" your Mom encourages, handing Bucky a beer.

"Easier said than done," he winks, and your breathing picks up just a little.

"Mama, do you need help with anything in the kitchen?"

"Oh, yes please, sweetheart. Come, let me show you what needs doing."

The two of you leave the men to catch up, walking inside to prep the appetisers.

You're slicing tomatoes carefully when you turn to watch your Mom for a minute. She's chopping up basil, completely engrossed. The evening sun beams in, illuminating her as she stands by the window. You love her so much it makes you unsteady on your feet.

"Hey, Mama? Can I talk to you about something?"

She turns and immediately stops what she's doing, giving her full attention to you.

"Of course you can, baby. Anything at all."

You take a deep breath, and carry on slicing while you talk.

"So, you remember Stella, right?

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

The night goes off without a hitch.

There's good food, gorgeous wine and even better company. Your parents invited many of their friends, meaning twelve of you are sat around the meticulously prepared table. In between courses, there's conversation, laughter and games, everyone letting go of the stress of the week.

You're doing everything you can to avoid looking at Bucky. You're worried that if someone catches the two of you, they'll know everything. You're surprised you haven't confessed already, the weight of the secret too heavy to bear.

Your Mom is cutting your cake on the table when there's a sudden commotion.

"Oh, fuck!"

"Shit! Shit, I'm sorry. Shit."

"Is everyone okay?" your Mom asks, flitting to the other end of the table.

"I'm so fucking clumsy, my God. Dropped my wine straight onto Bucky," Jesse, one of your Dad's oldest friends, explains.

"As long as it doesn't stain my white tablecloth, we're fine," your Mom laughs. "What do you need, Buck?"

"It's only white wine, luckily, so no stain. I'm just wet. I'm gonna go dry off."

"I have a hairdryer?" you offer without thinking.

"Good idea, honey. Go help Bucky upstairs while I get some paper towels."

You rise from your chair and make your way inside, heart racing as Bucky follows you. You rummage around the drawers of your childhood bedroom, certain you used to keep all of your hair tools here somewhere.

"You got it?" a warm, whiskey smooth voice asks from behind you.

"Got it," you reply, standing up with the hairdryer in your hand.

Bucky kicks the door closed behind him, and takes a step into you.

"I can't focus on anything when you're sat there in that dress," he murmurs. "Look like a fuckin' angel, all pretty under the lights."

Heat blooms over your chest, and you pray he doesn't notice. Your breathing quickens, and you step forward too, now chest to chest with him.

"I'm so worried that I'm going to accidentally blurt it out," you confess. "You're the only thing that's on my mind."

Bucky leans down to press his lips to yours, smiling into the kiss. You fist your hands into his shirt and pull him closer, snaking your tongue into his mouth. He tastes like mint and sugar and every kiss for the rest of your life.

He groans when you bite his lip, nipping yours back in retaliation.

"Easy, baby," he warns teasingly. "I can't go back down there black and blue."

You roll your eyes and kiss him harder, practically melting when he grabs at your ass roughly.

"What do you need, pretty girl?" he questions against your mouth. "I'll give you anything."

You're panting against him, vibrating with need.

"Need you to take the edge off," you whisper, hands shaking as you unbutton his wet shirt. "Can't carry on like this. Please, baby. Please."

"We've gotta be quick," he reminds, sneaking his hand under your dress to tease you over your underwear.

You grab at his shoulders for leverage, almost certain your knees aren't going to hold out long enough. Bucky doesn't even take your panties off, just slips his hand down the front. It feels filthier this way.

"Fuck," he groans. "This all for me, honey? You been thinking about this?"

"Yes," you whine. "All I've thought about."

Bucky wastes no time, slipping a finger into you easily. After a minute, he adds another, setting a steady rhythm immediately.

"Shit," you breathe, leaning forward to rest your forehead against his chest. "We're supposed to be taking it slow."

"You want me to go slow?"

"No, fuck," you say immediately. "Don't stop. Please."

He chuckles lowly, clearly enjoying the effect he has on you.

"I won't, baby. Almost there."

It should be embarrassing, how quickly he can take you to the edge, but you don't care. This is what having a soulmate is. They know you better than anyone - inside and out.

"So close," you whisper.

"I know, pretty baby. I can feel it. Stay quiet and come for me. That's it."

You can't hold out when he uses that tone with you. You're thrown over the edge, your climax running through you like molten honey, hot and delicious. Your knees buckle, and Bucky uses a strong arm around your middle to hold you up.

"There we go," he's murmuring. "Atta girl. That's my girl."

You wrap your arms around his waist and breathe him in, finally coming back to your senses.

"My parents are gonna wonder where we are," you realise. "Grab your shirt and the hairdryer. You're gonna have to do it while I recover."

Bucky smiles at you with so much affection, the world stops spinning for a second. This is a moment of bliss. The two of you revel in it.

Bucky dries his shirt while you go back outside, trying to keep suspicion to a minimum.

"Fixed, sweetheart?" your Mom asks, holding out a piece of cake to you. You take it gratefully and sit back down, relaxing into your chair.

"Yeah, it's basically dry. That hairdryer is old, so it's taking a while."

"Well you didn't miss much, other than Jesse telling the Joshua Tree story for the fortieth time this month," your Dad laughs.

"You love that story, asshole!" Jesse yells, just as Bucky re-enters the garden. He throws you a mischievous smile, which you reciprocate with ease.

Everyone is a little more careful with their wine as the night goes on, keeping all the glasses planted firmly on the table.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

"So then I said, well, if you don't like it, leave!"

You're pretty sure you've heard your Mom's friend Cora tell this story before, but you're all laughing like it's the first time. She has such an animated voice, you're convinced you could listen to her read the phone book.

"Which, I mean, I didn't think he would. Imagine breaking up over a chinchilla! A fucking chinchilla!"

You're laughing so hard your sides hurt. You look over to Bucky, and see that he's grinning like a Cheshire cat. You could get used to this.

"So I watched him pack his shit, box by box. Which took fucking ages, by the way. He was using those big plastic boxes, you know the black ones? And he was filling them so carefully and so slowly, that I started helping him!"

You wipe a tear from your face, still doubled over in amusement. You're gonna be sore tomorrow, the way your abs hurt now.

"But I didn't want him taking those boxes, because they're nice, right? They're expensive, and they're mine! So I helped him move out, and then unpacked all of his shit so I could have my boxes back."

Your Mom, despite hearing this story before, hasn't taken her eyes off Cora the entire time. She's such a careful listener. It's one of the things you love most about her.

"Oh, I'll drop them off for you, if you like!" Cora yells, staring directly at you. Everyone turns to look at you in confusion.

"Why would she need all your boxes?" Jesse laughs.

"For the big move!"

Time stands still. The world goes silent. Your heart stops beating.

"...What move?" Bucky asks, never taking his eyes off you.

"To California! Her dream job, falling in her lap. We're so proud of you, babygirl. You've worked so hard for this."

Cora's tearing up now, the alcohol catching up to her. She raises her glass high in the air.

"To our little superstar. The best baker the world has ever seen! Cheers!"

Everyone clinks their glasses together in the middle of the table, except for you and Bucky. You haven't taken your eyes off each other. The world carries on, but you stay still.

You suddenly feel a cacophony of emotions - sadness, anger, betrayal, hurt and confusion settling like ten tonne weights onto your chest. Then it hits you - you're feeling what Bucky feels.

You feel a heart break.

You're not sure if it's yours or his.

tag list part one -

@lillytracy6996 @securegorgon @roostersforevergirl @povlvr @val-writesstuff @dreadfulxives18 @1deadpool26 @abbygraceasd @nyutasgirl @mavrellover91 @winterslove1917 @f-this42 @skewedcherries @noisesinthedark @kandis-mom @black-cat-2 @harrystylesandthegoobs @vladsgirlxx @h0nestly-though @arienotari @nash-dara @wandaneedstherapy @galaxy-dusk @justherefortheficandsmut @cremebruleequeen @cjand10 @buggy14 @avengers-fixation @blueberrybambi @beautiful-loserr @sarah1barnes @miss-rebel-without-applause @ragingrainbowshipl @shamrockqueen @savemeroman @jenn-f @8crazy-freak8 @daddyjackfrost @openup-yourmind @adangerousbalance @mandijo17 @daddylorianisastateofmind @rcarbo1 @casa-boiardi @spideegwen @navs-bhat @mssbridgerton @asuni921 @middle-of-the-earth @mfrnchsk

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protect-peter-parker-please-blog · 1 year

Text

I’m tired but I can’t sleep rooster X reader

Summary- When a mission goes side ways and rooster comes back with wear and tear reader can’t help worrying.

Warnings- Hello this is my first post on tumblr! I’ve never posted on here so I might not get everything right. If anyone has any ideas on what I can do better it would be appreciated. (Kindly please). Other then that no warnings apply.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hey did you hear me?” phoenix asked looking out of the side of her eye.

When she got no answer she turned to look at (Y/N) whose room she was getting ready in. She asked again but the girl was in her own world. Finally she opted for walked over and putting her hand on her shoulder. (Y/N) looked up and smiled like she hadn’t heard a thing.

“You didn’t hear me?” Phoenix said with a raised eyebrow.

“No?” (Y/N) asked confused “I’m sorry what did you say?” She continued

“Are you coming with us to the hard deck?” Phoenix asked again. In some way she already knew the answer.

“No sorry you have fun but I’m tired.” (Y/N) lied through her teeth effortlessly.

Phoenix gave her one last look before walking out (Y/N)s door and to her car. When (Y/N) was sure she was gone she got up to look in the mirror. It was no wonder Phoenix believed the lie. (Y/N) really did look awful. The bags under her eyes had grown long and dark. Her skin was pale like she was getting sick. And to be honest she hadn’t slept more then a few hours since the day of the accident.

Rooster was off on a simple mission. There really shouldn’t have been any problem but things were never that easy. He caught enemy gun fire and was forced to eject. (Y/N) never remembered being that scared before. When rooster was rescued he had a hairline fracture in his leg. He was completely fine other then the typical bumps and bruises you got from ejecting.

But because of his leg he was out for a few weeks. (Y/N) couldn’t be more worried. She realized she had been standing in the mirror for longer then she thought and backed up deciding to go for a walk. She walked around the base aimlessly. She had no place in mind to go so she just walked.

“(Y/N)?” Someone called from behind her.

“What are you doing out here?” Maverick asked when she turned to look.

“Oh um I don’t know” (Y/N) said as she look at her surroundings.

“(Y/N) what’s going on? You look like you haven’t slept” maverick asked.

(Y/N) just shrugged

Maverick sighed and said “You should talk to him”

(Y/N) blinked in surprise “What do you mean mav?”

“This is about rooster right? You need to talk to him and don’t hold anything back” maverick said.

“How did you know?” (Y/N) asked.

“You’re never like this until roosters involved. I’m surprised I’m the only one who has noticed” mav chuckled.

(Y/N) sighed in relief knowing that not everyone knew. She said goodbye to Maverick and walked towards roosters room. If anything she should at least check on him. She reached his room and raised her hand to knock. She hesitated for a moment but eventually did it without talking herself out of it.

There was no noise on the other side for a moment. (Y/N) felt relief bubble up inside of her as she turned to walk away. Then the door suddenly swung open. On the other side rooster was struggling with his crutches. Looking as if he was about to fall over (Y/N) quickly put her arms out to support him.

“My hero” rooster said laughing as he finally was able to stand straight up.

(Y/N) suddenly felt like it was a bad idea to come here. She felt like she couldn’t even speak or even breathe.

“What’s up (C/S)?” Rooster asked before looking up at her. “Oh god (C/S) you look awful when was the last time you slept?” Rooster asked alarmed.

“Thanks that’s what every girl wants to hear.” (Y/N) said with a slight role of her eye

But roosters wasn’t laughing. He looked deadly serious.

“(C/S) don’t joke you look like you haven’t slept in days!” Rooster almost yelled.

“No more then a few hours in the past few weeks actually” (Y/N) let slip.

She hated that. She hated that rooster had the effect of making her say what she didn’t want to. Which included telling him the truth.

“Why? What happened (C/S)?” Rooster said.

(Y/N) just shrugged. She couldn’t tell him the reason. It would ruin everything between them. And she loved him to much to let him go.

“Don’t give me that (C/S)! You know what aren’t you telling me?” Rooster yelled.

(Y/N) knew that he was just worried but when he yelled she wanted to cry.

“I can’t say!” (Y/N) yelled back.

“What you don’t trust me?” Rooster yelled

“No it’s because-“ (Y/N) stopped herself. “I just can’t say”

“Fine then why are you even here? If all you wanted to do was worry me then there’s the door.” Rooster said attempting to storm out of the room but once again struggling with his crutches.

“Please don’t be mad…” (Y/N) said trying not to cry.

There was silence in the room for a moment. (Y/N) had no idea what to do. If she just apologized and left then maybe they could fix things. But if she told him everything then there was a chance she could loose him forever. (Y/N) suddenly felt movement behind her. Then as fast as the crutches would allow him to move rooster was in front of her.

“Here…” rooster said handing her his signature sunglasses.

“I don’t understand?” (Y/N) said a single tear she had been fighting back falling from her eye in the process.

Rooster swiped it away before saying. “When your nervous you never look me directly in the eye. But maybe if you had these it would be easier”

(Y/N) came to so many conclusions at one time that when she slipped on the glasses (that in turn slipped down her nose) she knew what she needed to do.

“I love you” (Y/N) confessed.

“Well I love you too (C/S) now can you tell me what’s going on?”

“No rooster I mean I love you. I have since nearly the day we met. And I always worry but this last time I couldn’t hold it back. I worry so much I can’t sleep. I just-“ (Y/N) was just off by a pair of lips on hers.

The kiss was sweet and a little sloppy just it was perfect in (Y/N)s book. The butterflies in her stomach erupted she knew it was true love.

“I love you so much (Y/N) I just thought you could never feel the same way” rooster said

“Me? Bradley I thought the same of you” (Y/N) said.

“I like that” rooster breathed out while going in for another kiss.

“Like what?” (Y/N) asked.

“Call me Bradley I like the way it sounds when you say it”

(Y/N) spent the night sleeping in Bradley’s bed. She thought it must have been the best sleep of her life. She finally felt content. She still worried but now she knew at least she could kiss the worry away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sorry if this was bad but trust me I’ll learn. Thanks for reading!

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wonjaekook · 3 years

Text

One Minus One Plus One

Pairing: college student!Mark x college student!reader

Description: In all of the years you’ve known Jungwoo, you should have figured out to not take his words at face value because, though you haven’t even met, Mark Lee seems to hate your guts.

Word Count: 9.9k

Genre: kind-of-enemies to lovers! fluff? angst? humor? I honestly don’t know how to categorize this

Warnings: vaguely suggestive ending, some minor swearing

A/N: This is my (late) holiday gift for a friend and to you all, I suppose. It’s an enemies-to-lovers but not really, as they’re not really enemies and it’s more passive-aggressive!Mark and very confused!Y/N. To the intended - I love and appreciate you so much; thank you for always supporting me and listening to me ramble about even the most ridiculous ideas <3 If you ever need anything, I hope you know that you can always shoot me a text or DM! Please enjoy c:

Mark Lee is always sweet. It’s the kind of sweetness that’s warm and fulfilling, leaving a pleasant feeling in the pit of the stomach, like a steaming up of hot chocolate rather than a strikingly sweet popsicle. His nature isn’t something he particularly prides himself on, as it’s partially unintentional, driven by awkwardness and politeness at times, or by the compulsion to simply make people happy. Jungwoo has told him that he’s allowed to be a little more selfish once in a while, he’s allowed to say no and take breaks sometimes. Except, he’s ever the people pleaser, ever the hard worker, ever the yes-man. Mark Lee is always sweet.

Except when he isn’t.

You’re fairly certain that Mark Lee has hated you since before you even met him. When you decide to transfer to the same university that your high school best friend Jungwoo attends, he talks your ear off about all of his great friends and all of the places he is going to take you and all of the fun you’ll have. He’s always been the descriptive type, telling you far too much about his good pals Mark, Donghyuck, Johnny, Taeil, Jaehyun, Kun, Lucas… and countless others, whose names you sometimes have a hard time keeping track of. Jungwoo has a lot of friends, something which has remained true since high school. Whenever you catch up with him, he speaks particularly fondly about Mark, who is one of his roommates and someone he considers to be one of his closest friends.

“You’ll love him,” he says, “but not too much, I hope. That would be super weird, you and Mark.” He wrinkles his nose at that and doesn’t make any more abnormal comments. You don’t think much of it.

In short, you let Jungwoo decide your opinion on Mark Lee before you ever met him. With everything else about moving to a completely different university occupying the majority of your thoughts, it’s easy enough to accept that Mark will be awkward and painfully sweet and that you will become fast friends. That’s your first mistake.

Before you even finish moving in, Jungwoo drags you over to his place to meet some of his friends, who he insists will become your own. It’s just past noon and he claims that everyone will be awake and ready to greet you once you get there. He’s half right, in the sense that only half of the apartment is awake. The early-risers, who Jungwoo didn’t even have to shake before he came over to get you, are at the table in their common area, sipping on various caffeinated beverages. These consist of Mark and Jaehyun. Donghyuck is presumably still curled up in his bed, asleep after a late night of playing games, and Johnny, who had stayed overnight and doesn’t actually live with them, is passed out on their couch, an arm slung over his face to block the light. Your friend has shown you enough pictures for you to recognize them.

Jungwoo practically deflates as soon as he walks in to see only two members of the current household conscious. “This is why we can’t have nice things,” he grumbles before striding over to Johnny and yanking off the blanket covering his long torso.

The elder groans, clearly having only been dozing and not deeply asleep, and moves his arm so he can glare at Jungwoo. “Your disrespect for my sleep schedule is why we can’t have nice things.”

“You don’t have a sleep schedule,” Jungwoo says back, glaring at his friend with the blanket in his hand. “Plus, Y/N’s here.”

Johnny lazily looks over and sees you in the entranceway, to which his response is to roll slightly so that he’s propped up against the back of the couch with one leg crossed over the other rather than just lying down. “Sup. Name’s Johnny.”

“Ew, don’t use your flirting voice!” Jungwoo whines at his friend, kicking him in the shin. In all honesty, you’re both amused and slightly flattered that Johnny is attempting to flirt with you when he’s just woken up. The messy hair is kind of a look. “Y/N’s a friend.”

“Yeah, we’ll be good friends, alright,” Johnny says, looking directly at you and wiggling his eyebrows in the most ridiculous way. That gets a giggle out of you while Jungwoo gawks, kicking Johnny again for good measure, slightly harder this time.

Jungwoo looks like he’s about to start arguing again when Jaehyun kindly interrupts, shifting the conversation. He gives you a small smile, perfectly polite and handsome, his hair straight and soft over his forehead. “It’s nice to meet you, Y/N. I’m Jaehyun.”

You lower your head to acknowledge him. “It’s nice to meet you, too.” You look towards the other boy at the table, who you now realize hasn’t glanced up at you once. Jaehyun had been at least half watching the mock fight between Jungwoo and Johnny, but Mark had just been staring at his cup from behind circular glasses, not even drinking it. His own hair is slightly damp, curling at the ends, making him appear somewhat young. “You’re Mark, right?”

Finally, he looks at you, but looks away quickly. “Yeah.”

That’s… that’s not right.

You try again, smiling as brightly as you can, even though he won’t glance in your direction again. His side profile is full of both soft shapes and hard angles, afternoon sunlight coming in through the window falls as highlights on his cheeks and nose and chin. He appears exactly as your friend had described him to you, but his attitude proves him to be a walking contradiction. You shift on your feet, grasping for the right words to say. “Jungwoo has told me a lot about you.”

“Uh… yeah. He’s told me about you, too.”

You almost outright frown at that. Isn’t he supposed to be super nice and friendly? Instead, it sounds like Jungwoo has been spreading all sorts of nasty stories about you. Hypothetical stories that, apparently, only Mark has been listening to. Neither Jaehyun nor Johnny are acting strangely towards you at all.

All three of the other boys do seem to notice the change in behavior for Mark, though. There are a few moments of tense silence before Johnny elbows Jungwoo. The latter speaks up. “Hey, Mark, can you go resurrect Donghyuck? I think he might be dead.”

The switch is instant and very startling to you. His face loses all of its tension as he looks at Jungwoo, nodding. “Yeah, sure. If I don’t come back in ten minutes, I’m the one who’s dead.” He pushes himself up out of his chair and exits the common area.

After he’s gone, you look at Jungwoo. He stares back. You make a motion with your head towards the front door, where you retreat to and he follows. You stand somewhat stiffly, hands linked behind your back. “Did you say something to him? About me?”

Jungwoo puts his hands up defensively. “Nothing bad, I swear!” He looks back towards the common area. “He must just be having a bad day or something…”

That doesn’t explain the sudden warmth when someone else spoke to him, though. You frown. “Okay… I guess I’ll just have to try harder to get him to like me.”

Your friend seems to perk up at that. “That’s the spirit!” He proceeds to grab you by the shoulders and steer you back to the common area.

You have an amiable enough time chatting with the boys who had remained there. Eventually, Donghyuck emerges from his room, looking even more ruffled than Johnny had, and Mark shuffles out with him. Once again, he doesn’t even spare you a glance. Every so often, as you’re talking to the others or just listening to their strange, all-over-the-place conversations, your eyes flicker over to him. He contributes to the chatter, but it’s like he’s purposefully avoiding you, even though you’re literally in the room with him. It kind of hurts.

Still, you try not to let it bother you too much. An hour passes, which you realize with a start, and you remember that you’re not even nearly done unpacking. As you’re rising from your seat on the edge of the couch, Jungwoo throws a comment out to you. “You’re welcome to bust in here any time!”

He’s met with a chorus of agreement from the others, except one.

The next day, Jungwoo makes a point to introduce you to the rest of his circle. Not long after, you’re added to a group chat with a whole phonebook of unfamiliar numbers. Most of them, minus several who your friend had told you in the past do a poor job of checking their messages, send their names pretty quickly. Jungwoo tells you who the others are. With a pang of disappointment, you realize one of the missing numbers was Mark.

On your first day of classes, you’re pleasantly surprised to find that you share an economics lecture with Donghyuck, who acts both very tired and also full of energy, chatting your ear off before and after class, but looking as if he’s about to pass out when the professor gives her introduction and starts to go over course material. That day, you also learn that you have an ethics class with Jungwoo’s friend Doyoung, stoic and serious and exactly the opposite of Donghyuck, but still smiling at your lame jokes and carefully making sure you get the homework down.

The second day starts out much more slowly. You settle down for your third class, a curriculum development course, and it takes you about a solid minute to realize that Mark Lee is sitting in the room with you. He had come in while you were busily typing out a text to a friend from your previous university. The classroom is not particularly large and you had taken a seat near the middle, so there aren’t many places for him to hide. When he walks in, he takes a seat by the wall closest to the windows. You consider greeting him, walking to his desk to try and talk to see if he had a change of attitude from the last time you saw him, but then your professor enters the scene. As he passes by the far side of the room, Mark looks up from his own phone and smiles, mouth instantly opening to greet him. You stay in your seat and try to look busy as you listen to them chat amiably. Mark laughs in disbelief at something your professor says about his vacation.

At the end of the lecture, you pack up your things quickly and make the effort to take a few small, light steps to catch up to Mark, who’s already leaving. “Hi, Mark! I didn’t realize we had a class together.”

He gives you a sort of half-shrug, keeping his head pointed straight ahead. Almost imperceptibly, his pace increases. “I guess we do.”

He opens a door to a stairwell, not making any particular effort to hold the door for you. Reflexively, you grab the door and slip through after him. You try again as the two of you head down. “Are you going to be home tonight? Jungwoo invited me to have dinner with you guys.”

“No,” he says, voice edged with irritation. He reaches into his pocket, fishing out his phone and a pair of earbuds. “I’ll be out.”

“Oh.” You slow down slightly. “Well, we should hang out sometime. My next class is this way, so… see you.” By the time you’re done talking, he’s slipped both earbuds into his ears and is pushing the doors at the bottom of the stairs open. You hold back a heavy sigh and shrug your backpack higher onto your shoulders.

As he told you, he’s not in his apartment that evening. Though Jungwoo had invited you to help cook dinner, he shirks his responsibilities, slipping away to play games with Donghyuck and leaving you and Jaehyun to cook, with relatively unhelpful commentary from Johnny, who was once again on the couch when you arrived. At some point, their friend Yuta slips in, steals some noodles, and leaves.

After the cooking is done, you and Jaehyun celebrate with a firm high-five, and Jungwoo and Donghyuck un-disappear, coming out of the younger boy’s dark bedroom. The lot of you are halfway through eating when Donghyuck perks up. “Wait, where’s Mark? He said he would do calc homework with me.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and hold back from saying that he told you he wouldn’t be home.

Thankfully, most of Jungwoo’s friends are nice to you and it’s easy enough for you to make friends of your own. You ease yourself into a routine of classes, homework, and hanging out with your new social circles. Mark doesn’t hide that he tries to avoid you about half of the time. At the same time, you try to split yourself between friend groups, as to not force him either to be around you or to not hang out with his own friends. There are the occasional large scale events that both of you are invited to, but there are enough people that you usually aren’t forced to interact. After a month of classes, you stop trying to start conversations, but you still greet him. He greets you back with the indifference of an overworked, tired stranger. During your class, he firmly ignores you. He does more than ignore you - he speaks to virtually every other person in your class except you. All of your friends carefully avoid the topic of his blatant dislike for you, though you know they all think it’s odd.

Finally, one of those large events comes to pass via the boy known as Zhong Chenle. He doesn’t go to your school, but is still somehow acquainted with all of Jungwoo’s friends, so he became acquainted with you as well. He’s eccentric and sarcastic and sometimes you see him playing basketball with Mark and Jaehyun in the school recreation center. So, when he rents out the local ice skating rink and invites you, you’re excited to go. It’s not often that you get onto the ice - it’s always a thrill after you re-learn how to skate, and you enjoy the feeling of the smooth gliding and wide, curving turns on the blades. You imagine that you’re painting with your feet.

Things go down smoothly, like you envisioned. After just twenty minutes, you’ve confidently found your ice legs and you’re racing around the rink with Donghyuck, playfully tipping each other off-balance with carefully or sometimes not-so-carefully timed pushes. A few minutes later, a new player enters the arena. Maybe if this new person weren’t Mark Lee, you wouldn’t have noticed their entrance, but your eyes are instinctively drawn to him.

The boy in question is clinging to one Lee Jeno, another friend of Jungwoo and Donghyuck and all the rest of them, as they both try to find their balance. Jeno seems to be having somewhat of an easier time with the skates on his feet, making slow pushes so that he glides short distances with Mark holding onto him. Mark is adorably flushed, in a way you haven’t seen before, his cheeks aflame with cold and embarrassment. His body is swallowed by an overly large hoodie, completing the cozy and cute look.

Your racing buddy has also slowed down to watch with you, staring at the scene. He suddenly nudges you with an elbow. “You should help him.”

“Jeno? I think he’s gotten the hang of it. Plus, I don’t know him that well.” It’s now a game of who can dodge implications rather than who can dodge physical pushes.

Donghyuck rolls his eyes, skating lazily alongside you. “You know I’m talking about Mark. This would be a great opportunity to get on his good side.”

“Why don’t you help him? He’s your boyfriend, after all.” If you weren’t focusing on turning your skates and keeping your balance because you’ve reached the short end of the rink, you would cross your arms and huff at him more dramatically.

He clicks his tongue sharply, something you know by now that he does when he’s irritated. “Mark isn’t my boyfriend. Doyoung and Taeyong are boyfriends. Mark and I are soulmates. And he’s still painfully single.”

“So are you!” As you protest, you realize that Mark and Jeno are getting closer. Donghyuck fires something back indignantly, but you’re just thinking about what he said before. The offer to help lies in front of you as a real possibility, but how would you feel if someone you hated came up and asked if you wanted help skating? If you really hated them that much, you would just think they were being condescending. The last thing you want to do is give Mark a reason to think you’re acting that way towards him. So, as you skate closer, you pick up your pace and speed on by, not even glancing at the two boys with their arms interlinked. Luckily for you, Jungwoo is just ahead, so you hook arms with him and jerk him forward with your momentum, making him yell out in surprise.

As you’re gliding along, laughing at your friend’s reaction and attempts to push you, Mark stares at you from behind with a small frown on his face.

“Mark?” Jeno’s voice snaps him out of it and he looks towards the younger boy. “Do you need me to slow down?”

“No,” he says rather grimly, “let’s go faster.”

You don’t speak to each other at all for the entire night.

The next month and a half passes unremarkably. Then, suddenly, midterms are rolling up and you find yourself swamped with work, especially in the class you share with Mark and your new friend Yuqi. At the current moment, you’re at your place with your head buried in your arms, groaning dramatically. “I can’t do this.”

Yuqi nods, looking somewhat dead inside. “Professor Lim hates us.”

“I don’t know what chapters we even covered half of the material in. Did he just make it up?” You lift your hand to paw through the textbook in front of you lazily, so much of it seeming foreign. “It doesn’t help that the Instructional Systems Design Model is such a big part of the project.”

“Maybe that’s in Chapter 1?”

You flip through her suggestion before slamming your book shut. “Nope.”

“I know!” You perk up at your friend’s revelation, looking at her from across the table. “We can just ask Mark! He’s good at this class, he probably knows.”

You stiffen at her suggestion. There was only one time you dared to ask him for help, in which he just brushed you off and said he was busy. Since then, you’ve resigned yourself to only asking Yuqi for help, no matter how clueless she is in this class sometimes. A brief moment of panic sends your heart racing as she whips out her cellphone. “Don’t mention me.”

She turns to look at you, finger poised to press call over her phone. “What?”

You put your head back down, muffling your words. “Don’t say my name when you talk to him.” She gives you a weird look, but shrugs, pressing the call button. “Wait! And put it on speaker so I can hear the answer. Please.”

Wordlessly, she rolls her eyes, but pulls the phone away from her face, setting it on the table in front of her. The call connects after two rings and you hear Mark’s voice with the staticky phone call filter over it. “Hello?”

“Hey, Mark! It’s Yuqi.”

“Oh, hi, what’s up?” He seems to brighten up, showing a pleasantness that you rarely hear from him these days.

“I just had a question about our curriculum development class. Do you know what chapter goes over the Instructional Systems Design Model? I can’t find it.”

“Oh, sure. Hold on, let me grab my notes.” From the other end, you can hear the distorted shuffling of clothes and paper for a moment. “It’s Chapter 4, I think. We didn’t really go over that chapter in class, but Prof. Lim told me when I went to his office hours.”

“Oh my god, thank you so much, Mark! You’re a literal life saver,” Yuqi gushes, about to practically kiss the phone in joy.

You press your hands together in front of you in a silent thank you. Mark laughs lightly into the phone. “No problem! If you ever need anything, let me know. I’m always happy to help.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! Bye, Mark!” After receiving a goodbye from him, Yuqi presses the hang up button. She claps her hands twice in excitement. “That makes things so much easier!”

You’re stuck thinking about what Mark said before hanging up. It’s exactly in line with how Jungwoo used to talk about him - polite, helpful, friendly. An ugly part of you has to wonder what you did wrong once again. What part of you is undeserving of his kindness? An even uglier part feels the green flash of envy. “How do you have Mark’s number?”

“We had a class together like a year ago and he’s a pretty cool guy. Also useful to have around.” The image of them studying together, chatting like close friends, heads bent closely over shared notes, makes the parasite of jealousy dig deeper in your belly. The logical side of your brain knows you shouldn’t be feeling like this, but the two sides of Mark Lee make you want to throw an uncharacteristic fit. She tosses her phone to the side before flipping open her textbook to Chapter 4. “Why?”

“Were you guys ever… like…” You bite the inside of your cheek, not wanting to say it out loud.

“Me? Mark? No, we just worked on a project together. I have no idea what gave you that idea.” She wrinkles her nose at you.

“You just talk to each other so casually,” you huff, trying to expel the negativity from your system, “I don’t know.”

“He’s like that with everyone,” she says easily, leaning back in her chair. “Except you, I guess.”

“Except me. I guess.” You parrot, not feeling any better about the situation. When you proceed to ask her if you did anything weird on your first day of class that would have put him off, she denies it, telling you that you were completely normal. Resigned to forget the mystery for the night, you open up your textbook.

Midterms pass with relative success. At least, with more success than you had at your old university. You’re excited for a break, a reprieve from the pain of studying. Johnny arranges a potluck and movie night at his place, assigning everyone a dish and putting you on dessert.

In your class with Doyoung, who is often assigned as the chef of the group, you pressure him for everyone’s favorites. “Something fruity? Chocolatey?”

“We’re split there. There’s not much you can do that would appease everyone, honestly. Some of them are the pickiest guys I’ve ever met.” He continues to scribble notes as you grill him for info, not even looking up.

“What if I did something different? Like matcha cookies?” You tap your chin in thought and Doyoung lifts a hand to point at you after the suggestion leaves your mouth.

“Yes, do that one. Basically everyone likes green tea.”

“Basically everyone?”

“Not Mark.” Doyoung shakes his head disapprovingly. “He’s not arriving until after we eat, though, so I’m sure it’s fine.”

You’re not sure what to say to that. That night, you work hard making your matcha cookies, setting aside a bit of time for a side project. When you arrive at Johnny’s apartment with two dishes, one quite a bit smaller than the others and labeled with Mark’s name, safely hidden in the pantry until everyone has stepped out of the kitchen area and you can put it somewhere you hope he’ll see it. You can only hope that he at least appreciates your effort. When he arrives a bit later into the night, non-gifting you his usual non-existent glance, you can’t help but impatiently squirm a bit. Before you leave, you make a pass by the kitchen and, disappointingly, but not surprisingly, the container is in the same place as you left it, your note still affixed to the top.

The mystery continues, however, when you approach Johnny a few days later to ask about retrieving your containers.

“There was more than one? I only have that big rectangular one that you brought the matcha cookies in. They were really good, by the way - I can only wish the cookies I make turned out like that…” He scratches his head and you feel like the gesture perfectly represents how you’re feeling as well. If he doesn't have the box… who does?

A small part of you holds onto the hope that the intended person retrieved them after you weren’t looking.

The class you share with Mark is not nearly the most interesting one you have, nor is it one that is particularly memorable most of the time. There’s something so terribly tedious about it that makes you suffer a disproportionate amount whenever you do a chapter of the reading, though you think that you’re usually quite good about your work. Still, though you’re not exactly the most studious of your classmates, you can’t stand resounding silences in the classroom. So, when your professor asks a question and no one volunteers, you try to at least say something somewhat intelligent. Today is one of those days. Except, as you speak, you realize with dawning dread that your words aren’t making any sense of all, are barely related to the question, and are progressively spiraling into completely different subject matter. Still, you find it hard to stop, eventually coming to a stuttering stop with your answer. Even Professor Lim can’t hold back something of a put-off expression. You sink lower into your seat and, as your professor says something along the lines of your comments being “not quite relevant,” your cheeks burn.

You spare a glance to the side, looking for some sort of pity or reassurance from Yuqi, but you end up looking past her at Mark. You half expect him to smirking at your failure, like a villain in a high school drama, but, instead, his eyes meet yours. He offers you the barest twitch of an encouraging smile before looking away, his face neutral again. You’re almost unsure about how to interpret the look - it’s the closest thing to a positive emotion he’s ever shown you. Confused, you fix your eyes on your open notebook and keep them there, scratching random notes and doodles into the margins for the remainder of the lecture.

When you think about Mark Lee, you feel like you’re going insane. It would honestly be pretty easy for you to make one of those crazy conspiracy theorist maps with the red strings and thumbtacks attempting to connect a bunch of pictures with all the strange, fragmented experiences you’ve had with the boy. At one position, you could put all the information you supposedly knew about him before even meeting him, all of the things Jungwoo told you, all the smiling pictures from before you arrived. Somewhere else, you could put all of the times Mark has brushed you off or outright refused to acknowledge your existence. In a third location, you could put all the things you’ve actively seen or heard him do that align with the person you thought he was. Finally, you could put the most recent developments of him subtly starting to not ignore you together. The whole diagram would be circled with giant question marks all over it and one question written in capital letters: WHY?

You’re trying to do your damn curriculum development homework and all you can think about is Mark Lee and the first smile he ever gave you. And, from the way your heart is beating, pushing heat into your face and ears, making you wistful and longing to see his smile again, you think you know the direction your feelings have headed.

The next few times you head over to Jungwoo’s place, it’s hit or miss as to whether Mark appears to be actively avoiding you. Finally, one day, you’re pressed shoulder to shoulder with Jungwoo, your eyes fixed on the small screen of your phone as you show him a funny video you found. You don’t notice Mark until he opens his bedroom door loudly enough that you look up and you meet his cold gaze. He’s in casual clothes, a hoodie and jeans, with earbuds hanging from his ears, his hair slightly tousled from the wind outside. The eye contact lasts for only a moment before his door acts as a barrier to your vision. You blink hard.

“Just when I thought we were getting somewhere…” You sulk, speaking lowly as to not be overheard by him.

“You and Mark?” Jungwoo asks, not even looking up. The video ends and your friend puts down your phone, folds his hands in front of him, and turns to look at you. “Did you ever figure it out?”

“Did I? How could I figure it out when he won’t even talk to me? Did you?” You lean away from him, crossing your arms. “Should we even be having this conversation over here? He’s just in his room.”

Jungwoo shrugs. “He has his headphones in, he can’t hear anything. To answer your question,” he pauses, leaning in closer to whisper like he’s telling you a secret, “I have no idea.”

“You must have some ideas at least?”

“I have many ideas, many theories, and quite a few formulas. Most of which don’t particularly apply to this situation.” You grumble something under your breath about engineering majors as he continues. “For Mark? He might be letting all the negativity he’s ever felt out on you, honestly. Maybe because you’re the same major?”

You sit up slightly straighter. “We’re the same major?”

“Yeah?” Jungwoo replies, giving you a look. “He’s trying to be music education instead of history education, though.”

“I never knew the specifics,” you mumble, letting your posture fall back into a slouch. In reality, it’s more than just not knowing the specifics - there’s very little you’ve managed to learn about Mark that you haven’t actively had to pry out of your shared friends. You know about some of the foods he likes, some of his hobbies, and a bit of general information. It’s awfully hard to get to know someone when they refuse to acknowledge you.

That notion makes your developing crush feel even stupider.

You attempt to turn the subject back to where it began. “Why me, though? Why not literally anyone else?”

“You’re a pretty cool person and you’re good at a lot of things. Mark’s developing an inferiority complex?” Jungwoo taps his chin as though he’s pretending to be some great thinker.

“I’m not going to lower myself to help some man’s ego,” you huff, your nails digging into your palms as you make tight fists. “Plus, there’s nothing I’m particularly good at that he’s not also good at, if not better.”

“It’s not really about ego, I think…” Jungwoo says, trailing off. “I dunno. He’s not like that with anyone but you.”

“No one but me, huh.” Honestly, you’re kind of getting sick of that expression. This isn’t the kind of exceptional you want to be to him. Not at all. You’re honestly not sure when it stopped being a simple need to be on pleasant terms with Jungwoo’s friends and started to get romantic. Your lips press into a thin line for a moment before you exhale sharply from your nose. “Everything is a big ‘I don’t know’ and I hate it. If it’s not an ‘I don’t know,’ it’s still stuck in the ‘why?’ stage.” You lay your head down and you have to resist the urge to scream into your arms. “I’m going to lose my mind.”

“You really make no sense at all.”

“It really makes no sense that I-” You bite your tongue to stop yourself to stop yourself from admitting out loud to the feelings you’ve just recently realized. Jungwoo just gives you a sly, knowing smile that you don’t like the look of one bit.

Before you know it, finals are around the corner and, with it, one of the last organized events you’ll have with your friends until testing is over. This time, it’s a group dinner where people can come and go as they please, and a few of you have taken it upon yourselves to do all the cooking. Namely, you, Doyoung, Jaehyun, Kun, and, surprisingly, Donghyuck. Suffice to say, the kitchen is not enough space for all of you. Still, you manage to pull it off, completing a hearty Korean-style dinner that slowly disappears from their dishes as all of the others eat. By the end, you’re worn out from the sweltering heat of the stove, the occasional bickering with the other chefs (‘Donghyuck, stop eating all the radish!’), and chatting with nearly every single one of your friends. Names and faces scroll through your head and you’re honestly not sure who you’ve seen and not seen by the end of it. Except for one person.

Mark Lee is, once again, nowhere to be found.

You make sure to smack away hands going for seconds in order to wrap up a moderately sized portion of food for him anyways. When all of the food, save for what you’ve set aside for Mark, is gone, Taeyong offers himself and some of the others up to clean, which you and the rest of the cooking boys eagerly accept. Most of them have headed out by now, but the few remaining begrudgingly agree to the job at Taeyong’s call.

You lean against the wall idly, watching the work being done and listening to the rhythmic sound of the water running and the sponge scraping against metal. Finally, Jungwoo happens upon the wrapped plate you had prepared for your missing guest.

“Who’s this for?” He asks to the room, almost salivating at the sight of the food. Damn, that boy can eat.

“It’s for Mark. You can give it to him when he gets back.” Your words are half informative, half threatening. Jungwoo takes the hint and carefully replaces the foil covering the food.

It takes another minute for him to look back over at you, seeing you looking bleary-eyed, close to swaying onto the floor from fatigue. He steps over, patting you on the head. “Y/N, you can go rest on the couch if you want. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I might just do that,” you respond, not clarifying which part of his sentence you’re talking about. At his behest, you shuffle over to the couch. It only takes a moment for your eyes to flutter closed. The music of washing dishes lulls you quickly to sleep.

You’re not sure how long has passed by the time you stir to the sound of the front door closing. You recognize that water is no longer running and that there are only two voices left in the kitchen area. Lying there for a moment, unsure of if you should make your presence known yet, you determine that the voices belong to Jungwoo and Mark.

“Oh, Y/N made sure to grab this for you,” you hear Jungwoo say, followed by the faint crinkling of the foil covering the plate.

“She did?” Mark’s voice is surprisingly soft, warm, everything you’re not used to from him.

The voices drift closer towards you, accompanying the slip of socks against the wood floor. “Don’t act surprised. Also, she’s on the couch sleeping right now. I’ll probably wake her up in a minute so she can go home.”

“Oh.” You’re listening as hard as you can, trying to determine whatever Mark is feeling just by his tone. “Is she okay?”

Your heart beats faster and you want to squirm, ask questions, anything. You remain still.

“Just tired.” A beat of silence. “Why are you looking at her like that?”

“Dude, I just…” Mark has some sort of lightness to his voice that you’ve never heard. “Nothing.”

“Do you think I can’t tell? Come on, I’ve known you long enough.” Jungwoo would normally be teasing saying something like that, but right now you just hear a kind of weariness that you’re entirely familiar with.

“Not as long you’ve known her.” The sentence comes out bitter, the first negativity you’ve heard from Mark all night, and Jungwoo sighs in response.

“Do what you need to do and then I’ll wake her up.”

They walk farther away. The telltale sound of the microwave opening and shutting after the foil crinkles again, followed by the beeping of the buttons and the hum of the machine, tells you that someone is heating up the food. Under the microwave ambiance, you hear what you think is plastic against plastic. The machine is stopped before it can beep shrilly. The smell of warm, reheated food fills the air briefly. There’s shuffling as Mark presumably walks.

“Night.” Jungwoo echoes Mark’s sentiment and you hear more shuffling towards you. A touch on your shoulder. You keep your eyes closed, trying to control your breathing for a moment longer. Your friend shakes you slightly. “Y/N, wake up.”

You try your best to play up your awakening act, like you hadn’t been listening to the entirety of the last conversation. Rubbing your eyes and blinking, you look up at Jungwoo. “What time is it?”

“Almost midnight. Everyone went home to sleep and study.” You get up slowly, rolling your shoulders once you’ve sat up. “I can walk you back, if you want.”

“That’s okay, it’s not a long walk.” You get to your feet, padding to the kitchen area. There, on the table, is the plastic container you’d brought Mark’s cookies in weeks ago. “Oh, that’s my container. Did Johnny find it?”

Jungwoo reaches up to ruffle his hair, looking between you and the container. “Mark did, actually.” “Huh.” Shrugging, you pick it up and make your way to the door. “Tell him thanks for me.”

“You could tell him yourself?” Jungwoo offers, looking vaguely hopeful.

You smile, but cringe at the same time. “Yeah… you know.”

He shakes his head, seeming disappointed once more. “Fine. Text me when you get back?”

“Will do.”

As you walk home, your container clutched in your arms, you think about how more pieces are being unveiled, but nothing is really making that much more sense at all.

Finals pass as they always do. You study with Yuqi for your curriculum development class. The situation from midterms repeats itself almost exactly at one point, with her calling Mark for help and you staying quiet as he talks, and the test is no harder than any of the others you had previously in the semester. You force yourself to keep your eyes on your exam and to not glance over at Mark except when you’re walking out of the classroom at the end. All you can see of him is the back of his head, his hair slightly disheveled. Idly, you wonder if you’ll get over your baseless crush if you aren’t able to look at him and mull over the problem during class anymore. You think that’s the last you’ll see of him before you run into him at an event next semester.

On the last day of finals, your group chat receives two messages from Jungwoo.

JW: END OF THE SEMESTER PARTY TOMORROW NIGHT TO CELEBRATE FINALS BEING DONE BEFORE EVERYONE LEAVES. ATTENDANCE IS MANDATORY.

JW: I don’t care if you planned a “date” with your “girlfriend,” I expect to see all of you there :))

A minute later, your phone buzzes again with an individual message from the same boy.

JW: Y/N, my lovely best friend, you’re part of the planning committee and you’re going to help me set up. Be there an hour early xoxo

You know there’s no use fighting it so, the next day, you show up to his place as expected. Jungwoo, Lucas, Yuta, and Johnny are all milling about, trying to seem busy but, honestly, there doesn’t look like there’s much to do. Some of the furniture has been moved to the side, there’s a giant mysterious tub that is partly filled with a reddish liquid that Lucas and Yuta are leaning over, and Johnny is affixing colorful lights to a wall. As soon as your shoes are off, Jungwoo is steering you to the common area.

“Y/N, you’re late!”

“I’m like ten minutes early-” You start.

“No, no, no excuses. I have an important job for you!” It takes you a moment to realize that he’s not leading you to the kitchen, but towards someone’s bedroom. “You like crafts, right?”

“I mean, I guess? I-”

“Great!” He pushes open the bedroom door, Mark’s bedroom door, and pushes you not-so-gently inside. Mark is sitting at his desk, bent over something with a look of surprise on his face. He looks cozy, dressed in a simple red t-shirt and gray sweats with circle glasses perched on his nose. “I want to hang about one hundred paper cranes around the apartment to add a little flare to the party. You can’t leave until you’re done, Mark has the paper, bye!”

He shuts the door behind him.

You and Mark stare at each other in bewilderment as you process whatever just happened. You’re in Mark’s bedroom for the first time. You’re also being actively forced to interact with him one on one for the first time. None of your friends had ever forced you to try and work out your issues until now and you’re certain that Jungwoo’s implication was that you’re not allowed to leave until you’ve talked it through. Some part of you knew he would eventually snap and force you to interact, but you always ignored that possibility. Until now.

“Um,” you start, twisting your fingers together in front of you, “he said you have the paper?”

“Yeah…” he looks back at his desk, grabbing some of the myriad of square sheets and holding them out to you. “Here.”

“Thanks.” You carefully make sure to prevent your fingers from brushing against his as you take them from him. Stepping back, you settle cross-legged on an empty spot on his floor. After you sit, you take a moment to look around. His walls have the occasional band poster plastered on them, there’s a hoodie on the floor across the room, and some of his drawers are partly open, illustrating a pretty typical college boy’s room. A couple of books are pushed to the side on his desk as he works on folding the cranes. Remembering that’s what you’re supposed to be doing, you get to work, making careful creases. Your first crane comes to life on yellow paper slightly lopsided. Good enough, you figure.

You’re in the middle of your second crane when Mark’s chair screeches quietly against the floor and he stands up, gathering his paper. To your great surprise, he sits down a few away from you and mirrors your pose. When you meet eyes with him briefly, you look away as fast as you can, returning to your crane before you can even try and read what he’s feeling. The next three cranes pass quickly with your eyes locked firmly on your work. When you dare to look up again, you find that Mark is intently watching your hands. He startles when you see him. Realizing he’s been caught, he speaks of softly. “Do you… know how to do it?”

Even when he’s the one talking quietly, looking embarrassed, you feel so small. You look down at his own paper pile, which has a few crumpled sheets surrounding it. “I can show you.” He nods and you cautiously scoot closer so that you’re side by side. As gently as you can, you explain each fold and he copies your movements. Soon, you have a relatively even green crane and he has a somewhat lopsided pink crane, very similar to your first.

“Thanks,” he says, staring at his creation, “all of the tutorials I googled weren’t making any sense, but I think I got it now.”

“No problem.” You nod, moving back to your spot across from him. Not wanting the experience to end quite yet, you think about what Jungwoo said last weekend. “Thanks for returning my container.”

He instantly knows what you’re talking about. “Thanks for-”

Before he can say any more, he stops and his expression hardens. He proceeds to look back down at his hands, making slow, purposeful folds in the paper in front of him. You frown, but do the same. A few cranes later, you can’t stop it anymore. After months, months, of him treating you like this, you can’t go one more crane without finding the truth. You throw a half-completed crane to the floor and, though the noise isn’t loud, he looks up. “Mark, what did I do?”

He seems entirely too surprised by the question, which sparks a kind of anger that you didn’t even realize you were holding in. “What?”

“What did I do! What made you act like this to me? Did I do something? Do you just hate my face? What did I do wrong?” You squeeze your knees brutally, trying to resist doing something like tearing up the few pieces of origami you had completed.

“Nothing.” His simple, one word answer only serves to make you more upset. Though he appears initially dismissive, he sees that you’re about to start shouting and quickly continues. “You really didn’t do anything!”

“Then, why? Mark, you’re making me lose my mind!” Now, you feel like you’re on the verge of crying out of frustration. So far, you’ve managed to not cry at all about this stupid boy who has largely chosen to ignore your existence, but you can feel the telltale warming of your cheeks and the pout in your lips.

“It’s not something you did! Not really.” He takes a shaky breath, appearing almost as upset as you, though there are no tears in his eyes. “It’s about Jungwoo. Please, don’t cry.”

The initial confusion helps you swallow your building tears. “If you’re upset at him, why do you have to take it out on me? I really wanted to be friends with you, Mark. I really did.”

“I wanted to be different.” Now, he’s quiet, refusing to look at you for the months of shame he’s feeling rise to the surface.

“From Jungwoo?” You’re not quite following still. You just know that, even though he’s subtly broken your heart and led you in circles over and over for the past few months, you want to know why he’s hurting and you want to stop it. Even if he hasn’t been full of kindness to you, he has been to everyone else. And you know almost for a fact that this isn’t something he’s told anyone else.

“From you.”

Pushing aside papers, crumpled partial cranes, complete cranes, you move closer to him. You’re not sure if you’re overstepping your boundaries and you still kind of feel like one wrong move will make you cry, but the yelling has left your system and your instincts say proximity will help you understand. “Will you explain it to me?”

“There was a you-shaped hole in Jungwoo’s heart ever since he had to go to college and stop spending so much time with you.” Mark’s resignation is quiet, soft-spoken, like the boy you’d heard so much about but only now had gotten to truly meet. “Whenever he came back from breaks, he would talk about you so much and about how similar you and I are and it just made me feel… it made me feel… like… I don’t know. Like I’m just replacing you while you’re not here.”

“Mark…” You’re not sure quite what to say that he hasn’t logically figured out for himself already. Maybe it would help to say the obvious anyways? “You’re not a replacement. You’re you and I’m me and he has different places for both of us.”

He lets out a puff of air. “I know that. It’s just the type of feeling that you can’t really get to go away, even when you try really hard to believe the opposite.”

“I get the feeling.” And you do. It’s like the nagging feeling that you’ve had that you did something unforgivable to upset Mark even though you were almost certain you didn’t.

“I was mean to you because at least that would make me different enough to not be replaced, I guess. It worked because you never stooped to my level to be mean back.” Though he hasn’t quite apologized, he sounds genuinely sorry.

“It worked because you couldn’t have been replaced in the first place,” you say back. You look over and he has a small smile on his face.

“That too. Also-” He stops himself, seeming conflicted. “No, it’s a bad time. A really bad time.”

That piques your curiosity. “Huh?” He’s not smiling anymore, instead looking awkwardly to his side, away from you, and drumming his fingers on the bed. “Mark, you might as well say it. Whatever it is.”

“Okay, after a few months, I realized that you weren’t going to replace me and things were fine. But, you know that thing that kids do?” You’re confused and he’s growing red, practically steaming at the ears in embarrassment, which you can see even in the dim light of the room. “So, I kept being mean because then you kept looking at me even though whenever I thought about what I said to you later, I always felt really bad-” “Mark, you’re rambling. What are you talking about?” You ungracefully interrupt him, touching his arm to get his full attention. He seems to grow even redder at your touch and suddenly exclaims his next words.

“You’re really cute!”

Slowly, his words make more sense. You try to piece them together out loud to make sure you’re understanding him correctly. “So… the thing kids do… where they’re mean to the person they like?”

He moves his head up and down in a tiny nod. Now, your face is heating up, too. Even more than it was when you were on the verge of crying. After a moment, he groans and presses his face into his hands. “Damn, I’m such an idiot. I know this is, like, what middle schoolers do, but since the beginning of the semester I’ve just been so confused, except you’ve probably been way, way more confused than me, and I didn’t even think about it, but all of our friends are probably confused, too, and-” As he jabbers, when your thoughts and feelings had been processing slowly previously, you now feel like your whole reality is crumbling. You spent the last while beating down your feelings when he’s become a pile of mush in front of you about the same problem? At this rate, he’s never going to stop rambling either. Not that you particularly want him to. It’s the most he’s directly said to you ever. And it’s adorable. What else would be adorable? You wonder, teasing him a bit before you tell him the truth. For how long he kept you hanging, you deserve to create at least some tension of your own, you figure. Just for a moment.

“- you’re probably thinking about how dumb this is and I don’t know how you’ll ever forgive me-”

You sit up straight and cross your arms over your chest. “Mark.”

He stops talking and looks at you, more panic seeming to rise in his face at the serious expression you wear. “Oh shit, I never let you talk. Y/N-”

“Mark.” He finally stops, staring at you. “I don’t forgive you.” The panic turns into sheer terror. He clearly hadn’t expected you to put it so forwardly. However, before he can say anything truly depressing, you continue. “I don’t forgive you because you haven’t actually apologized yet.”

His eyes are like tiny suns, round and bright and holding all the feeling in the universe. “I- I thought…” He looks to the side, thinking about everything he had said, and realizes that you’re right. “You’re right. Y/N…” He presses his hands together in front of him. “I’m so sorry.”

It’s probably the most succinct and straightforward he’s ever been with you, but you don’t have much time to think about that before he’s leaning forward in a full bow, pressing his forehead to the ground.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m-”

“Mark, stop!” As soon as you realize what he’s doing, you shuffle forward, putting both hands on his shoulders so you can attempt to yank him back upright. “I was joking, please stop!” He remains upraised, once again looking confused. Slowly, you move backwards about two feet to put some breathing room between you. “You don’t need to do that. I like you, too.”

One slow heartbeat passes. Then a second. You’re not sure how long the thick silence hangs between you, but the tension is so heavy that you don’t even hear any outside noise from the other boys who are supposedly getting ready for a party.

“You… what… wait, no, really?” Mark’s baffled face as he stutters back to you paired with the anxiety of the entire situation makes a laugh bubble out of your chest. He seems to be entirely at a loss. He continues to just stare at you wide-eyed, like he’s witnessing some incredible event instead of just ogling you in the dim light of his bedroom.

“Don’t look at me like that…” You can’t help but reflect some of his flustered behavior, eye contact becoming almost painful. He’s never met your eyes with such enormous positivity and cuteness before and it makes you want to run laps around the building or something. “Mark, I’m serious!”

“How could you like me back? When I was so mean to you? For months?” He begins to twist in place, trying to lean over and look at your head from multiple directions. “Did you fall down the stairs on the way over here and hit your head or something?”

“Mark!” You uncross your legs and shuffle closer on your knees, reaching out to still his movement by grasping his shoulders once again. “Please stop.” When you touch him, he freezes, still moon-eyed. After he stops moving, your hands slide down so that you can hold his. His hands are warm and stiff, just like the rest of his body.

He finally breaks eye contact, looking at where your hands are connected. “I just really don’t get it. There’s no way you like me.”

“You almost sound like you’re upset about it.” You tilt your head, smiling at him softly.

“I am!” He’s insistant, his hands holding onto yours firmly now. Though his grip is tighter, he visibly deflates, his shoulders sinking. “It’s so unfair to you. I was such an ass.”

“But you’re not. One ass-like behavior does not an ass make.” You almost confuse yourself saying it, but you continue. “It’s not about the times you were weird to me. It’s about the times you were nice to everyone else. Like when you helped Yuqi with our class. Or when you helped Donghyuck with his calc even though you aren’t even taking it with him. It sounds kind of dumb, but because of that, I knew you weren’t a bad person. Even if you were trying to be one to me sometimes.” Your thumbs run over his idly, making soothing strokes over his skin as you speak. “Still, you weren’t really all that mean to me, per se. More cold, if anything. Then, when you stopped doing so much of that, it got really confusing. I do have a question, though.”

“I’ll try to answer it, I guess.”

“Did Jungwoo really say we were that similar?”

He blinks. “Maybe once or twice? It just really stuck out to me, for some reason.”

“You’re cute.” He blushes furiously at that. Carefully, you untangle one of your hands from his and bring it up to his cheek, cupping his blazing face. “Do you want to try this? The being together thing?”

“I want to, but-” He presses his lips together, making his cheeks puff out slightly as he thinks. “I don’t know. I feel like I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve a chance with you.”

Silence sits between you for a moment. Your hand moves back down so you’re holding both of his again. “I know what you can do to make it up to me.”

His eager eyes on your face prompts you to continue. Slowly, a grin threatens to split your face in half.

“I guess you’ll have to kiss me at least once for every time you were mean to me. Maybe more than once.” Your brilliant smile changes form in the air between you and reappears as the stars in his eyes.

“Practice round? Just to make sure I get it right.” The subtle flirtatiousness of the idea that leaves his mouth absolutely appeals to you and you agree. You move as close as you possibly can, your knees pressed together, your breath on his lips and his on yours, his soft bangs grazing your forehead. The touch of his lips against yours is awkward at first, but transforms into something sweeter with a little time. Once you both pull away, it seems you have the same idea when you both go back in for a few quick pecks afterwards. Finally, when you’re content for the moment, he leans forward quickly to press a kiss to your cheek.

You figure that a return to the work of folding cranes will help calm down your rapid heart rate, but every time you steal a glance at Mark, the butterflies return. You know for a fact that he keeps looking at you, too. By the time the noise level outside of the room increases and music is being blasted through the apartment, you’re nowhere near being done with all one hundred cranes, but both of you are sure your mutual friend doesn’t actually care about that. Together, you emerge from his room. You don’t answer any prodding questions from your friends for most of the time you’re mingling, though you’re pretty sure that a good number of them see him sneaking kisses at least once or twice.

Some of them definitely see when you sneak off to his room again before the clock has even turned to midnight. At the same time, you could be damned if you really care.

#neowritingsnet #nct fluff #nct angst #mark lee fluff #mark lee angst #nct 127 fluff #nct 127 angst #nct scenarios #nct imagines #nct 127 scenarios #nct 127 imagines #nct fanfic #nct scenario #wonjaekook #i tried a slightly new sizing for the header :) hopefully it looks better now #there are definitely things I could have done better so let me know what you think!#<<<333

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chaseatinydream · 3 years

Text

pirate king (15) || atz

Everyone is there.

Literally every member of the crew is gathered at the main deck, from Seonghwa, who’s not cooking the crew’s breakfast for some reason, to San, your master, who you know from experience is notoriously difficult to wake up in the mornings.

You try to catch your master’s eye, but San simply gives a wide yawn and clutches a stuffed toy dog closer to him while blearily rubbing at his eyes. Jongho simply looks like he’s already dozing off, his head repeatedly knocking into Seonghwa’s shoulder as he nods off before the whole cycle continues again.

Yeosang pushes you forward gently, and suddenly, before you, is the captain himself.

He looks the same as the last day you saw him, his presence as commanding as the winds that command the ship, vivid green eye burning with fire and the storms of the sea. His red jacket is just as striking in the sea of white and browns, and once again for some reason you can’t explain, you feel inexplicably drawn to him.

Mingi, his ever faithful quartermaster and bosun, stepped forward, calling for silence. That really wasn’t very difficult, considering it was the crack of dawn and nobody really had the brain capacity be talking much. In under half a minute, everyone has fallen still, the deck seemingly plunged into silence, quietly waiting for the captain to begin.

Captain Hongjoong’s eye doesn’t waver from yours when he starts to speak.

“Members of ATEEZ, crew of the Treasure.” His voice is steady, confident, assertive. There’s something that seems almost ceremonial about the way he’s speaking, as if he’s about to give a grand, well orated speech. You glance back at Yeosang for help, but the navigator’s attention is completely fixed on his captain. “We are all gathered here today for an important reason-”

Then he pauses for a moment and his eye glances through the crowd, doing a mental headcount more rapidly than you can see. “Wait, where’s Wooyoung?”

“Here, captain!” There’s a whoop from above you and you manage to duck just before Wooyoung’s booted feet slam into your skull and turn you into human pancake, he untangles himself expertly from the rigging he’s just swung over from and turns to grin at the disgruntled crowd. “Sorry I’m late!”

Then he ducks into the gathering before Mingi can scold him.

Hongjoong sighs, shaking his head before he continues, tone completely commanding. “As I was saying, we are gathered here today for an important reason. This day, we will have a new crew mate join our ranks.”

There’s silence for a moment. Then someone from the back cries out in surprise.

“Captain, you knocked up a town girl?”

Silence.

A conspiratorial whisper. “A baby’s on the way?”

Immediately the silence of the early morning is broken as the entire gathering of pirates erupt into uncontrollable laughter. To your surprise, you see the captain’s cheeks turn a bright, cherry red, almost as vivid as his jacket, before he’s spluttering incoherently in distress and fury.

There are wolf whistles and cries of ‘I knew you had it in you, captain!’

“I did no such thing!” Hongjoong hollers in red faced rage and embarrassment, but the crew only falls over laughing and guffawing at their captain’s indignant protests. Even Yunho, who was standing behind you, keels over wheezing, clutching at his belly and making sounds that remind you of a dying horse.

“Enough!” Mingi shouts over the din, but he doesn’t get far before he’s pressed a hand over his mouth, shaking with barely restrained chortles. “I’m sorry, captain.”

Hongjoong throws up his hands in resignation and merely decides to wait for his crew to stop laughing at him.

Eventually, the laughter dies down, save for the occasional giggle and snicker here and there. The captain’s face is still flushed pink, but he clears his head and attempts to continue.

“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” Hongjoong glares at all his crew members, some of who are still chuckling behind their hands, “We are here today to welcome a new member, who is not my unborn and nonexistent child. But before we do that, we are going to name him first.”

Something wells up inside of your chest.

You.

He’s talking about you.

Just as you realise that, the captain turns to you beckoning you forward. Your eyes fly open and you glance behind you, as if there were anyone else on this ship with no name.

“Go on.” Yeosang nudges you with kind smile and you step forward as if in a daze. Hongjoong strides over to you, taking you by the shoulders as his eyes meet yours.

You can’t look away.

“Stowaway.” His voice is soft, wholehearted and genuine, but he has no need to raise his volume. The ship is completely silent except for the creaking of rope in the rigging, the gentle lap of waves against the side of the ship. You could hear a needle drop. “Exactly one moon ago, you literally stowed away on my ship. Mingi and Seonghwa found you in the cargo hold. You broke my quartermaster’s nose, fell unconscious in the middle of a rainstorm from a raging fever and had the audacity to be carried bridal style all the way from the main deck to the sickbay.”

You force down a gulp at his stern tone and Mingi’s shake of the head. The quartermaster’s nose has long come out of its splint, but there’s a little crookedness to it now that you’ve caused.

“I believed you to be a Royal Navy officer due to the coat you were wearing and your terrible story making skills, but you’ve proven to be a trustworthy crew member and apprentice to San.” His voice suddenly takes on a kinder tone. “You’ve saved my crew from the Kraken and survived your first battle on board.”

Tears prick at your eyes but you refuse to let them fall.

“It is an honour to have you as part of my crew.” Hongjoong declares, eye fixed firmly on you. “And now, I’m going to bestow a name upon you, if you don’t mind.”

He looks at you so seriously that you realise he’s actually waiting for permission, not simply asking out of formality.

“Yes.” You manage to choke out, a thickness in your throat that you’ve never felt before. You’re going to have a name. “Yes, of course I don’t mind.”

“Four years ago, we did the same thing for another member of the ship. Today, we’re going to do the same for our stowaway.”

He lays a hand on your shoulder and gestures towards the crowd. To your surprise, your master steps out from the rest of the pirates.

“The last time, we gave the person a new family name of his own.” Hongjoong says, as San rests his hand on your other shoulder. “But this time, San has offered to give you his.”

Your eyes widen to the size of dinner plates and you turn to stare at your master, whose face is unreadable and blank as usual. He merely shrugs at you.

“From this moment on, you have a name.” Hongjoong declares, and suddenly the heavens shake as if on cue, thunder rolling through the sky. “I wish you all the best in recovering your memories, that you may find the truth of your past even though it may seem as unconquerable as the ocean.”

Your eyes fall closed at his sincere, kind hearted words. Tears slip past your tightly shut eyes at your captain’s words, but honestly at this point you don’t care anymore.

“I name you Choi Chin Hae, family of the ATEEZ crew.”

There’s silence all about you for a moment as everyone takes time to process their captain’s words.

The cheer starts off soft at first, a single person whispering it from the crowd. Then it grows in volume until it becomes a resounding echo throughout the harbor.

“Chin Hae! Chin Hae! Chin Hae!”

The words drown out the sounds of your sniffling, and you feel San pull you into a tight embrace, whispering words of congratulations into your ear. Something feels right, an empty hole in your chest has been satiated after million of years.

A sob leaves you, your shoulders trembling as you try to keep it in. From the side, you see Hongjoong with a small smile on his face watching the cheers.

“Thank you so much, captain.” You whisper over the rowdy screams of the crew, who have now somehow managed to turn your name into some bawdy bar song. Somehow, Hongjoong hears you over the din.

“You’re welcome, Chin Hae.” Is all he replies kindly.

“Woohoo!” Wooyoung slings an arm around your shoulder out of nowhere, sending you staggering forward, a massive grin on his face. “Let’s party!”

And seas, do these pirates know how to party.

Because the first place they drag you to celebrate is a rowdy tavern in town.

“Get the alcohol flowing!” Yunho crows as the nine of you sit around a table; the same people who have been the most instrumental in your journey. Your master, San, your kind supporter, Seonghwa. The kind maknae, Jongho, the person’s whose nose you first broke the very day you stepped on board, Mingi. The sweet navigator, Yeosang, the cheerful lookout, Yunho. And of course, the captain himself, Hongjoong.

And the head gunner Wooyoung who’s kind of just tagging along for the free alcohol.

“And get the pretty ladies here, please!” The man laughs, waving cheerfully at one of the waitress. She blows him a kiss in reply.

Yunho turns to Hongjoong with a expectant smile on his lips. “Hongjoongie-hyung…”

The captain immediately shakes his head, a scowl twisting on his face. “No. No no no. You only call me Hongjoong when you want something from me and I always regret it. No way am I acquiescing to any of your stupid requests-”

Wooyoung slides into the seat next to yours, starting to open his mouth, but Hongjoong cuts him off before he can say a word.

“That includes you too, Wooyoung!”

Seonghwa chuckles as he watches the little scene go on. “It is a celebratory drink though.” Yeosang nods agreement as he glances at his captain.

“We are having a celebration, so maybe you could treat us to at least a drink each, Hongjoongie-hyung?”

Yunho and Wooyoung immediately slide behind him, trying to back him up with the full power of their two puppy dog eyes.

You watch with interest as Hongjoong’s stern expression cracks just a little down the middle. Yeosang adds a ‘please’ and you see every ounce of Hongjoong’s good, logical thinking just crash down a drain.

“Whatever.” He sighs, shaking his head and the two mischief makers exchange an exuberant high five.

“Waitress, one cask of the finest alcohol you have!” Wooyoung shouts across the din of the tavern and Hongjoong’s face immediately goes ashen.

“Wooyoung! I said one drink!” He yelps, rising to his feet to cancel the order, but Yunho tackles him back down as Wooyoung goes to fetch the alcohol. The two roll on the ground like a pair of children roughhousing in the mud, except that one is actually the Pirate King of the Caribbean and the other is a deadly ex-gladiator.

“That is technically one drink.” San shrugs as he shakes his head at the commotion.

You turn to him curiously. “Are you going to drink, master?”

The healer sniffs at the wooden cask Wooyoung is lugging back in distaste. “As I said before, I abhor the taste of alcohol, most of all rum. It is a vile drink that can turn even the most respectable of men into complete scoundrels. There’s a reason we use it to kill the disease causing creatures on our skin, you know.”

“San’s just a lightweight.” Wooyoung calls loudly over the noise of Yunho and Hongjoong both fighting to get the upper hand on the floor as he sets the cask down. The healer turns to give him a deadly glare.

Seonghwa winces in sympathy. “Shots fired.”

“What did you say, you little shit?”

Yeosang chuckles a little under his breath, looking at San. “Well, you can’t really take alcohol-”

“Let’s have a drinking game, right now!” You’ve never seen your master so pumped for anything, and you’d never have thought the day you’d see it would be because of alcohol. “We’ll play truth, dare or drink. Let’s see if I’m the one left drunk after this!”

“I’m on!” Wooyoung cracks open the lid, handing out the wooden mugs. “Come on, everyone! Let’s see who’s the last one left standing! Upright, at the least!”

Hongjoong finally clambers back into his seat, blonde hair mussed from the little fight and his eye patch askew. “What did I miss?”

“They’re having a drinking game. Or rather, we’re having a drinking game.” Mingi sighs under his breath, shaking his head at his crew mates as he takes his mug. “I suppose doing this once in a while is fine…”

Wooyoung snatches a glass bottle and places it in the middle of the table. “Let’s get the bottle rolling.”

You frown, a little confused. “What’s going on?”

The other eight glance at each other before Jongho explains. “Every time before they start drinking, they’ll have a game of spin the bottle. If the bottle lands on you, you need to tell a truth, carry out a dare, or just drink an entire tankard.”

Entire tankard? You eye the size of your cup doubtfully, unsure whether you can even finish it before the night ends.

“Since this celebration is in honour of you, Chin Hae, why don’t you spin the bottle?” Yunho calls as he fixes his hair, grabbing his mug. You carefully reach out and spin the bottle.

The glass bottle spins around in circles, a little wobbly, but in the end it finally settles on the captain.

“I hate this game already.” Hongjoong groans, turning to you. “Truth.”

You pause. Is there anything you really want to ask the captain?

Then something occurs to you, all the way back from when you’d first come aboard this ship.

“Captain… when I was sick and fell ill… were you the one who carried me to the sickbay?”

Hongjoong freezes for a moment. Then he fills his mug to the brim and knocks back the whole drink in a single gulp, choking out ‘next’.

It can’t have been more obvious if he’d slapped you in the face with a dead fish.

“But hyung-” San begins to say with a grin on his face, but his captain cuts him off.

“Shut up, San! You can’t say a word about it.”

Wooyoung and Yunho are in fits of laughter, Mingi and Seonghwa shaking heads at their captain’s terrible lying skills. There’s a warmth rising in your chest, a certain happiness. That captain may really have not hated you from the beginning at all.

San shrugs, but there’s a twinkle in his eye. “I mean, captain, when you were naming Chin Hae, you said something about being carried bridal style to the sickbay… I mean, nobody but the person carrying him could have known that, am I right?”

Hongjoong pauses a moment to think over his words. You can literally see the cogs in his head turning as realization dawns on him.

He slams his head into the table in mortification. “And I already drank the stupid drink. Damn, I hate this game.”

Wooyoung pats his captain on his back reassuringly, but there’s not a bit of sympathy on his face. “It’s alright, cap’n. I mean, all of us already knew except for Chin Hae here.”

Hongjoong pins San to his seat with a murderous glare.

“Moving on!” San chirps, suddenly too cheerful in spite of his imminent death looming over him. “Wooyoungie, it’s your turn!”

“Yeah!” The head gunner gets up and spins the bottle, the neck finally coming to rest on Seonghwa. The cook’s eyes widen momentarily. “Seonghwa!”

“Truth.”

Wooyoung frowns as he strains to think of a suitable question. Mingi sighs, sipping from his tankard. “This is stupid. They’re going to end up drunk anyway, honestly.”

“Remember what happened the last time Wooyoung got drunk?” San muses, and Yeosang snorts as he takes a drink.

“Well, I remember you being flat out wasted right next to him and that you woke up on the main deck butt naked because you ran all the way back to the ship from the tavern while throwing off your clothes and singing ‘nothing’s gonna hold me down’, all while Mingi and Seonghwa were trying to chase you down.”

You turn to stare at your master questioning. His face is carefully blank.

“I did no such thing.” He hiccoughs and swallows a mouthful of alcohol. “But I do remember what Wooyoung did. He flirted so hard with someone, fell in love and ran back to tell us he was leaving the crew for good, before he woke up next to a potted plant in his bed.”

You choke on your rum.

“Argh! I can’t think of one right now.” Wooyoung runs his fingers through his hair, shaking his head. “Hyung, tell us your most recent secret!”

Seonghwa’s eyes widen and he glances over at you. You immediately know what he’s thinking about.

To your gratefulness, Seonghwa merely sighs and begins to fill his tankard. Yunho pouts.

“Aww, that’s no fun, hyung!”

The cook merely shakes his head with a serene smile on his face as he returns to his seat. “Our definitions of fun are very different. Yunho, it’s your turn.” The lookout eagerly spins the bottle.

And the bottle lands on you. Their eyes all come to stare at you expectantly.

“Uhh…” You keep your voice shaking from the nerves. “Truth.”

“If you were a woman…” Both you and Seonghwa almost choke, Seonghwa on his drink and you on dry air. “Which of us would you be with?”

You cough at the too accurate statement, but luckily for you, no one realises, all too busy extolling their own qualities.

“It’s going to be me.” Wooyoung insists, patting his biceps fondly. “I mean, look at these guns, baby!”

Mingi snorts as he takes a sip. “Sorry, Wooyoung, but the only guns you have are back on the ship.”

The entire table dissolves in laughter.

“Burn!” Yunho crows, waving his tankard around. You dodge to avoid the alcoholic spray. “But Chin Hae, you still haven’t answered my question!”

You pause to think about this for a moment.

“Well, if I’m honest… It’s probably Master.”

San grins at Wooyoung, who looks like he’s just been struck dumb. Then Wooyoung speaks, his voice thoughtful.

“But technically the two of you have the same surname, so isn’t that like incest?”

There’s silence as everyone glances at each other. You stare at your master in horror.

“And wouldn’t Jongho be like San’s brother or something since he’s a Choi too, so would Jongho be Chin Hae’s brother in law-”

“Okay, let’s drink!” Yunho shouts before the conversation can get any weirder, and everyone happily acquiesces.

Over the course of a few hours, you watch as the tavern turns into complete madness.

Seonghwa, Mingi and Yeosang are drinking quietly and speaking in soft tones, while your captain and master are both singing ‘baby don’t stop’ at the top of their lungs, attempting some terrible dance along the side.

Jongho’s at your side, shaking his head at their shenanigans as he downs tankard after tankard, trying to drown his life problems and Yunho and Wooyoung are long gone, attempting to flirt with anything that even remotely moves or breathes.

And they’ve somehow already started a fire in the kitchen, which the staff have had to desperately put out.

“Hey, Chin Hae.”

You glance up to see the gunner, Wooyoung, standing there. You’ve never really talked to him much, after he abandoned you and Jongho on his little excursion with his lady friends, so you’re a little confused to why he’s speaking to you now.

He looks abnormally serious.

“If this is about why I didn’t choose you for the Truth thing earlier, I’m sorry-”

But he doesn’t even acknowledge your words, pulling you out of the tavern by the hand. You’re confused, but you follow him to one of the back alleys. He stops to rummage in his pockets, before producing something long and slender wrapped in a velvet bag.

“This is for you.” He says, so earnestly that you’re puzzled for a moment, but you take the small gift from him and open it.

A beautiful, silver hairpin slides out from the soft velvet.

A gasp falls from your lips. It must be extraordinarily expensive, the hairpin is made of the finest silver with exquisite, elaborate detailing on the pure metal. At the end is the main piece, a sea flower, its petals wrought with fine silver, a single, well polished aquamarine stone set in the very centre.

“Do you like it?” Wooyoung asks softly, as if afraid you might reject it. You’re stunned beyond comprehension, turning the beautiful piece of jewelry in your hand carefully, afraid that it might break.

“Yes.” You manage to choke out, suddenly a little emotional. No one else has gifted you with such a precious thing before. Then you start to panic. Has he found out that you’re a woman? “Yes… but why?”

“Remember the time you went to town with Jongho and I?” Wooyoung smiles genuinely, his eyes crinkling to little crescent curves. “You were looking at the hairpins like you really wanted one. It’s a pity you can’t wear it now though, your hair is too short.”

“But it must be expensive.” You breathe in disbelief, tracing your finger down the side of the cool metal. Wooyoung shrugs, a cheeky grin on his face.

“The money I bought it with was clean.” You give him a flat stare.

“I’m joking, I’m joking!” He laughs, as you gently slide the pin back into the velvet bag. The you look at him as earnestly as possible and flat out bow to him as deeply as you can.

“Thank you, Wooyoung-hyung.”

“You’ve just gained a name and joined the crew today.” The purple haired gunner’s face is soft in the moonlight, accentuating his handsome features like magic bringing a carved statue to life. “So happy birthday, Chin Hae-ah.”

Happy birthday.

There’s a comfortable silence between the two of you, before the back door to the tavern bursts open and Seonghwa, San and Jongho burst out in a panic.

“Don’t flirt with Chin Hae!” Jongho splutters, but Seonghwa trips on the stair and falls onto the maknae. The two go tumbling to the ground in front of the two of you, much to your shock. San steps proudly on the two of them like some sort of disapproving parent.

“Don’t you dare defile my precious apprentice!” The healer declares, clearly drunk because he’s talking to the potted plant at the side rather than you and Wooyoung. Then he shakes the plant vigorously, dirt and leaves flying everywhere. “You hear me, Wooyoung?”

“Come on, I don’t look that ugly…” The gunner says as he helps Seonghwa and Jongho to their feet. Seonghwa dusts himself off, giving you a concerned look. Your heart brims at their thoughtfulness.

“Are you alright, Chin Hae? This strange man wasn’t bothering you at all?”

Wooyoung shrieks in fury at not being recognised. “I am your crewmate! And I’m not such a lowly person to prey on my own crewmates! I love my pretty ladies, excuse you!”

“Yeah, he was just giving me something.” You reply softly, slipping the pin inside your pocket as Jongho tackles him back into the tavern, lecturing him about irresponsible men and sexual predators. Seonghwa nods, pulling San away from his potted plant even as he struggles to continue threatening Wooyoung.

“If I catch you trying to screw my apprentice over again, the next time you get injured I’m patching you up with fishing hooks and barnacle juice-” He squawks as Seonghwa picks him up gently from the back. “Let me go, you fiend!”

“Why is Wooyoung-hyung being so nice to me, though?” You wonder aloud, as the three of you turn back to the tavern, San slung over Seonghwa’s shoulder like a little kid throwing a tantrum.

Seonghwa turns to where you and Wooyoung had been standing with a sad, wistful smile.

“It’s probably because Wooyoung knows what you’re feeling. He understands, after all.” The cook says quietly, his expression fond and you can feel the brotherly love Seonghwa has for his younger crewmate.

You frown at his words. “Understands what?”

Seonghwa’s smile is heartbreaking.

“What it is like not to have a name.”

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lizardrosen · 3 years

Text

more about nonbinary edgar

a followup to this post and this fic. Many thanks to @all-mimsy for being a creative partner, and to @butchhamlet, without whose trans Edmund post I would never have thought of nonbinary Edgar.

I’m using he/him pronouns for this post for a couple reasons. Edgar’s just starting to figure himself out and takes a while to figure out who he is and what he wants, and then even after he figures himself out, pronouns simply aren’t that important to him. He’s not like Edmund; he doesn’t need to be acknowledged by a world trying to bar his path, so gender is more about realigning himself with his inner world.

Edmund Does Not Understand this approach at all so it’s just one more missed connection. However Edgar understands Edmund’s need to Prove Himself, on an intellectual level if not a personal level.

When they were kids Edgar used to brush and braid Edmund’s hair all the time, and he was really good at it. Edmund liked the feeling of being cared for, but mostly he wanted it close to his head and out of his face so he didn’t have to think about it for a while. Then Edmund transitioned and Edgar was a little upset and jealous that he cut off his long beautiful hair, and he missed the bonding activity but he also missed the feeling of playing with long hair, and it took him a while to realize that he had been living vicariously through Edmund and was halfway thinking about growing his own hair long.

Edmund was so much happier and more genuine after his transition, and Edgar was jealous and happy about that too. He was always supportive and corrected their father when he misgendered Edmund, but of course Edmund got bristly and mean when Edgar asked too many sincere-but-intrusive questions.

Lots of sibling feelings about presentation and societal roles and things they were born to but don’t have to keep. The way Edgar gets to have everything without even trying and Edmund doesn’t even consider that maybe Edgar doesn’t want it. The way Edgar feels all anyone has to say about him is “legitimate” and “male” because he’s just there, while Edmund gets to be smart and handsome and charming and well-spoken.

When Edgar asks Edmund how he knew he was a boy, because he’s trying to figure out why he sometimes feels like he’s not one, he’s still just one big question mark, there’s nothing definite for him to attach his gender feelings to, making him doubt himself constantly. But he’s certain that he’s not a girl, even if he knows nothing else, and that helps him not feel entirely adrift.

Even though Gloucester isn't great at accepting Edmund as he is, Edgar still gets the feeling that he's glad to finally have a son who's better at BEING a son than Edgar is, and if he ever said that he thinks maybe he's NOT a son, Gloucester wouldn't take it kindly, so he just makes an effort not to think about it in his presence, so sure he can see it on his face.

So when Edmund tells him he has to run, his first thought after "some villain hath done me wrong" is "he found out" even though he doesn't even know for sure what exactly this nebulous truth about him is. His third thought is "Did Edmund tell? He wouldn't have, would he?"

(But he’s right. Edmund is a real piece of work, and if he had some sort of secret that would get Edgar disowned he probably would tell, but he draws the line at outing someone. He doesn’t even think of it until later, coming off the high of Cornwall telling him “you shall be ours” and then he hates himself for thinking of it at all. He also hates himself for not thinking of it sooner because clearly he wasn’t ruthless enough. Edmund, please.)

When he’s begging for alms he sees a pretty patterned skirt barely hanging onto a laundry line. After the people inside refuse to give him any food he takes the skirt to blanket his loins, getting rid of the pants that were getting ragged and grimy anyway. It’s a relief. He didn’t know that movement could feel like this.

Edgar’s not a man any more than he is a madman, or a man from Dover, or any of a half-dozen other costumes he’s donned and doffed since his exile began. It’s just a game everyone’s agreed to play, only now he’s discovered he doesn’t have to play, or at least not by the same rules, and anything he does choose can be as lasting or as temporary as he wishes.

This all gets even more interesting if it’s one of the productions where Kent is played by a woman. Even if the role of Caius allows her to let out some of the impulsive violence and bluntness she couldn’t enact as a Lady and a Countess, the maleness really is just part of her disguise, not her testing out being trans.

Edgar might vaguely perceive that Caius is afab, because he’s been peeling back the wallpaper of the world and can see things he didn’t know before, but between Edmund’s transition and his own newfound discovery that it’s all about costumes he doesn’t jump to assuming that Caius is a woman, but just accepts him as presented.

Maybe the Fool is also fucking around with gender and presentation, because the world is falling apart around their ears, and no one expects a Fool to adhere to tradition. Maybe they can be doublecast with Cordelia!

Feste-like, the Fool alludes to the gender situation of Edgar and Kent. Kent gets scared because that’s one step closer to revealing the treason of staying in the country after her banishment, but Edgar can’t help smiling a bit because he’s come so far from where he started, and he understands, a bit, why Edmund wants so badly to be Seen.

Kent survives after the end of the play because I say so, and becomes a mentor figure for Edgar, and is the first person he really talks to about gender stuff, after Edmund.

And Edgar starts to grow out his hair! Not super long, but long enough to braid. It raises a few eyebrows, but Edgar Does Not Care anymore what people think of him.

#king lear #edgar #edmund #kent #the fool #gloucester #headcanon

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cherryblossomtease · 3 years

Text

In The Fairest Season ~ Part 4

18+ only

warnings summary masterlist

Chapter Warnings - mild graphic violence

~LATE AUGUST~

Bird song usually soothes you in the mornings.

Your bed is near the window and when the nurse leaves it open you can feel the cool breeze and hear the sparrows, but this morning you’re in pain and you wish you could quiet the little beasts.

You had a nightmare, that must be what it is. Your dreams have always been vivid, ever since you were a child. So much so that they set the tone for your day.

This one is a replaying of the night you almost died. You’ve had it before, for better or worse it is typically the same, but this time, he was there just watching as the butcher hacked away.

You woke with your pulse racing, scared for a while until the sparrows calmed you, and then the pain kicked in and now you are just angry.

It isn’t true. You know he’s the one paying for your care or else you would have been sent home weeks ago.

Instead you have a private nurse and this beautiful room on this quiet floor far from the chaos below with a doctor who speaks kindly when he comes to do his rounds.

He checks your wound which is a specific form of torment you would not wish on your enemy. It is too hard for you to speak when he asks how you feel, but you write with chalk on the little slate they’ve given you and when he is done prodding, they give you fresh bandages and let you sleep.

Eating slowly becomes easier too— when you have an appetite.

Turning your head from the bright light of day, you look at the vase on the table beside your bed and stare at the single dead rose.

It was the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes after your surgery. Someone had placed it on your bed while you slept after they stitched you back together and you’ve kept it, refusing to let them throw it away.

Once, you overheard the doctor say that the assailant was in a hurry. The theatre was a risky place to commit such a crime and get away with it. His careleness and your bouquet which took the impact of his assault kept you alive, but it would take time and rest before you could speak.

You still do not have the heart to ask him about singing.

Baron Zemo likes the hunt.

It’s been a while since he has, but not long enough that he’s forgotten how it’s done, or how much he enjoys it.

Patience and observation are his weapons and he’d spent the past few days using both.

The Baron had stripped away his fine clothes, concealing his wealth with worn shoes, a tattered coat and the hat of a man no one would notice. He left the pretty summer mansions behind, forgetting the charm of street lamps and manicured topiaries that decorate the parks, choosing instead to disappear into the bleak slums, quietly following the man whose name he’d gotten through his first round of cat and mouse which had ended very badly for the mouse.

Down he went over shit covered roads, dodging the beggars and dirty children, slipping in and out of the shadows like a predator that crouches in the tall grass before leaping to bite the neck of its victim.

He had stalked around this way for two nights. Thankfully this man -Karpov- is simple.

It will be over and done before midnight.

Pressing his back to the damp wall, the Baron keeps out of sight as Karpov stops at the entrance of an abandoned warehouse just off the water. He speaks with the old man sitting on a barrel and lights what’s left of a cigarette while they chat, the sound of gulls and gentle waves deceptively tranquil.

Zemo watches him, staring at his plain face. He will never forget it, or the way he feels knowing that you have seen him too, and why.

Their voices fade though his eyes stay trained on his target, just a sliver of his face showing around the corner in the dark, the memory of you onstage coming to him quickly.

He can see you so clearly, with your voice so bright and strong. It fills the music hall with the most beautiful sorrow he has ever heard, just when he needed it most…

Karpov may not have killed you —little bird— you are still alive, you are strong and healing even now. But he tried, and that is enough.

There is a righteous anger burning in the Baron’s heart that drives him—pushing him forward much as it did when he lost his wife and son. He won a war fueled by that rage and it is this same hurt that clears his head and keeps him steady. He is at his best when he is hunting those who deserve to die. This man, he thinks watching Karpov take a long drag, is most deserving.

So Zemo waits.

When Karpov finally goes in and the old man slumps down in a drunken sleep, Zemo slips on the mask he has not worn since the fighting at the borderlands and goes inside, making his way through the dark, his eyes quickly growing accustom to it.

He sticks to the shadows moving in through the fallen beams until he notices the silence. Karpov knows he's here. That’s all right.

“No use for that, I know who you are.” Comes Karpov’s voice in the distance.

The Baron smiles beneath his cover. “Then you also know why I’ve come.”

“I guess you’re mad about your little ingenue” He says the word making it sound crude.

“That is an act, only the role played on stage. She —is anything but.”

“All the same, you’ve got a score to settle with me….same as you did the ones that ripped your country apart. Come on then. Stop hiding.” Karpov says and the Baron hears how his voice wavers with fear.

He must truly knows who has come for him.

“What stories have you heard?” Zemo asks, curious as he walks past the wreckage. “What tales of war have made it all the way to your filthy ears?” He smirks. When he steps into the dim light of a barrel fire, the doomed man backs away.

Through the flames, Karpov catches his first glimpse of the Baron. He sees the long black coat with the white fur collar, similar to what the men wore to stay warm through the long winters of a northern war and the thick gloves to make gripping swords much easier. And finally, the mask that had become the stuff of legend between the fighters. Karpov may not have been there to see first hand, but he'd heard enough on the docks from the ones who traveled through, those few who survived...

Zemo's men rallied behind the mask and his enemies feared it. The entire time, none knew who the man that wore it was, the Baron had managed to keep this identity secret. They only knew that he was fearless and seemed to enjoy the killing when it kept others alive. Now Karpov knew— he did not expect to live long enough to tell the secret.

“You’re Baron Zemo.” He says awed. “The masked swordsman of Sokovia.” He grins with the discovery. “You’re the one who waits, and hunts.” His gold teeth gleam in the firelight. "And falls in love with little stage girls who forget their place." He says with a laugh, but that laugh is not genuine. He is trying very hard to stave off the inevitable.

Zemo squares his shoulders and fixes his eyes on his victim. It’s been a very long time since anyone has looked at him this way, but it is instantly familiar. All cowards make the same face right before they die. Still he is surprised and tilts his head, perhaps a little flattered that his war reputation has reached so far. He gives a single nod. “Yes… the patient man. With experience.” He adds and looks Karpov in the eye, his grin hidden beneath the mask. Why is he still standing here?

“Run.”

The man growls an angry response, he does not usually back down from a fight, but when the Baron steps around the fire, and draws his sword, Karpov forgets his own reputation in the slums and turns, fleeing up a set of crooked stairs, jumping over the places he knows won’t support him as he makes his was along the balcony of the next floor. The Baron stays put to watch; his brain doing the calculations to follow without stepping on a rotted or missing plank.

When the time is right he follows.

“I can smell you from here.” Zemo says into the dark as he climbs, his voice finding Karpov before he does. They say predators can smell fear, perhaps the war has changed him more than he realized. And to think he used to be a peaceful man.“People seem to find joy in taking things from me.” Zemo says stepping onto the second floor. He pauses to listen so happy that the hunt is not over. This may be Karpov’s territory but what is a broken building to a man who has seen the end of the world. “Such careless, stupid ignorance.” Zemo scolds softly. “Better men than you have tried my friend. And I’m sure you know that happened to them. You see it is not what I did during the war that should frighten you. It’s what I did to the ones who caused the deaths of my family after the fact.” Karpov is breathing is too loud. He does know.

Zemo hears and pauses, going left to find him instead of right.

Karpov feels panic, he’s set something off inside of Zemo, something that had been quiet for so long. He should never have done it, but how could he have known that the Baron the little bitch snuck off with was this one!

And then a breeze, like the breath of an angel catches his hair, reminding him of another way out.

Not waiting to test fate, the man scuttles across the floor boards down a short hallway with the broken wall that leads to the water below. He stands gazing down not wanting to jump, but not wanting to die in a fight either.

It isn’t so very far, he thinks watching the gentle waves break on the planks of the warehouse. But those rocks… he is certain he will not be able to miss them. He will have to take a running leap. Gathering his courage he takes a step back.

“Tell me, how long do you think it took your friend to give you up?” Zemo asks, his voice as light as a feather in Karpov’s ear. “Just the threat of my blade and he told me your name. I still killed him of course."

Karpov shuts his eyes, angry that he’s missed his chance. The bastard Baron moves as quiet as a snake in the grass. “You killed Charlie?”

“Yes.” He says and begins to raise his sword.

Furious at being caught, Karpov gives a shout and swings back with an elbow, but Zemo ducks missing the swing, rising with a single attack. His trusted sword delivering silent death. He takes a step or two back and waits. He did not miss.

Karpov stands, his face contorting, he reaches as if the Baron might help. He is confused and then he realizes.

The blood looks black against his dirty shirt blooming like a rotted flower as it seeps from the wound to his heart. The color drains from Karpov's face.

Zemo looks him over and it comes on quickly. Rage and fear are such a powerful combination. As the dying man sputters, the Baron kicks his stomach hard enough to send Karpov through the broken wall.

Pulling the mask from his face, Zemo quickly goes to the edge of the building, leaning over in time to see the way Karpov’s body breaks on the black rocks, ruined and hardly recognizable as a man.

He stares down at the gore for far too long, his only thought being that Karpov’s accomplice Charlie had been shown a mercy when his throat was sliced. Though it was a just end for a man so fond of showing the same -kindness- to innocent women.

Turing away, Zemo sheaths his sword and slips his mask into his coat, sad to put it away, and starts back through the warehouse. Unsure that he’s done what you would want, he questions his actions, but he is certain that his own brand of justice has been served.

The men who would cause you harm are dead. And that is all that matters.

“Throw it out,” You say. It is the first time you’ve tried using your voice. The nurse is shocked that you’ve finally given in but she seems so pleased that you try; you are only angry with what you hear.

It sounds like a crow scratching at a window.

You hate the sound.

It’s never even occurred to you to love or hate your speaking voice, it’s just been there and pleasant enough, sort of soft and unassuming, so different from when you sing.

Everything has changed so quickly.

“Are you sure miss? You’ve kept it all this time.” She says, her kindness punctuated by her hand resting light on your shoulder.

You look up at the ceiling from your pillow in bed refusing to look at that silly rose anymore. It is a symbol of something that has been proven to be untrue.

One week spent with your fate unknown. Three weeks you’ve lain here recovering. In all that time he has not written or come to see you.

It is unexpected, you’re not sure what to make of it, but you assume the worst and try to adjust to living with a broken heart beneath a lost voice.

“I’m sure.”

youtube

#baron zemo x you #zemo x y/n #zemo fanfic #zemo x reader #baron zemo fanfiction #baron helmut zemo #the baron always gets his revenge #with a sword #Youtube

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pastelwitchling · 4 years

Text

Can you do one where it's Jesse's funeral, Forrest supports Alex and helps him through it with the help of his Gregory and even Flint.

Sad ending for Michael.

***

It was two weeks after Jesse Manes’s funeral, and Alex seemed fine. At least, that was how it looked to Michael.

The Manes men had all sat quietly for Jesse’s great big military send-off, Alex’s oldest brother Gregory had solemnly accepted the folded flag from a man that Michael assumed was someone one of the brothers must’ve personally known (there was a Manes in every branch of the military, after all, god help them), and Alex had seemed fine.

Michael and his siblings, as well as Liz, Maria, Kyle, and Rosa, had watched from the shade of a distant tree. They were there for Alex, but Alex didn’t even seem to realize it. Michael tried not to feel like it was killing him.

When the funeral had ended and others had turned to leave, Michael expected Alex to linger behind, to stay seated long after everyone had gone, maybe give his own private goodbye speech (Michael was determined to move to a tree closer to Alex if that was the case), but Alex had nudged a remarkably silent Flint, touched Gregory’s shoulder, muttered a word to Clay, and the four made their way out of the graveyard with the others.

“Alex,” Liz said sadly as they came closer. “I’m so sorry.”

Alex had let himself be pulled into a hug, and for a split second, Michael thought he saw a numb look in the airman’s eyes, one that had his heart falling into his stomach, but then Alex stepped back, gave a small smile, and shook his head, murmuring, “I’m fine, really, I’m okay.”

Not looking at any of the others, not even letting Kyle do more than pat his shoulder, Alex had distractedly kissed the side of Liz’s head and left with the crowd, he and his brothers talking to each other in quiet voices.

Michael had watched him go, staring intently at the back of his head, silently willing him to turn around, to say something, because none of this felt right but Michael couldn’t put his finger on what exactly was wrong so he needed Alex to tell him. If the airman sensed Michael’s silent pleas, he ignored them.

The next day, Michael hadn’t seen Alex at the bunker, and he wondered if the airman was holed up at home, dealing with whatever he was dealing with alone, or maybe at the reservation, consoling a lost Gregory, or maybe he and Flint had gone to visit Clay. Maybe they were all with Clay, wondering if there was any point coming back to Roswell at all. Michael couldn’t entertain that idea long.

The only one that seemed at all troubled about Jesse was Flint, who hadn’t said a word since he’d found out. Maybe, Michael thought, Alex was with him, worrying about getting him to eat and sleep since word from Liz said that he wasn’t doing either.

But no. When Michael had come into the Crashdown for lunch, he found Alex there, sitting in a booth, talking quietly to Forrest.

Forrest was pushing Alex’s bangs off his forehead gently, and Alex’s eyes were fluttering shut to the touch, and neither of them seemed to notice that Michael was staring. When Alex turned and caught his eyes, he gave a small, weary smile, and looked away. For the rest of the day, it was as if Michael didn’t even exist.

But Alex seemed fine. He was fine, right? It wasn’t as if he and his father were ever that close, and Alex had just as many nightmares from his dad that he did from his time at war, so it wasn’t like he lost anyone any good.

Still, a voice in Michael’s head nagged. Still, still, still…

Still, Alex’s eyes were too dark, the circles around his eyes too deep, his cheeks too hollow, his brows twitching so often as if a storm was raging in his head and his skull was barely able to contain it. But what did Michael know anymore? What did he know of how to comfort Alex? They weren’t really that close of friends, they didn’t talk too easily, especially not about feelings, and never about Jesse Manes.

But then there was Kyle. Kyle, who Michael had begrudgingly come to accept was Alex’s friend now –

(“Best friend,” Kyle had said.

“You wish, Valenti!” Michael had responded.)

— and had a little more access to Alex’s life than he himself did. Michael watched him come in, spot Alex in a booth, and slide in across from him, huffing.

“I’ve been trying to call you,” he’d said. “I was worried, Manes.”

Michael had expected at that point for Alex to smirk and respond with some witty retort, to shrug and smile kindly and say everything was fine, but any trace of a smile on Alex’s expression faded away in an instant, and he grabbed his jacket off the back of the booth.

“Sorry,” he muttered, standing, “I have to go.”

“What – Alex,” Kyle tried, but Alex had already passed Michael and was out the door.

Michael had looked to the booth to find a confused Kyle. Forrest, on the other hand, looked resigned, as if his suspicions had only been confirmed, and none of them had been good. Michael didn’t like that look; as if Forrest knew Alex better than he did, as if he could read him so much better.

It made Michael chase after Alex. He caught him just as he opened his car door.

“Alex, wait!”

Michael closed the door before Alex could climb in, and instead of looking annoyed or put out or frustrated, Alex sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“Didn’t hear you,” he said quietly.

“Like hell you didn’t,” Michael said. “Why are you avoiding us?”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Michael said. “You won’t even look at me, you won’t talk to Kyle –”

“Since when do you care what I do or don’t do with Kyle?” Alex said wearily. “Aren’t you the one that’s always telling me that he’s a prick?”

“Since when do you listen to me?” Michael defended. He took in Alex’s appearance; his slumped shoulders, the way he limped more heavily than usual, the way his eyes couldn’t focus on Michael but on his cheek or shoulder instead.

Michael glanced at the Crashdown window, made sure that Forrest couldn’t see them where they were standing, and stepped closer to the airman. He tried touching Alex’s cheek, but Alex tiredly waved him off, some of the familiar irritation returning to the frown at his lips.

“Hey,” Michael said softly. “Talk to me.”

Alex searched Michael’s face, and as he opened his mouth to speak, Michael thought he might get an honest, heartfelt answer. He didn’t really know what he’d do with it if he did. Then Alex huffed a weary chuckle.

“I’m just relieved, Guerin,” he said, shrugging a shoulder, but even as he spoke, his smile faded and his brows furrowed and he sounded more and more miserable. “I’m really… really relieved.”

Michael’s hand fell to his sides as Alex’s voice cracked at the end, shocked as he’d never heard Alex so broken before, and Alex opened the car door and got in without another glance at Michael.

It was two weeks after the funeral when Michael saw the Manes brothers again at the Wild Pony, and Alex seemed fine. He was sitting at a table with Gregory and Flint next to him, Flint still silent with a bottle of beer in hand, Alex bumping their shoulders together while Gregory and Forrest talked about who-knows-what, probably just to keep the silence from taking over.

Michael noticed the way Forrest’s hand rubbed Alex’s shoulder, subtly massaging the muscle there. Every now and then, he would squeeze a little too roughly and Alex would laugh, and he seemed… just… fine.

Still…

Still, Michael knew something had to be wrong, unable to get Alex’s voice and numb expression from nearly two weeks ago out of his head, and by the way Forrest moved closer so that he could drape an arm over Alex’s shoulders, Michael knew he wasn’t the only one that noticed.

Alex rested his head on Forrest’s shoulder, listening to his brother and boyfriend fall into easy conversation. Michael was sitting at the bar, but at some point, someone had to have noticed that he was blatantly staring across the room at one man. One man who smiled calmly and closed his eyes every now and then where he rested and seemed just fine.

Then one man who, as Gregory and Forrest spoke, as Flint only started to say a few words, began to tear up. A man whose smile began to falter. A man who covered his face when the others began to notice, who kept his face covered when the table turned silent, whose shoulders shook when Forrest’s hand fell to his back, rubbing soothing circles.

Michael stood abruptly. So did Alex, pulling roughly at his face to reveal red eyes and wet cheeks. Alex excused himself and stepped out. Michael followed.

He watched as Alex made it to the end of the golden lamp light of the bar, standing just outside in the middle of the dark desert, hugging himself. Even from where he stood hidden next to his truck, Michael could see Alex’s fingers dig into his own arms.

He considered what he would say, how Alex would take it. He didn’t know the answer to either. All he knew was that he wanted to hold Alex now, to kiss him and reassure him that he was going to be there for him, to protect him. But that couldn’t be enough, could it?

Just as Michael swallowed heavily and took a step out towards Alex, they heard –

“It’s cold out here,” Forrest suddenly said, stepping out leisurely, hands in his pockets. “Aren’t you cold?”

Alex kept his back turned to Forrest. He didn’t seem surprised to see the historian follow him out. Michael felt his heart plummet into his stomach. How close had those two gotten?

Alex shook his head, hugging himself tighter.

“No?” Forrest shrugged. “Well, me neither.” He took off his leather jacket and draped it over Alex’s shoulders, then silently began to rub his lower back.

Alex did not respond for several minutes, but Forrest seemed content with watching the stars and pointing out constellations.

“Everyone believes he was a hero,” Alex finally muttered hoarsely when they’d fallen into another deep silence, shaking his head. “It makes me sick.”

Forrest hummed and scratched his jaw. “Is that why you’re crying?”

Alex glared at him, but Forrest seemed completely unfazed. “He killed innocent creatures. He tortured Michael’s mother!”

Forrest raised a brow. “Is that why you’re crying?”

Alex pressed his lips together. “He killed Jim Valenti, too, who was more of a dad than he ever was!” Forrest said nothing. “And he hurt Michael, Forrest, he hurt Michael. I’ve never forgiven him for that.”

“So you’re crying for Michael?”

Alex’s lower lip trembled and for a second, Michael thought he might scream, but he broke down, and Michael realized he may have been crying for a lot more than his sake.

“I… I….”

“You’re sad about your father,” Forrest finished softly.

Michael thought Alex might object, but as he helplessly tried to wipe at his face, more and more tears falling the more he cleared away, Michael found himself hoping Alex wouldn’t lie to himself this time. His own eyes burned as his heart shattered for the airman.

“He doesn’t deserve it,” Alex cried quietly.

“No,” Gregory suddenly said, Flint beside him, arms crossed. “He doesn’t.” He huffed and, despite clearing his throat, when he next spoke, his voice trembled, “But that doesn’t make it kill you any less.”

Alex looked surprised at this reaction, probably having been expected to be scolded for crying for his father. Michael felt a cold grip around his heart when he wondered why Alex would possibly expect that, and realized it had everything to do with him.

Alex looked warily to Flint whose own eyes had turned red. Flint uncrossed his arms. “C’mere,” he said to Alex, and pulled him in against his chest, hugging him tightly.

A long moment of silence passed as they held each other, then –

“I didn’t know the guy, so…” Forrest said suddenly, breaking the tension so even Flint cracked half a smile. Forrest took Alex in against his side, muttering into his hair, and as the four of them stood there, sharing tears and escaped chuckles, Michael realized he had no place.

Forrest was the one holding Alex, kissing him, protecting him, and Michael couldn’t find room for himself at Alex’s side anymore.

#alex manes #forrest long #michael guerin #forlex #malex #forlex fic #malex fic #forlex fanfiction #malex fanfiction #forlex fanfic #malex fanfic #roswell new mexico #roswell nm #tyler blackburn #christian antidormi #michael vlamis

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silver-wield · 4 years

Note

What's your thoughts on when the plate falls and Cloud went to go help Tifa?

My thoughts or my analysis? Cause you’re getting the latter anyway lol I love doing action analysis, there’s so much happening and getting the chance to slow it down is great for getting a fuller picture.

Ok, spoiler warning for ppl who haven’t played – do I still need to do this? Eh ok, (I tag FF7R spoilers as final fantasy 7 remake spoilers) and it’s gonna be long.

Also, this is one person’s interpretation of the scene, so if you disagree that’s cool and we’ll agree to disagree.

You’re also gonna have to excuse the janky quality on some of the screens, I’m grabbing them from Youtube and it’s frustrating af trying to get the exact moment I want.

Other analyses if anyone’s interested.

Shinra HQ vision scene (Cloti/plot analysis)

Chapter 3 (Cloti reblog)

Tifa character analysis

Aerith Resolution (plot analysis/theory – I should probably update this since I’ve had other ideas since then)

Train graveyard (not really an analysis, but I got some sweet screenshots of Cloti)

Clotiscrew tunnel analysis

Cloti reunion analysis

The Promise Analysis

Andrea’s approval (Cloti ask response)

Leslie analysis (not mine, but a good read)

Cloti action touching

Aerti friendship analysis

Cloti body language chapter 3

Cloti healthy disagreement

Cloti post heliboss battle (chapter 15)

Clerith playground scene

Now, strap in and enjoy the ride.

Recap time!

This is a 6m scene I'm going over, so I'm gonna skip anything not directly relevant or I'll be here all night lol

So despite our brave heroes best efforts the plate is coming down. We get a power slide from Rude, a call from Tseng (who times it so perfectly was he watching?) and some cloti.

First thing we see if Tifa looking distraught. She has no idea how to stop the plate from coming apart and from the way she's looking at this consol wouldn't know what to do even if she could work the computer. They were so close to winning and now defeat is about to stomp all over them and kill everyone she loves. Tifa is someone whose driven by the desire for those she loves to be safe no matter what. This is a crushing moment for her.

Murderous Cloud is murderous (and kinda hot). I mean, we know he's got very little reservations about killing people in cold blood because he's SOLDIER!Cloud when it comes to a fight, but I do like the deadly intent we see on his face at different points in the game. He looked at Johnny a bit like this back in chapter 3 and now he's looking at Reno the same way. He means business.

And then he doesn't because Tifa's in trouble and we all know Real!Cloud prioritises Tifa's safety above everything else. That's not me saying he's no longer SOLDIER!Cloud, but the difference between the last screen and this is that he was fully in that badass merc mode about to kill Reno because it's what badass mercs do, whereas this is Real!Cloud urging him to refocus all that skill he's got into protective ability and go save the woman he loves.

I get some people might not see the distinction between the two personas, but it's actually really easy when you break it down. If it's about Tifa then Real!Cloud is gonna push for dominant action to keep her safe. If it's any other situation then he's just gonna let SOLDIER!Cloud do what he needs to. Sometimes it's a more conscious battle between the two and sometimes they co-operate. That's how a fractured psyche works within the context of Cloud's character. Don't believe me? You see both of them on screen at the start of chapter 8 in the church. Real!Cloud is the one saying “You okay, buddy?”

How many times can you count that we get an 1st person pov with Cloud in the whole game? Like literally looking through his eyes? Because this is 1st person pov. We are Cloud at this moment in time and he's rushing Rude, but still takes a glance at Tifa. I don't think this happens at any other point. This game is a 3rd person game. We're over everyone's shoulder. We don't get in their head to see through their eyes. This is deliberate framing. We obviously can't see his face or his reaction, but the fact we're seeing this moment as Cloud and he's chosen to look at Tifa is a big thing.

So Rude's pushed the button and Barret's yelling. Cloud actually looks more halfhearted in this swing than I expected. It's like Barret's fury just isn't enough to get his blood boiling lol

He's about to go after him anyway, when Tifa's voice stops him dead. I can't think of a moment in the game where someone else calling for him to stop actually makes him stop.

AH! Honestly this is such a move! Romantic hero hello! I know it's a classic move from Cloud – which is kindly weirdly implemented since we first saw it after OG, but it's been retconned as one of his signature moves with Tifa and only Tifa.

Also! EYE CONTACT! I'm gonna scream about Cloti eye contact until my own eyes cross lol they do eye contact so damn well! The only other person who got Cloud to look him in the eye was Andrea Rhodea lol Everyone else it's either confrontational eye contact or total avoidance. Cloud and Tifa have good eye contact. This highlights how much they trust each other. Even though Real!Cloud is afraid of letting Tifa know how weak he really is, he's ok with her looking him in the eye. He wants her to see the real him.

Now, I know some people go on about Tifa's chapter 3 comment of “Cloud, you're scaring me/your eyes didn't used to look so” as a negative thing. I've already explained why this is fucking bullshit, and I'd like to add that if Tifa wasn't comfortable with him in combat situations or otherwise she wouldn't make eye contact with him. Eye contact is fucking terrifying! You're able to see so much. These two aren't afraid to look in each other's eyes, even with their “I don't think he/she likes me” misunderstandings.

And just to cap it. They both smile to reassure each other they're ok.

Ok, so Reno and Rude are making their exit. Barret tries the FF7 boomer version of turning a computer off and on again by shooting it. Then Tseng proves he's either psychic, a stalker or just dramatic af by appearing on screen at just the right point to answer Tifa's question.

And look at her face! Whoever said she's a heartless bitch can stfu forever! This is the face of a woman who is broken by what's about to happen! She's lived in that slum for five years. She probably knows every local by name, and takes time to actually get to know them too. She cares. So much. She doesn't want anyone hurt. She's pleading for their lives. Pleading with her enemy. Who literally smirked when he said “there's nothing you can do now”. Tseng has no conscience.

Just adding this to be a butt. This is Cloud's reaction to Aerith when he sees her....what reaction? Yeah...

Then he asks where she is in his SOLDIER!Cloud way.

So Aerith gets dragged away and explosions start happening. A siren goes off. Barret and Cloud turn away from the computer. Tifa turns and says, “No no no no no” and Cloud immediately turns back. His eyes widen and he looks a bit lost for a moment. There's nothing he can do for her and he's not got the first clue anyhow, and there's no time. It's hitting him just how much she cares. I mean, he knew, but he didn't know, you know?

Notice the awkward hand there? Yeah, that's an “I don't know how to comfort you, what do I do?” hand gesture. Cloud's literally never seen Tifa like this. She's always trying her best to remain optimistic. She fights hard to protect what she loves. She doesn't fall to her knees defeated.

I'm actually loving all the extra insight all these analyses are giving me into just how reserved, how introverted, how determined Tifa is. She's had a hard fucking life. Born in a dust bowl, lost all her friends to the big city, saw her father murdered, almost died, her town got burnt to the ground but she still somehow managed to pick herself up and build a new life. She did that on her own. Nobody got her to Midgar. When she arrived she was lucky Marle took care of her. She could've been left alone with no support system. She got in with Avalanche and built a new family – even though they don't always see eye to eye on method, she also believes in their goal to stop Shinra and save the planet. She's principled and brave, focused af. But she's not unbeatable. Stuff gets her down. She tries her best to be cheerful, but doesn't always succeed. She keeps her problems to herself. But this? This is too big. This has broken her. She can't stay up and Cloud doesn't know how to help. Not emotionally, anyway.

OMG HE OFFERED HIS HAND!! I didn't see that before!! (Check the spot where his name is, his hand is between Tifa’s hair and arm, palm open.) I knew he grabbed her by the arm and hauled her up when she didn't move, but he's actually holding his hand out for her before that!! She's too in her head to do anything, though, and I don't think Cloud really understands that. Any devastating feelings he had about personal tragedy he's locked away because they literally broke him. It must be distressing on some level for him to see his own emotions mirrored in Tifa. I said before the urge to comfort her starts at the beginning of chapter 13, but maybe the first spark of that is this moment here, when he can't do a thing for her, except pull her along behind him and hope he can keep her alive.

There's some really nice still shots in this game and this is one of them. I don't really have anything to say about it. I mean, we knew Cloud had both hands on Tifa's shoulders so he could direct her where to go and she's not really with it until the moment the debris falls in front of her and shocks her out of her stupor. Cloud's focused on the job at hand, no time to worry about anything but the next obstacle. By keeping both hands on Tifa's shoulders he's ensured he doesn't have to keep checking on her to make sure she's with him. He's basically piloting her because she's not capable of decision making for the moment.

Someone tell me, do action backhugs count? That's non-optional embracing right there. How many of you have seen this exact moment? Because I have literally been replaying the same 4s clip to get the screen for this bit and this is the first time in about 10 replays that I stopped it here. This is the between 1 second frames when the debris falls.

I mean, this is what a bodyguard actually looks like. Cloud's focus is all on keeping Tifa safe. He pulls her close to him, offers strength while she's feeling weak. He is literally using himself as a shield for her. They're such a balanced couple. When one is weak the other is strong for them, and whatever flaws they have they accept. They really are just a great couple!

Probably the worst screen I've ever grabbed lol

I was trying to figure out the moment he took her hand but I can't quite stop on it and it's just a touch too much out of frame. Instead, I got this. EYE CONTACT. I don't need to explain it again, right? We get the whole Cloud/Tifa eye contact deal by now.

Although, at the same time, that's a fucking scary shot of Cloud lol reminds me of that meme with Rinoa and Squall where she says he's the best looking guy there and it's all pixellated lol

Ah! I remembered why I was trying to get their hands, to see if Tifa grabbed his first or he took hers. But I could see through the playback that he took her hand. He initiated contact.

Yknow, I know people often compare the whole one half is always the summoner or mage and the other half is the warrior, but this screen right here looks a lot like another FF couple.

Tidus and Yuna.

I mean...do I have to say more?

Cloud looks behind to check Tifa's ok – I mean she's not but you get the point. Still getting Tidus and Yuna vibes from this moment tbf. This is the exact same type of sequence they had of them in FFX-2 when Yuna's dreaming Lenne's past and she and Tidus replace Lenne and Shuyin. They're running down a corridor and Tidus looks back at her. I mean, seeing how this type of comparison is usually only reserved for the whole mage/warrior pairing, it's strange that their body language here mirrors Square’s first fully voice acted installment. At the time the graphics were cutting edge and the cut scenes are still lauded as some of the most beautiful storytelling. Strange that Tifa and Cloud could have this comparison to Tidus and Yuna, especially with the whole Suteki da ne always being used to prop up a certain ship.

Anyway, Cloud’s checking on Tifa cause he’s totally not in love with her and wants to make sure she’s safe. You get the idea lol

I'd like to point out that Cloud doesn't – despite popular opinion – have hold of Tifa's jubblies. His arm is under them, wrapped around her ribs, which is actually a very secure hold for him since he's trying to hang onto Barret and keep hold of Tifa too. You'll notice she's not exactly paying attention to her own safety – which makes sense since Cloud literally had to haul her up when she wouldn't move. She's not in a good headspace during the end of this scene, so he's being very protective towards her.

Conclusion

Another great piece of action! I mean, does it really matter if these two are in the trenches or just hanging out? They have a synchronicity that's impossible to deny. They balance each other in pretty much every single way there is for a couple of be two halves of a whole. The FF10 comparison is a new one on me, especially since I don't look at two titles and try to see what about each one is like the other. They're both different and unique with their own charm. But, the second I caught that screen of Cloud pulling Tifa along I was immediately hit by the thought of “That's what Tidus and Yuna do”, so I couldn't not mention it.

We get a clear look at how devastated Tifa is immediately after the realisation hits that sector 7 is about to get crushed. She's just gone. Checked out. If Cloud hadn't stepped up to save her she'd have died. She wouldn't have got herself over to Barret in time and he would've died going to get her and get them back to the zip line. This is why it's so important that Cloud picks up the slack. He was strong when she needed him to be. She's strong for him later when he becomes weak. They really are two halves of one whole.

I love that Tifa gets her own character development. She’s not just “the love interest”. Barret is basically a supporting character here, but we know he’ll get his turn in Corel and he does get his own moments to shine in Midgar, but this is cloti, so sorry dude, next time.

#final fantasy 7 remake spoilers #cloti #more action touching #more eye contact #final fantasy 7 remake analysis #I knew I missed a tag

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howwelldoyouknowyourmoon · 3 years

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Life Without Reverend Moon by Jen Kiaba – October 22, 2012

Thirty-thousand feet seems like a good altitude at which to question one's life. “I am already in motion,” I tell myself. It's a kind of progress. Shortly after my twentieth birthday I was in progress, between JFK and Heathrow, en route to Oslo.

After takeoff the girl sitting next to me smiled kindly, asking where I was headed. I told her:

“To Norway. To visit my husband.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a stack of glossy women's magazines, offering me several. They promised hot sex tips, orgasm-inducing positions, and advice on how to find a man to orgasm with. She pointed to a few with a wink. “Maybe you can find something nice in there for your husband.”

Today, almost a decade later, to use the word husband feels wrong; I avoid it. But at the time it was what he said I should call him. “I am your husband!” he would say. The word sounded foreign in my ears; "husband" was supposed to be a word attached to “honoring” and “cherishing,” and whatever else heartfelt marriage vows should entail. But I had not been given the choice to say those vows.

My parents were married, along with two thousand other couples, in Reverend Sun Myung Moon's Unification Church at Madison Square Garden on July 1, 1982. I was the first of five children, and we were all raised as members of the Unification Church's Second Generation, who were thought to be born sinless and of God's Lineage, through the Blessing marriage ceremony officiated by Rev. Moon. Theologically this meant that Rev. Moon, as the purported Messiah, had created a heavenly lineage through his personal perfection, relationship with God, and marriage with (the much-younger) Hak Ja Han, in 1960.

Growing up, I always had the expectation that Rev. Moon would choose my spouse. In the Unification Church, one didn't date. Flirtatious interactions with the opposite sex were severely frowned upon, all activities were separated by gender, and we referred to one another as brother and sister in order to emphasize platonic relations. Sex before marriage was absolutely out of the question. The Church had a word for that: falling. To fall was the greatest sin that could be committed, and it could not be undone. To fall was to enter the realm of Satan, to be cut off from God and to wound His already-suffering heart.

Perhaps childhood's greatest tragedy is what we learn to normalize. In my upbringing, to question what we were taught was to invite Satan and the evil Spirit World into your mind; to fend off evil, one must quiet the questions and dive further into the readings and teachings of Rev. Moon. Some of the most effective brainwashing was what we had been taught to perpetuate upon ourselves.

At 19 I found myself on a terrifying personal precipice. I was seriously considering leaving the Unification Church, but with no means of supporting myself and no safety net outside of the insular church community, the notion was enough to bring me to panicked tears. Yet I didn't know if I believed Rev. Moon, his world, or his supposed messianic mission. As a reflex, I was ashamed and hated myself for feeling that way.

When word of an administrative opening in the US Second Generation Department reached my family, I was intrigued. What better way was there to understand what this movement was all about than by working for one of the central organizations? So, before making a decision to abandon the culture of my childhood, I climbed into the belly of the beast looking for truth. That’s where I lost my way.

When the Christmas holidays rolled around, I took my miniscule stipend and boarded an Amtrak train home to ponder the nothingness I had found but had not yet accepted. When I arrived home, there was news: after five years of having parents match their children, Rev. Moon was stepping up again, and was going to conduct a matching ceremony for the Second Generation.

My parents sat me down in the bedroom, listing all of the reasons why I should go. Though it was left unspoken, we all knew that at almost 20 years old, my eligibility expiration date was staring me hard in the face. My mother finished with, “If Jesus came to you and said that he had found your perfect spouse, what would you say to him?” She paused for effect. “Now, how much more is Father?”

How could I say no? To refuse was to deny the remotest possibility that this man might be who he said that he was. I simply had not gotten there in my journey. Besides, I told myself, it was just a matching. My match and I would have time to get to know each other before deciding to get married.

My biggest mistake was to assume that I would be allowed to exercise free will.

My mother dropped me off at East Garden, one of the Moon family's mansion-compounds in Tarrytown, NY, and I entered into the ballroom of the estate with approximately 10 other nervous young people. For the next several hours, one of the Korean leaders proceeded to lecture us on our unworthiness. That’s when I found out that by the time we left, we were all going to be Blessed to someone.

The panic blossomed. I had to leave and began approaching anyone, even strangers, to ask to borrow their cellphones. Repeated calls home, begging my parents to come pick me up, were answered in the negative.

By the end of the day, the ballroom was packed to capacity. Young people from all over the United States, Asia, and Europe had answered Rev. Moon's call. Late in the evening, Rev. Moon came out to address us through his interpreter. Though I had never heard them from his mouth before, I desperately wanted to hear words of wisdom — or something that rang true — from the man who held my future in his hands.

One phrase stuck out to me in the monotony: “Do you want me to match you tonight?” A thunderous “Yes” answered Rev. Moon's question, and we were lined up into rows, divided down the middle, and categorized.

I should have left, I tell myself. I should have simply snuck out of the sweltering ballroom, slipped out of the mansion, and found my way through security to get outside of the compound. Even if I had had to follow the train tracks from Tarrytown back home, I should have left. But with no money, no means of communication, and no idea if I would have a home to go back to if I left, I was frozen in place. Besides, I had been trained to obey.

Suddenly Rev. Moon began pointing. A girl, then a boy would stand up, acknowledge each other, bow to Rev. Moon, and then be ushered out to be “processed” by administrators. My breathing was shallow; I tried to quiet my mind and draw upon the things I had been taught.

Absolute faith. Absolute Love. Absolute Obedience.

When Rev. Moon's finger pointed to me, time stopped. I looked deep into the eyes of the man who had bidden me to rise with his gesture and saw nothing. I was gazing into the eyes of the man who was determining my future, and I had expected to see some sort of timelessness, or to feel as though his eyes were digging into my soul. But he was looking through me, as though his finger had arbitrarily found its way to me in a game of love roulette. I felt suspended over an infinite emptiness.

Then time sped up, his finger jabbed in another direction, then another and another. Three other people stood up, and I had no idea which of the other two men I had been assigned to. One I had met at a summer camp several years ago, but he was looking at someone else. The other man gestured to me and I found myself eye-level with a shrunken and pilled sweatshirt emblazoned with the word “Norway.”

In an instant, I was no longer suspended. A kind of darkness engulfed my mind, the words “game over” ringing in my ears. Afterward, everyone was abuzz with excitement; I desperately looked around to try and find someone whose face mirrored the same panic I was trying to fight. A gesture from above caught my attention. “Norway” was trying to introduce himself to me.

Finally I looked up at the man that Rev. Moon had chosen for me. "Tall" was the only word that came to mind. Over the noise, he tried asking me questions; what they were and how I answered, I forget. Those next hours were a strange blur — alternating between sadness and terror. At one point I borrowed someone's cellphone and called home. It was 2 a.m. and my mother's sleepy voice answered. “I'm matched,” I said without emotion. “To a Norwegian. His name is Chris.” Then I hung up.

We were woken up the next morning at 5 a.m. for morning service. I had lain awake all night, clutching my stomach, trying to keep nausea at bay. Chris found me and approached me with a bagel — the first meal I remember receiving in 24 hours. The smell of food made me ill and I politely refused. Despite his best efforts to chat with me and have the “getting to know you” small-talk, I could barely muster words.

Every so often I would sneak away to borrow another cellphone, calling home in tears. But if my parents had refused to budge before, they certainly weren't going to now that they had a son-in-law waiting in the wings.

The day after Christmas, at the back of that crowded ballroom, I was wearing a wedding dress that didn't fit, standing next to a tall stranger, and repeating vows in a language I didn't understand. After the Blessing ceremony, we had official photos taken. As the photographer told us to say “cheese,” I realized that I couldn't remember how to smile.

I still have that photo. I look like a confused child playing a bizarre game of dress-up; I'm gazing into the camera with a lost expression. Chris is looking away, dressed in an equally ill-fitting tuxedo. The picture would have been funny if it weren't so sad.

That was how I found myself several months later at 30,000 feet, bound for Norway. To fight the mounting dread of the impending arrival, I immersed myself in the magazines that my neighbor had kindly lent me. It was the first time I had ever picked up any material that encouraged an expression of sexuality, and I felt a delicious bit of rebellion wash over me.

As I pored over the pages, I could feel certain gears shifting as pieces of me unlocked and unwound inside. The women in these pages catapulted me into an exhilarating daydream in which my choices were my own. That daydream left an intense hunger within me.

As a 20-year-old virgin, I wanted to know what it would be like to sleep with a man because you wanted to, or because you loved him, not because you were pressured by your parents and his parents to “start family life.” The idea of sex with Chris made my skin crawl, and I had no idea if I would face pressure from him or his parents when my plane touched down.

Rev. Moon died on September 3, 2012, at the age of 92. His daughter, In Jin Moon, stepped down from her role as leader of the American church a few days later, after having given birth to a child from a three-year affair with a married man. While the church has not been a part of my life for many years now, I've watched these recent events and their fallout with interest.

At first, this news of Rev. Moon's daughter didn't bother me. Then the leadership began trying to explain away her actions and affair, saying that she "chose love when she had a chance.” How many of us were given the allowance to "choose love when we had the chance"? That was something we were explicitly denied; instead were taught to feel ashamed for our feelings unless they were chosen for us, and then sanctioned by someone with power over us.

Sometimes I wonder where my life would be if I had sat next to someone else on the plane, who offered to let me borrow a copy of The Economist instead. The girl next to me on the plane offered a small form of salvation; in a kind gesture she offered me a glimpse into a world that I had had no idea existed. It was a world in which I did not need to be ashamed of my body and my sexuality. My desires for love were not evil. It was a world that encouraged me to discover who I was, not a world in which I had to break my inner-self down to fit a preconceived notion of goodness and of womanhood. Most important, it was a world that let me take ownership of my future, my free will, my reproduction, and my heart. It was a world that I finally knew I needed to escape to.

And I did. It didn't happen overnight. It didn't happen while I was in Norway. It took me almost two years of fighting with Chris, fighting with his parents and my own, before a church divorce was granted. The decision to "break the Blessing" was an agonizing one that took me turning myself inside-out, trying to reform into the kind of person who could love and accept Chris. But finally, I walked away — free but with a proverbial Scarlet "A" branded into my chest, as far as other church members were concerned. Today I am proud of it. It is my battle scar from a fight I am proud to have survived, because I fought my way into this new world.

Jen Kiaba is a photographer living in New York's Hudson Valley. Her work explores dreams, memory, fantasy, and the realms where all three blend. This is her first personal essay. She and her sister also have a blog about their experiences within the Unification Church.

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The Purity Knife: Sex, Death and Human Trafficking in the Unification Church

http://summerofcheesecake.blogspot.com/

https://www.jenkiaba.com/portfolio

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Jen Kiaba on the Ares Meyer podcast

Conceptual Self Portrait Artist Join me in conversation with Artist Jen Kiaba as we talk Poetry, Self Portraits and Child Marriage.

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/conceptual-self-portrait-artist/id1549515902?i=1000507915214

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Why Didn’t You Just Leave?

Jen Kiaba : Hello and welcome to my least favorite question in the entire world. It’s one I’ve heard more times than I care to count, and sadly I think that’s something many cult survivors can relate to. In the past that question used to make me clam up and spiral into shame, or mumble, “It’s not that simple.” But in those days I didn’t fully understand the coercive control mechanism that were used to keep me, and so many others, trapped.

Read more:  https://jenkiaba.medium.com/lessons-on-leaving-why-didnt-you-just-leave-789953c4689a

___________________________________

We Are All Vulnerable

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‘Falling Out’ Elgen Strait podcast April 6, 2021

13. Fuel For Nightmares: Jen Kiaba – Part 1

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/13-fuel-for-nightmares-jen-kiaba-part-1/id1550448436?i=1000516011584

• Jen’s website: jenkiaba.com • Introducing a new segment “Autotune the Moon.” • “Bad Moon Rising” by John Gorenfeld – Recommended by Jen. 

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‘Falling Out’ Elgen Strait podcast April 13, 2021

14. Scorpion House: Jen Kiaba – Part 2

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/14-scorpion-house-jen-kiaba-part-2/id1550448436?i=1000516958607

Recommended reading from Jen: "Pure: Inside the Evangelical Movement That Shamed a Generation of Young Women and How I Broke Free" by Linda Kay Klein

#Jen Kiaba #Moonies #cult #Sun Myung Moon #Unification Church

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alvinsoffie · 3 years

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WORLD AIDS DAY 2020

December 1,

Theme: Each World AIDS Day focuses on a specific theme,

This years theme is “ Global Solidarity: Shared Responsibility. ”

A look back at recent themes gives an interesting perspective:

2020 Global solidarity, shared responsibility

2019 Communities make the difference

2018 Know your status

2017 My health, my right

2016 Hands up for HIV prevention

Personal awareness and responsibilty, coupled with Community support is a reasonable paradigm for moving the HIV/AIDS agenda forward. Embracing this can go a far way to achieve the Goals for eliminating HIV

" World AIDS Day remains as relevant today as it’s always been, reminding people and governments that HIV has not gone away. There is still a critical need for increased funding for the AIDS response, to increase awareness of the impact of HIV on people’s lives, a need to end stigma and discrimination and to improve the quality of life of people living with HIV."

I am quoting directly from UNAIDS here.

A useful way to compare The two pandemics: The 40 year old HIV/AIDS pandemic is the stately annual journey around the sun. COVID 19 is the 28 day cycle of the moon around the earth. It's busy and frenzied. Because it shares the same stigmas, the same governments the same communities; the same inequities: we get a quicker look at the cycle of events. Some countries are already on their third wave, their third cycle or go round of COVID 19. And lessons are being learned at this heightened pace.

This crisis, This frenzied pace has become a wake-up call, an opportunity to do things differently—better, and together. In many respects, the defeat of AIDS as a public health threat could depend on how the world responds to COVID-19.

Inasmuch as COVID 19 has overshadowed the AIDS pandemic. we DO note that some important lessons are being learned and that with care we can utilize aspects of the COVID 19 response to improve HIV response and awareness.

Since you have invited a religous, I believe that you are expecting some insight from a Christian or Biblical perspective, and if this is so, I wouldn't want to disappoint you.

I did some homework, a little research, and came away shocked! In a sense upset on learning that Stigma is the main deterent and source of frustration for battling and overcoming the effects of the AIDS epidemic.

As I looked at the seven types of stigma identified across a range of psychosocial situations, I came to realize that Stigma and its associates, prejudice and discrimination, are deeply ingrained responses that are applied outside of logic and wisdom, and where it surfaces can surprise you.

For the record the seven types of Stigma are:

PUBLIC, SELF, PERCEIVED, LABEL AVOIDANCE, BY ASSOCIATION, STRUCTURAL, AND HEALTH INDUSTRY PERSONEL.

All of these manifestation of Stigma are being experienced in real time in this COVID 19 pandemic. Lets not forget that persons were beaten for sneezing, an involuntary act. Fear and paranoia brings out the worst in us. Where they find common ground, the excesses are very dangerous.

To return to the global AIDS response; At a time when 'untraceable equals untransmittable is a reality already, It is strange that there is no obvious reintegration mechanism for the persons who can overcome the virus. Right HERE, such a mechanism or protocol could provide a rallying point against the stigma PLHIV face. It becomes a powerful incentive to reach for; a goal to achieve. This is one crucial difference with COVID 19, Governments want us to get back to work so there are tests and procedures for reintegration for those who have caught and overcome the virus. The reintegration is SPONSORED because it is deemed vital.

The HIV scenario still has gender bias and sexuality and dominance issues that drive the stigma and after 40 years they remain well entrenched globally.

What does scripture have to offer here. Both Old and New Testaments recognize a variety of diseases that initially demand isolation and removal from communal life. Numbers 12 points to a situation where Miriam the sister of Moses was punished with a skin disease and was out of the camp in isolation for 10 days. Even here there was a clear return to community. She wasn't cast into outer darkness with weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth! Israel camped and waited for her. Just a biblical reminder that it always help to have a celebrity or power person build empathy for your cause.

The reintegration mechanism was well defined. The priests were trained and were the ones assigned the inspection of the suffering person. Once satisfied of their rehabilitation, they offered the necessary sacrifice and were fully reintegrated into family and community.

In the Gospels where Jesus was remarkably open to transformative action on peoples behalf, his advise to cured lepers, to

" show yourself to the priests ...

and

" Offer the sacrifices Moses commanded"

leverages this generations old schema for returning the renewed back to community. Jesus did not subvert the process: he co-opted the process for the validation that it offered. The process is Critical! In real life more than a few persons doing well on their regime fall away and do not return for medication and help. The validation process is aborted by some triggered fear and more than a few will end up dead; losing their lives.

A lesson here is that education doesnt always defeat prejudice. In fact it can provide seemingly plausible justification for discrimination. This is why discrete access to health care for PLHIV is a necessity. Thank God for JASL.

The Label Avoidance Stigma is the most insiduous of the seven. It is the one that keeps the infected person from seeking help. in your community or elsewhere. They know full well that bush have ears and if you are seen in Mocho or Portland or Mandiville at a clinic the rumour mill will grind and your issues will be publicised. They keep quiet and die quieter still. I have seen it up close and it hurts my heart every time I am faced with it. Let me say it again; Thank God for JASL

Sadly, you are as likely to hear a pastor or preacher condemn the sick and declare God's judgment rather than provide access to care and counselling and in hospitals one has to deal with health professionals whose personal biases become stumbling blocks to personal healthcare services..some share unethically, the details of their patients, furthering stigma and discrimination ... very well documented.

If the church would follow Its Lord's instructions. If it would extend itself to speak for the voiceless

Someone came to Jesus for healing and the discussion began: 'Lord, If you choose you can make me whole'. Jesus said, 'I DO Choose!' If our churches would follow Jesus and choose to facilitate health and wholeness, a lot could change.

Church could stand with or stand up for the sick especially PLHIV/AIDS. it could do a lot to counter stigma, to counter the whispered inuendos that is Stigma by Association. Stigma by Association is the one that kills community support for the needy. It is the one that ties you to the presumed sexual preferences and activities of the persons you are inclined to help.

Churches could build support for members and persons who are HIV positive, but who would dare share their status with the brothers or sisters in church. Very few keep secrets, fewer still, exhibit compassion. We need radical Christianity of the leave all and follow Jesus variety.

Returning to the bigger stage, the theme Global solidarity, shared responsibility invites us to revisit our relationships and the activities they engender. Global solidarity invites us to explore the Global response and align ourselves with projects and activities that we are able to support. There are a plethora of them and myriad best practices scenarios waiting for our implementation.

One important feature of World Aids Day is the memorialization of the dead. Given the early stigma and circumstances of dying, many persons have not been properly remembered and closure is still eluding some families who have lost loved ones to HIV/AIDS.

The opportunity to come out and name them and remember them is hugely therapeutic. This is something that the Church does well. Catholicism provides a liturgy on All Saints Day, November 1 for the memorialization of our dead. We do it systematically and we know the benefits of it. We light the votive candle, we pray for those we love, and we ask God in his Love and Mercy to deal kindly with them.

There is a ministry here for churches. There is a place where we can quietly exercise the gift of presence as in grief counselling and just be there for those who need us. There is a place for a prophetic voice that can stop the slander and inuendo by its forthright affirmation of the Person living with HIV as a full and complete human being, bearing the image of GOD.

Even in death, the stigma continues and the cause of death for the death certificate can be problematic for family members. To remove Stigma is to open up the resources freely and fully for those who need it. This day must come sooner rather than later. these are difficult times, make no mistake. But we can make a difference if we try a little bit harder.

Shared Responsibility brings us back to Genesis and Cain's question ' Am I my brother'e keeper?' Yes! Yes we are. God requires an answer of each of us. We are social creatures We need each other for Fulness of living. We will need to develop more programs that bring real benefits to people living witH HIV

My word of encouragement for PLHIV/AIDS is simple: Keep the faith. HIV is no longer a death sentence. Serious progress has been made and you can access a good life right here, right now. Your Life is precious! Dont throw it away! Do NOT let pride or shame rob you of health and family, joy and accomplishments. Still dream... Most things are still possible if you believe and persevere.

Do the right things for yourself. There is now legal recourse to some forms of discrimination. Fight your battle for your life and find support for your cause along the way. Life is Precious.... DON'T give up! Fight Fight Fight!

With discipline and determination, the way things are going, you might actually outlive some of your detractors.

Here I want to quote and close with Minister of State in the Ministry of Health and Wellness, Juliet Cuthbert-Flynn,

“Whether as funding partners, technical informants for policy design and programme implementation, or as medical workers serving people living with HIV and AIDS at the community level, we need to have all hands on deck." the Observer November 20

I endorse All hands on Deck! The world can and must do better regarding the AIDS pandemic. We must remove the strictures and structures that maintain stigma and discrimination in all its forms.

I endorse all hands on deck and hope to see church and state join together to do the right thing for signicant numbers of our citzens who need our help

I endorse All hands on deck to design and build reintegration protocols and mechanisms for those on the margins right now. they dont need to be there!

I endorse all hands on deck if these hands are tender loving hands, desiring to nurture and to care for those in need. We have had enough of the finger pointing sleight of hand deception > I'm just saying:

I endorse all hands on deck in the response from governments, NGOs and Communities acting globally and locally. It is my hope that solidarity will facilitate the crafting of an accelerated response with a view to end Living with HIV/AIDS soon.

#world aids day #world aids day 2020 #plhiv/aids #plhiv

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powerbottomblake · 5 years

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RWBY and Masculinity

I love RT’s, and specifically RWBY’s take on masculinity so much. The show subverts all expectations wrt their male characters and their development, which is why the male viewers experience major cognitive dissonance between what they expect and what story is actually being told (and then have the gall to call it bad writing). Under cut because this has gotten so long so fast.

The two main male characters - Sun and Jaune - are subvertions of genre/medium staples.

Jaune specifically hits all the beats of the typical male self-insert in a harem anime: he’s catapulted into a world he knows nothing of, instantly establishes 3 different dynamics with 3 different female characters/archetypes - Cheery, Ice Princess and Hot Tall and Earnest - one of whom he immediately sets his eyes on, he’s surrounded by women that are a whole lot more powerful than he is (and arguably THE most powerful one is instantly drawn to him), he’s essentially powerless and dealing with self-esteem issues and is nondescript enough to be a vehicle for any male viewer to project themselves onto. Which is why you have a good chunk of Jaune’s fandom from V1 being the embodiment of the Venn diagram intersection bewteen weebs and incels like That, and why there’s so much harem fanfic revolving around Jaune.

CRWBY have heavily drawn from anime when making rwby so I don’t think this was coincidental; they laid out the groundworks to subvert a specific trope. Male fans, however, bought into the facade and kept waiting for Jaune to essentially steal the spotlight, be the focal point of several love interests and get a power up that’ll let him be their own power fantasy to boot, but CRWBY took his character in the very opposite direction.

Jaune makes a lot of mistakes but what defines him is how earnestly he learns from them and redeems himself. He apologizes for lashing out at Pyrrha as a result of his own feelings of inadequacy and powerlessness when bullied by Cardin and then accepts her offer to teach him, sincerely taking instruction from her and then taking inspiration from her strength. Once he realizes his seduction skit with Weiss is not only ridiculous but wrong, he instantly changes his approach and prioritizes Weiss’s wants and needs over his, giving her space and knocking sense into Neptune so that Weiss can have her “ideal” date. Jaune doesn’t get embittered about being essentially rejected and most importantly he doesn’t let it affect his relationship with Weiss. Both of them become actual friends from that point on, and we get to see Jaune develop a certain measure of emotional intelligence starting that moment, which becomes part of his skillset and is shown to be part of what makes him a good leader. One of the best examples is how he and Ruby team up in V6E1 to get the hunter on the train to turn the turrets off. Jaune heals the hunter’s wounded arm and gently assuages his fear, in clear contrast with Qrow abrasively manhalding an injured and panicked man and expecting him to comply. The writing essentially puts down the show of arms and props up Ruby and Jaune’s approach; Jaune specifically is the example of masculine leadership the writing looks favorably on.

And that’s the kicker here: Jaune’s strength comes from his set of soft skills as opposed to traditionally portrayed masculine strength, which usually careens into toxic power fantasy land. His whole arc in V1-3 is about learning to shed any distorted notions of chivalry and strength and knowing that his end goal shouldn’t be to become a hero for the sake of it or to live up to societal expectations, but to do what he can and as good as he can for the sake of everyone. Jaune is a good strategist and he knows how to make the best out of everyone’s powers. He’s there to enhance how people use their semblances together. His big power-up, his semblance reveal is basically him getting confirmed for a cross between a cleric and a paladdin (DnD players amongst us please correct me if I’m wrong): he is the ultimate support, acting as a healer and an amplifier to everyone around him, and that’s why he’s a good leader. His power on his own loses its entire meaning: Jaune takes strength from the people he loves and endlessly, earnestly gives back to them, never once stealing the spotlight in combat because that’s not his role and that’s okay.

And as for Jaune’s romantic prospects, think Forever Fall established once and for all that Jaune’s already found the One and I don’t think we’ll see him get any other love interest, especially now that arkos parallels oz/salem and with how vehement CRWBY are about lancaster being platonic.

Now Sun. I want to tackle a specific expectation I’ve seen from male fans and that’s about him becoming more significant to the plot by coleading/leading the new White Fang movement...which would be hijacking Blake’s storyline. Blake is the one with drive and a cause, she was literally born inside the movement and has since seen it get derailed AND was the one to reclaim it from Adam and give it a new vision, as opposed to Sun who apparently wasn’t even aware of the systematic oppression Faunus had to deal with on a daily basis outside of Vacuo. So why is Sun, who has exactly 0 qualifications for this job and no interest in it, still expected to get it by a good chunk of his fans? Aside from the pervasive misogyny permeating fandom culture, there’s a specific trope media has served to us for decades now and that’s of a Semi-Competent Male Hero with his Hyper-Competent Female Side-kick (Vox published an article about it a few years ago and I really recommend checking it out), where a male character who’s semi good at best and not nearly as well-versed into whatever field he shares with his infinitely more competent female sidekick somehow walks in and saves the day and most of the time the female sidekick also, unsurprisingly doubles as a love interest. Time and again, male characters get rewarded for being half as good as their female counterpart at best AND they get the girl most often than not.

But Sun’s whole character is, again, the very opposite of this. Sun never outweighs Blake on her own narrative (as is literal common sense) and shouldn’t be expected to. Sun actually gets schooled into the Faunus cause by his more competent female counterpart, Blake acting as his mentor and introducing him to the fight and why it matters. Blake and Sun basically reenact the plotline of Journey to the West (Sun quite literally references it by calling it a “Journey to the East”) a story whose main character is the legendary monkey king Sun Wukong, who’s the mythical figure Sun’s based on. Sun’s arc about finally knowing the cause and fighting for the right reasons happens thanks to Blake’s guidance - which Sun earnestly complies with and never questions because he knows she’s the expert and he doesn’t usurp that spot from her - and never overshadows her own narrative. Quite the opposite, it builds up to her own arc as a future leading figure of the WF and face of the Faunus cause by having her politicize someone who has no real stakes in this fight even though they should have.

And then even his endeavor with Blake as a love interest falls through, with their relationship getting entirely recontextualized in V4-5 where their dynamic gets rebuilt as a friendship. Incidentally, that’s when it finally starts actually developing, instead of being stuck in the V1-3 limbo of mutual fleeting attraction where they’re constantly missing each other’s cues because they literally do not understand each other on a fundamental level. V4-5 is when Blake understands Sun isn’t what she needs in a romantic partner, but she does need him as a friend and ally. And Sun, whose premise falls in line with the Nice Guy trope, actually subverts it: he never makes Blake’s emotional journey about him, never expects anything in return and gracefully bows out of the narrative (for the time being) without ever pressuring Blake into acknowledging or returning his feelings. He doesn’t agonize over the initial attraction not going anywhere and doesn’t expect to be rewarded for being a decent person; again Blake’s feelings and well-being are his priority because that’s what good friends do. Their relationship developing into a steady friendship is never a point of conflict between them, and it’s actually lived as a positive event for both.

And then, to top it off, CRWBY parsed together every bit of toxic masculinity and wrapped it into a power fantasy package and named the end result Adam Taurus, who’s the absolute worst abusive piece of shit. Adam is every single thing bad about men as a power structure: abrasive, entitled, controlling, takes violence as an indication of power and doesn’t take kindly to his leadership/vision being questionned. It’s not really coincidental that he steals the power seat from a woman and acts like he deserves it in any way. But male fans were so starved for their power fantasy fix and traditionally masculine cool calm collected and complicated male character that they were ready to minimize/outright ignore the abuse he’s put Blake through and just how awful a human being he was just to be able to hard project onto him. And CRWBY’s answer to that is basically this:

TL;DR: RT says if your masculinity isn’t humble, nurturing, supportive, compassionate, selfless and earnest then we don’t want it.

#rwby #my posts #jaune arc #sun wukong #me holding myself at gunpoint: why can't you say what you want in 5 sentences or less #my meta #@ incels watching rwby you've been bamboozled

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kinghellcat · 4 years

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Tales from the Burial Mounds, Part I

I wrote a little vignette! I think I want to make a short series of these, detailing the time Wei Wuxian and the Dafan-Wen family lived in Yiling. It’s been a while since I’ve written anything, and much longer since I shared my writing, so... be nice to me :x Thanks!

2k Rated G

Tags: Wei Wuxian & Wen Ning, feelings, a lot of feelings (dude idk how to tag)

The wind made hardly a sound as it rushed through the bare, brittle branches of the trees dotting the sides of the Burial Mounds. Though it was well into the summer, the trees remained gnarled and blackened, as though they’d been burned. Not one of them bore leaves, nor flowers, nor fruits. Indeed the only thing that grew well here were bitter wild herbs. Those and radishes. Wei Wuxian had never liked radishes, and couldn’t imagine why anyone else would. But they grew here, they fed the people here, and thus he would tend them.

Wei Wuxian kneeled in the dirt, pulling weeds and inspecting the spindly leaves. Much of the work had already been done, but he wasn’t ready to rejoin the others yet. “Yiling Patriarch” is hardly the title he would’ve given himself -- how self-important it sounds! -- but he supposed it suited him after all. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he’d already begun feeling the pressure of supporting and protecting the people here. He had brought the remnants of the Wen clan, the Dafan-Wen, to this dreary place, and thus he would protect them.

Only, he felt that they deserved better. Better homes, better clothes, better food certainly. A better leader too. Someone who had more, or anything at all, to offer. Eventually, Wei Wuxian’s hands came to a stop and he found himself just sitting in the radish patch alone, feeling sorry for himself. He shook his head vigorously, like he could shake the negative thoughts from his mind. He stood and stretched his arms high to the waning sunlight.

It was probably almost dinner time. If he didn’t return to the main compound -- if you could call it that -- Wen Qing would surely give him another lecture. Heaving a mighty sigh, he brushed off his robes and made his way back to their shabby dining room/main hall/everything else room. It was made from the ruins of a temple to the fallen, all those whose bodies were buried in these hills. The irony was not lost on him; the fearsome Yiling Patriarch, the Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation making his home on a literal mound of corpses and sharing meals with criminals in a desecrated temple was probably exactly what the world had expected of him.

In reality, it was just a bunch of poor, scared people who wanted nothing more than to live in peace. The world would never get to see that, they wouldn’t even try. And why should they? Wei Wuxian thought wryly, It’s not like this is a place worth visiting. He shook his head again. Now was not the time for complaints. If the Burial Mounds weren’t worth visiting, he would at least try to make it a place worth living in. And if that meant he had to eat radish soup every night for the rest of his life, well, that was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

He arrived with enough time to spare that Wen Qing didn’t go off on him, but she did lightly scold him for getting so dirty. Wei Wuxian just laughed it off; he had realized by now that she scolded people to show that she cared. It was sort of touching to think he was included among the people she cared for, if only she could express it more kindly… With a sharp breath, Wei Wuxian once again cut off his train of thought. If he let his mind wander toward Jiang Yanli, he might actually cry. Instead he forced himself to focus on the present, on the people around him now.

Wen Ning had helped Granny Wen make dinner tonight, and though it was still mostly radishes, it was almost tasty. Wen Ning had apparently been quite skilled in the kitchen since he was very young. “Well, see, my sister was always busy with her studies, and after our parents died, it was only natural that it’d fall to me, right?” He had reasoned when Wei Wuxian remarked on his cooking. Underselling himself, as usual, Wei Wuxian thought. But he knew that trying to force praise on Wen Ning only made him uncomfortable, so he let it be. He settled for giving his hand a warm squeeze.

Wen Ning shuffled his feet shyly, but squeezed Wei Wuxian’s hand in return, ever so lightly. “Thanks…” he mumbled. He withdrew his hand and returned to serving up the others, with a very small smile. Even when he was alive, Wen Ning hadn’t been the most expressive person, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel deeply. On the contrary, it was the strength and breadth of the feelings he left unexpressed that had allowed Wei Wuxian to return him to life, or something close to it. All his leftover resentment and fury at the abuse he and his family suffered before his death, on top of a lifetime of being looked down on and ignored, had turned him into a frighteningly powerful fierce corpse.

But that rage was tempered by an even greater kindness. For all his anger at the injustices of the world, Wen Ning was a gentle young man. Sweet, even. Juxtaposed with his ferocity on the battlefield, one might assume he was two different people. Wei Wuxian laughed, thinking that if only people could see the great and terrible Ghost General serving soup to his aunties and cousins, they couldn’t possibly find him so frightening. They couldn’t possibly hate him. Wei Wuxian had already cursed himself a thousand times for turning such a good, kind person into a weapon, to be feared and reviled by the rest of the cultivation world. But what else could he have done? Let him die? He could never have forgiven himself for doing nothing.

Wei Wuxian sighed. He wasn’t doing a very good job at staying positive tonight. He finished his soup, down to the last wretched radish, and excused himself. Wen Qing side-eyed him as he slunk away, but if she was suspicious or concerned for him, she didn’t say so. She returned her attention to her family, and reached across the table to wipe a dribble of soup from Wen Yuan’s chin. “A-Yuan, slow down or you’ll make a mess.” The little boy nodded, but continued to slurp loudly and messily. Wen Qing shook her head, but she smiled fondly.

Wei Wuxian’s mind threatened to wander to his sister again. How he wished to see her again! But how could he, after his unceremonious departure from the Jiang sect? Jiang Cheng would never allow it, and frankly, he wouldn’t want Yanli to see this sorry place. He wanted nothing more than to taste her cooking again, to rest his head on her shoulder while she comforted him… His fingers curled into fists at his sides and he squeezed his eyes shut. It wouldn’t do to start crying while anyone was still awake.

The inside of the Demon-Subdue Cave was just as shabby as the rest of the settlement, worse maybe, considering that it was literally a dark, creepy cave. But Wei Wuxian had claimed the spot for his own, and the Wens knew better than to bother him here. There was plenty of space to tinker, which meant there was plenty of space to make messes. There were crumpled papers, faulty talismans, and half-finished inventions littered all across the floor and on the flat, raised stones that functioned as tables. Wei Wuxian stepped carefully around them as he made his way to the back of the cave where his bed stood. It was another raised stone platform, just long enough to lay on, with a moth-eaten blanket thrown haphazardly over it. He stretched out lazily, his shoulders popping and spine cracking loudly. Though it seemed almost pointless to try, he got as comfortable as he could and tried to sleep.

Sure enough, sleep evaded him. He tried over and over again to clear his mind and relax, but failed every time. Waves of melancholy lapped at him, shot through with deep regret. Why did I do this? How could I leave Yunmeng? How could I betray Jiang Cheng and shijie? One half of him lamented, desperately wishing for his soft bed in his nice clean room back at Lotus Pier. The other half tried to reason with him: I had to do something. I couldn’t let the Wens die! My dream has always been to stand on the side of justice. Isn’t that what I’m doing? It was a solid argument but still he had trouble convincing himself.

He got up and surveyed his many abandoned projects. Maybe he could distract himself with his inventions. He’d been meaning to work on improving his Compass of Evil. Scooping up his prototypes and sitting at his makeshift desk, he examined the parts and the enchantments he’d placed on them. He took the latest version apart and put it back together, but couldn’t think of what to add, what to do differently. Frustration mounting, he gripped the compass and hurled it across the cave with all his might.

It hit the wall and broke into pieces. A yelp from the darkness startled Wei Wuxian from his seething. Wen Ning took a step into the dim candlelight. “Master Wei… are you well?” He asked. Since his resurrection he had lost his stutter and most of his nervous twitches, but he was still shy, and polite to a fault. His long, dark hair was loose around his shoulders, nearly blending in with the darkness, making his ghostly pale face stand out among the gloom. “You left dinner much earlier than usual… I wanted to check on you sooner, but Wen Qing kept stopping me.”

“I’m fine,” Wei Wuxian lied. “Thanks for worrying, though.” He tried to smile but must have failed; Wen Ning looked thoroughly unconvinced.

“Forgive me, Master Wei, but I’m not stupid. I can tell something is bothering you… I want to help you if I can.” He took a few steps forward, but stayed out of reach, like he was afraid to approach Wei Wuxian. Was his poor mood so obvious? Wei Wuxian stood and closed the gap between them, ignoring the flash of panic in Wen Ning’s eyes.

“Oh Wen Ning. I know you’re not stupid.” He started, laying a hand on Wen Ning’s arm. Wen Ning’s posture relaxed a little. “But really, it’s fine. You help me with so much already! You don’t have to worry about a bad day.”

“Master Wei--” Wen Ning tried to argue, but Wei Wuxian cut him off.

“Haven’t I told you to stop calling me that?” He laughed. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Wen Ning stared for a moment, eyes wide. “Friends…” he echoed. “Right… Sorry Mas-- er… um.” He fumbled his words, eloquent as always. Suddenly he seemed very interested in the ground.

Wei Wuxian laughed for real this time. Maybe he was teasing him too much, but it really was a lot of fun. And at least he seemed distracted from trying to talk to Wei Wuxian about his feelings. Just to lay it on thick, he reached out for Wen Ning’s chin and tipped it up so they were looking each other in the eyes. “Repeat after me: Wei. Wu. Xian.” He said clearly.

If Wen Ning could still blush, he would surely have gone beet red by now. “Wei…” he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Wei Wuxian.”

“Good!” Wei Wuxian smiled, patting Wen Ning’s cheek gently. It had actually felt a little nice for Wen Ning to drop some of his usual reverent formality.

Wen Ning shifted his gaze to the ground again. He opened and closed his mouth a couple times, trying to find the right words. After a few moments, he clenched his jaw and made eye contact with Wei Wuxian again. “Wei Wuxian,” he repeated, with more confidence than Wei Wuxian had ever heard from him. “As your friend, I am worried about you. Even if I can’t help… At least let me care.” His expression was subtle, but the knit of his eyebrows and the set of his jaw spoke volumes. He was serious.

Wei Wuxian didn’t have a response to that. He simply blinked a few times before a single tear slipped out. With a gasp, he took a step away and turned his back. Stop it stop it stop it! He yelled at himself. A firm hand grasped his shoulder. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But you don’t have to be alone with whatever is bothering you.” Wen Ning said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Wei Wuxian was still for a long time. At last, he nodded and turned back around. He mustered up a watery smile for his friend. “Thank you. I’m glad to have a friend like you.” They sat together quietly for a while and eventually Wei Wuxian couldn’t hold back his tears. He was just thankful he managed to keep the pitiful wailing to a minimum. When he finally felt as if he had run out of tears, Wei Wuxian was exhausted. He’d been tired for days now, unable to relax enough to get any rest, but now he could barely resist the thrall of sleep. He figured this must be his body finally giving up on him. His eyelids fluttered and he swayed a little. Immediately, Wen Ning reached out to steady him, and looked at him quizzically. He leaned into Wen Ning, resting his head on his shoulder, smiling vaguely before blacking out completely.

#badcat.txt #mdzs #mdzs fic #wei wuxian #wen ning #wen qing #wen yuan #wei wuxian & wen ning #first mdzs fic #be nice to me

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overdrivels · 4 years

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The Way to a Heart (17)

<<Chapter 16

The night breeze comes rushing at you, salt and morning dew enveloping your senses the moment you throw open the warehouse door. Greedily, you breathe it all in, the chilly air waking you up, confirming that this is all real.

Taking the first few steps onto uneven earth, you gaze up into the night sky. Thousands of stars, vaster than your eyes can contain, wink, welcoming you back beneath their presence. You open your arms as though you could embrace the half moon that hangs in the air, unobstructed by wires or bed frames or the sticky guilt that suffocates you. Blood runs wild through your rusty veins, your muscles sing, and your weary joints pop at the stretch. The rush almost makes you lightheaded, but the air, the space, the freedom is just too delicious.

Slowly, you exhale, allowing the night settle on you.

You’re free.

“Thank you, Agent Hanzo.”

The man in question stands just a distance behind you, watching from the doorway of the warehouse that had hidden the entrance to the Cellar. He walks up beside you, unbound hair tossing in the wind.

“Did you forget the second condition, Chef?”

You smile sheepishly at him. “Right. Hanzo."

He nods, a strange sort of half-smile on his face that you don't think you've ever seen before. "Just Hanzo," he reiterates.

The name still sounds empty in your mouth without the "agent" in front of it. It sounds too personal, too much like you're...equals. But it is a necessity for going out incognito. So no matter how uncomfortable you were with the prospect, it's still a deal. Besides, it and the other two conditions were nothing compared to what you gained. No matter the deal, anything was much better than being stuck in a bed, useless, while everyone else toiled.

Dr. Ziegler had prohibited you from leaving her care until she deemed you healthy enough to resume work. As of now, she still hasn’t given the all-clear, nor does she know you’ve disobeyed her orders. But you couldn’t abide by them. Not when Age—Hanzo offered to bring you outside where your help was still needed.

While you received an endless stream of visitors since your conversation with the former Strike Commander, all of them were evasive in answering your questions. You wanted to know what was happening with Cœur d’Artichaut. You wanted to know what you could help with. You wanted to know if the agents had the funds they needed, if they were eating properly, if—

No one answered.

All of them dismissed your concerns, telling you not to worry about it and to focus on your own recovery before returning to their previous point of conversation, their previous attempts at distracting you. Even the worst of liars did not reveal anything.

But how could you not worry when the idleness ate at your skin, burrowed into your sleep, kept you awake? What is the purpose of your being there if you were not made to work? Why did you return then if they did not need you? Why do they let you stay when you serve no purpose except to eat up their resources and time?

Even in your sleep, you searched for answers.

It was a gut-wrenching mystery.

So gut-wrenching in fact that when Hanzo came to visit for the first time well after everyone else had already done so, you grabbed him by the arms, not letting him speak, forgetting for a moment that he was one of those heroes you had looked up to and deeply respected, and begged for answers. He was the only one you hadn’t spoken to, the only one who hadn’t had a chance to tell you no. He was your only hope.

To anyone else, it may have been very amusing to watch Hanzo Shimada attempting to console you, clearly unfamiliar and uncomfortable with the process. But for you, it was of utmost importance that you had at least someone who wouldn't lie to you. Question after question spilled from your mouth until Hanzo put down his foot (figuratively).

“Since you are so curious.”

You’re not sure if he’s unafraid of Dr. Ziegler or if he just didn’t care to keep it from you like all the others, but he told you more than anyone else was willing to.

Overwatch contacted the staff at Cœur d’Artichaut and worked out some deal to allow them to break cleanly from this business. Without your permission or knowledge, they essentially cut ties, unable to continue working as a conduit for an illegal Overwatch’s funds, and too afraid for their lives and the lives of their customers to openly defy Talon. You couldn't make a decision as to whose side you stood by, so they decided for you.

It made you laugh, bitter and so terribly sad. The charity restaurant you’ve spent years building up with the other two, taken, just like that. Without a word. With the very last things you’ve said to them, an argument.

What would Overwatch do without them as a cover? What happens to the funds? What about all the events they were preparing for? Who will be running the charity now? What about the results of the audit?

Hanzo seemed to hesitate before he leaned in to tell you, the words awkward in how delicately they were delivered, “They did not do so without thinking of you kindly. They said...they were leaving you in our care, and you are free to do as you liked."

Sound, light, your breath—everything swept into a slow stop. The words echoed in your head, sinking in like falling snow just as it becomes water and seeps into the roots of your heart.

Those words should not have hurt as much as they did. You couldn't pinpoint what part of them made it feel like a knife landed in your chest and began to twist, but warm tears filled with several years of grief came pouring out and it was so hard to not make a sound, to keep your dignity, to not feel like something precious was taken away. There was definitely more that Hanzo did not, or could not, tell you.

Even when you're told you're free, why did it feel like you were more cornered than before?

Gushing sadness was quickly overrun by a dark, sticky anger—an anger born from time and tiny pebbles of resentment that would become an avalanche. A yell tore from the deepest recesses of your being and you couldn't stay still, throwing your pillow across the room, clamoring to get out of this bed, get out of this room, get out of Gibraltar—

How dare they.

How could they decide for you? When you wanted both? When all you wanted to do was to help? How much did you sacrifice to make all of this happen? How could they take a whole company and half a decade's worth of work from you without your input, without a warning, without—

Those selfish thoughts made into words poured from your mouth. Words you couldn't take back. Words that, luckily, only had Hanzo and Athena as witnesses.

"Chef."

A solid hand landed squarely on top of your chest, shocking you back into reality and nearly knocking the breath out of you.

Heaving, bed made a mess by you tearing at it, you stopped and looked straight at the agent who had just seen you at your lowest, tear-soaked face and running nose, made all the more ugly by the black-hearted words that had laid dormant behind a facade of excellent customer service. He only looked back.

"I know."

It was all he said, it was all he had to say. The look on his face, undecipherable but undoubtedly haunted, quickly shut down your brief tirade.

The heat in your skin began to settle, evaporating, leaving nothing but the dregs of shame and exhaustion. His hand slowly lifted from your chest, letting it hover in the air for just a moment before he drew back completely, but the heavy phantom of it still lingered, holding you down.

Where did it all go wrong?

Before you could even ask or apologize for being so unsightly in front of an agent, Dr. Ziegler put an end to it all, rushing in like a right mess.

Even as the doctor shooed him out, Hanzo turned back to tell you, "I will see you tomorrow."

"Not on my watch," Dr. Ziegler grumbled none too quietly. She rubbed her forehead, muttering unpleasantries underneath her breath before tending to the mess you've made of your bed.

You didn't really notice, the rest of the night passing in a daze. Questions that plagued you for so long, your inner monologues silenced when you remember that look Hanzo gave you.

—"I know."—

Somehow, those two words were more reassuring than any of the platitudes anyone else had offered so far.

No other visitors came that night, likely in no small part due to Dr. Ziegler.

Luckily, for the first time in a long, long time, you were able to have a deep, quiet sleep.

Hanzo returned the next day despite Dr. Ziegler's vague threats. It's impressive.

He asked, "Do you still want to know?"

The conversation the previous day was exhausting, but strangely, you feel a little lighter, a little less anxious. The walls no longer felt confining, nor did they seem to echo your worries back at you as loudly.

With resolve less manic and more rational than yesterday, you answered firmly, "Yes."

Everything else he told seemed tame by comparison. Even when you learned the agents were taking turns cooking. In the kitchen. Without permission from a chef. When there's a chef right here.

Strangely, the red-hot irritation that you had become accustomed to feeling boil up inside did not come. Instead, a small, barely there simmer aimed more at yourself than any of the agents burrowed into you.

What the hell are you doing? What the hell are you doing here? If neither the restaurant nor Overwatch needed you then why the fucking hell were you here?

He also told you about the state of the kitchen and how it fared during the attack. Due to Fareeha's insistence and out of sheer necessity, Overwatch had to make their way into the Cellar and connect those systems to Athena. They tried to respect as much of the space as they could, but the security concerns overshadowed any history or arbitrary rules that were created by a person who is no longer here.

There was also the matter of money. While Cœur d'Artichaut pulled their support, Hanzo assured you it wasn't an issue and there were other methods of acquiring the funding and supplies Overwatch needed to operate. The specifics were glossed over, but it sounded like they had a solid plan to get what they needed.

After some time, Hanzo concluded his report, asking, "I have told you all this. What will you do with this information?"

The question filled your head with static. Your mouth went dry. There was no clear path, no purpose, no answer.

"I don't know."

"What is it that you want to do?"

"I don't know."

Everything he told you invalidated everything you've ever done for them. It was cruel of him to tell you so and it was foolish of you to have thought otherwise. You had just wanted to help.

Head in your hands, you asked, "What would you do? If everything you worked for meant nothing? If your reason for being isn't there anymore?"

A strange look passed through his face, jaw going the slightest bit slack and eyes glassy but alarmed. Bewildered might be the best way to describe it, but as close as the word was, this wasn't it completely.

He stroked his beard a few times, a deep inhale and silent sigh flowing out of him.

"That is the past. What do you want to do now?"

"That doesn't—" You bite off the rest of your retort.

What do you want to do now? There's nothing for you here nor at the restaurant, which means there's no reason for you to be in Gibraltar anymore except for Dr. Ziegler's orders. Instead, you could probably do something else like begin your search for Head Chef Richard in earnest again and ask him to return. Once he does, you'll fall back into the shadows again, be useful with someone to be able to tell you what you should actually be doing.

"...I want to get out of here."

As if waiting for you to say that, Hanzo offered, "If that is so, I want you to come with me. I must go shopping for ingredients."

"Ingredients?"

He grumbled, "It's my turn to cook tomorrow. I have...no experience with cooking for crowds, so it may be best to have the assistance of an expert like yourself."

You don't know if it was to humor you or if the request was genuine, but you agreed anyway. Anything to get you out of here. Anything to be useful again.

It was agreed that Hanzo would meet you early in the morning to avoid the others and so he would be able to make it back in time to cook breakfast. While it would only be for a few scant hours, the promise of freedom was irresistible, even when he added three conditions to your freedom, it was a small price to pay.

Present day, Hanzo jerks his head. "We should not waste any more time. Let's go."

"Right."

Even though he said that, he did not seem to be in any particular rush, walking beside you as you got used to your legs again after being bedridden for so long. While Gibraltar was modernized, the residents preferred to keep the city as natural as possible even if it made walking up and down the Rock difficult. The paths are still uneven and only lightly paved. It's so minor, but you smile to yourself, knowing that he is at least considerate enough to match your pace.

He's not such a bad person.

But you knew that already. Anyone who enjoys food as genuinely as he does can't be a bad person.

The trip to the street market is filled with idle conversation.

"We threw away the leftovers."

"What a waste! This is why we don't do buffet-style for such a small group."

"Hah. You consider this group small?"

"Compared to the old days, yes. It's too unpredictable with so few agents. It's just not cost-effective."

"Who knew chefs thought about that cost effectiveness?"

"It's vital! I don't want to feed you all leftovers."

"I am sure some of us will eat anything that's placed in front of them."

The walk takes longer than you would have expected; all the best picks for today are likely already gone, but you find that you don't mind.

A steady stream of people pour in and out of the mouth of the market when you both arrive, the spoils of their haggling and eagle-eyed pickings carried out proudly in their hands and dollies. Vaguely, you wonder if you should've brought a hand truck for yourself, but the thought is quickly banished. It would just be too cumbersome to bring back without your truck.

"Where to first?" Hanzo asks, eyeing the map placed at the entrance.

"Follow me."

The tents are packed tightly together, merchandise flowing out of the white flaps. Lights hang off every tent, illuminating the way for you. The air is alive with shouts of the freshest catches and orders from trucks, it is made fuller with the smell of food and herbs.

It's a nostalgic sight—one you haven't seen since Overwatch formally existed. You were once a part of the crowd leaving this place at this time, rushing to get the ingredients back to the Watchpoint well before the morning shift began. It was almost a ritual: with the change of every season, a team would be sent out to buy samples from nearly every stall, enough for half the staff to experiment with and allow the Head Chef to sample and decide if it made it on that season's menu.

Your dishes were never chosen—never quite creative enough or nutritious enough or well-balanced enough—but it was fun seeing and sampling everyone’s attempts. The Head Chef always had constructive comments, and the competitions fueled fierce knowledge transfers.

“Where are we going?” Hanzo is right at your elbow, carefully stepping through the crowd with a ridiculous amount of grace.

“There’s a grain seller nearby.”

“Grain?”

“We're short on rice, right?"

“I was told there was not much of anything.,” he answers, shrugging.

A frustrated groan rumbles in your chest. "I wish we had a chance to check the inventory."

"We were in a rush, and you had to change."

"You told me to!"

The two of you couldn't just go out the front door of the Watchpoint. It has never been an option since no one wanted to draw unnecessary attention while Overwatch attempted to reorganize themselves. Even if it were an option, you had to get a change of clothes. Going around in a hospital gown is the furthest thing from inconspicuous, and even though McCree gave you his serape sometime during your stay, it was still an unacceptable disguise, so Hanzo had to escort you to the Cellar where you kept your belongings.

You did not have the time to dawdle and see the damage the kitchen took in your absence, not with the way Hanzo ushered you straight through the Cellar door. It was kept open, a bundle of wires flowing out of it and down the halls while several of Agent Symmetra's turrets sat stop the doorway, watching. It should feel like a betrayal, that a place you knew inside and out was now overflowing with so many unfamiliar things, touched by people that so many chefs have attempted to defend from, but with you as you are, there's nothing that could be said or done.

As you changed in your dorm room, you mentally apologized to the Head Chef, hoping that when he comes back your punishment won't be too harsh.

Though, you could argue that you've received your fair share of punishment. You ran your hand across the stippled skin of your stomach, still pink and a little tender. Thanks for Dr. Ziegler’s care, you no longer needed bandages and she said it was unlikely to leave any marks as long as everything goes well.

Flashes of that poorly timed night returned, and you shuddered to think what would have happened if the agents weren't there to help.

Would it even have mattered?

The agents would have figured their situation out. They were already cooking for themselves. It wouldn’t be long before they’re able to walk around, free, touting their status and lavished with more love and money than they could ever ask for.

What did they need you for?

In this dark room, alone with the memories of your colleagues and your job surrounding you, the doubt began to creep in again, seeking gaps in your wounds. Festering. Feeding.

A sharp knock at your door put a quick end to all those thoughts. “Chef. Are you finished?”

“Two seconds!”

Hastily, you yanked down your shirt and pulled on a stale jacket that likely haven't seen sunlight in a year. There hadn't been much of a reason to wear anything other than your work uniforms, and working in the kitchen, it's usually much too hot to wear a proper jacket.

"I'm ready," you announced as you yanked open the door. You could see Hanzo's eyes drift past your shoulder and into the room. Curiously enough, he seemed struck by something not unlike a revelation that made him chuckle to himself.

"Is that what it is?" he muttered, leaving you very much in the dark. Again, he laughed, the sound bouncing off the stone walls of the tunnels. It felt like you were being left out of a very important joke, but you couldn't bring yourself to ask. Not when it seemed like the agent might go into hysterics.

It should have unnerved you. You had never seen him like this before, hand over mouth, head throw back, but he seemed to be enjoying himself. It was genuine laughter and you couldn't help but smile at the unabashed display of mirth. As long as the agents are happy, you're happy even if you didn't quite understand what was happening.

Eventually, Hanzo calmed down, still pink in the dim light, but his eyes seemed to be sparkling. "Excuse me. We've wasted enough time, let's go."

Quietly, you followed behind him as he navigated through the halls with the confidence of someone who has been here multiple times. He didn't even have any trouble with the forks in the tunnels or operating the lift.

What happened in the few days you were stuck in bed?

“Here we are!”

Sacks of rice are piled up atop each other, an open bag in front of each different type for customers to scrutinize.

“Did you say one of your dishes was Japanese curry?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, we should probably go the traditional route and get the short-grain.”

“What’s the difference between all of these?” He points to the open sacks along a wall that seems to hold all the white rice.

"They're just different types of rice for different types of cuisines." Pointing to each one, you explain, "There's basmati, Jasmine, coconut, sticky; normally I'd keep at least four types of rice on hand and two other rotating types, but since we don't have a truck, I think we should just get the one you need for now."

It doesn't take you long to find the rice you're looking for: short-grain rice. Your hand sinks into the bag, a cooling cascade of rice calming your heart. Lifting a small handful, you bring it up to your face, drawing shapes in the rice.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh. Here, give me your hand.”

He complies, watching curiously as you pour the contents from your palm onto his.

Slowly, you drag a finger through the pile as you explain, ignoring the way his fingers twitch. “We’re checking for a few things. Firstly, we’re looking for anything that looks out of place. Like dark-colored grains or insects or mold.” You sort through the pile a few times, accidentally grazing the man's palm.

“There doesn’t seem to be any here, but you never know. We also look for any holes or insect bites.

“If it smells funny, it’s safe to say that it’s not good to eat."

You both unconsciously lean in closer and for a second, your eyes flicker up at Hanzo's face, far closer than you've ever seen him before. His hair curtains most of his face. There's a notch in his brow, focused. But more superficially, his eyelashes are very long. Dark.

A jolt of shock rushes through you when his eyes raise and meet yours. Embarrassment warms your face. Your eyes dart down, heart thumping as you try to rush through the rest of your explanation.

“Oh an—and, if the rice isn’t hard, then that means it’s been exposed to water and shouldn’t be used. But looking at this rice, it seems to be pretty good quality. They usually are."

He drops it all back into the bag, attention clearly elsewhere.

That was a little improper. Taking a moment to catch yourself, you smack one of the rice sacks closest to you. Then again. And again.

With each strike, something feels like it's settling inside your chest. The sounds of the rustling grain and the feel of things sliding into place as you flatten the sack soothes and flushes out the grime that sticks to your veins.

"What are you doing?"

"Slapping the rice." You give the sack another light smack. "You should hit it once, too."

He crosses his arms, a puzzled look on his face. "Isn't this disrespecting the food?"

"I always slap the rice bags. It feels good."

Slap, slap.

"Are you going to buy or just abuse my rice all day?"

From behind the mountain of rice, an omnic shopkeeper appears, arms crossed and, despite the neutral faceplate, exuded irritation.

Heat crawls up your face and you can't help but laugh sheepishly, embarrassed, raising two fingers. "We'll take two."

The shopkeeper nods, uncrossing his arms. "Which will it be?"

Hanzo, ever so quick, grabs the bag you were hitting and the one beneath it, carrying them over one shoulder to bring to the table where the card system sat. You're rushing right behind him as he takes out his card.

“Wait, let me pay—”

“You don’t have any money.”

You splutter, patting at your clothes. “Of—of course I do, I’m…”

“The one who provided us with the necessary funds. I am aware. I am also aware you did not pay yourself while working with us," he counters coolly.

Your jaw drops. Even though you were CEO of Cœur d’Artichaut, your paychecks went to a dummy account to be used by Overwatch and for Winston to reallocate the funds as necessary. There should’ve been no one who knew about this except...

“How did you…?”

“Winston informed me of the financial situation.” He smiles a little devilishly, handing the card to the shopkeeper. “In great detail.”

Stunned speechless by his confession, you could only watch as he finishes up his transaction and hauls the sacks of rice onto his shoulder like they don't weigh anything.

“Oh.” You pat at your clothes again, panic bolting through you as you realize they’re all flat and devoid of any bank cards. “I think I left everything back home…”

"Hard to expect a chef to think of anything else but cooking."

"I don—wait, are you making fun of me?"

You barely see the grin on Hanzo's face before the wind blows his hair into his face.

Unable to control yourself, you burst out laughing.

As though contagious, he begins to laugh, too. It’s a quiet laugh, a personal one meant for enjoying jokes. Even though it’s directed at you, it makes you smile a bit as well despite the circumstances.

It’s nice to see him so relaxed.

Adjusting the heavy sacks on his shoulder, Hanzo asks, "What's next?"

"Eggs."

"I believe there is still a carton from Dr. Ziegler's...attempt." You ignore the way Hanzo's voice trails off in disgust.

"We can never have too many eggs. You can make them soft-boiled, hard-boiled, sunny-side, poached, scrambled. You can make omelettes, huevos rancheros, egg tarts, egg custard, pancakes, waffles, cake..." You continue your list on your fingers as you walk with Hanzo, unaware of how he smiles as he patiently listens to you ramble about the different application of eggs.

"—duck eggs which are great for poaching because of how thick—ah, here we go!"

You make a sharp turn into a tent, nearly missing it and knocking your face into a sign that says in huge letters, “HUEVOS,” with some scrawling graffiti on it that looked like it said ‘splash’ or ‘squash’. It seems that not everything remained the same. Hanzo sets down his purchase, eyeing the delicate products before shuffling the bags carefully around the tiny space.

Carefully, you check the contents of the cartons. Some are laid out in clamshell cartons, others are pillowed on hay in solid containers, allowing the different colors to show like a box of jewels. Should you go for larges or the extra-larges?

Hanzo makes a face. "Chef. Why are these green?"

"Different breeds of chickens lay different eggs."

"Are they safe to eat?"

"Yes! The color itself is just an indicator of the genetics of the chicken. Depending on the breed, there's different properties like a richer yolk or a runnier white. But you can't just tell from the shell."

"I see." He picks up a particularly blue egg, inspecting it like he doesn't believe you. "And these are all natural?"

"As natural as selective breeding goes, I guess."

"Do they taste different?"

"Sort of. Different eggs taste different but it's not the color that decides the taste, it really depends on the type of feed and environment the chicken is in." Maybe you should just go with eggs that the other agents are familiar with.

You inspect a few more eggs until you come upon some gorgeous dark brown eggs, medium in size.

"Are you interested in our Penedesenca eggs?" The omnic tips his sunhat, a smile in his mechanic voice. "They're very good this season."

There’s a momentary back and forth where you interrogate the omnic, asking about the conditions of their chickens, the specifics of the feed, the farm, the history of this business. The merchant was only too happy to reply, going into great detail that fueled more questions from you. It would’ve gone on forever had Hanzo not reminded you that you were both short on time.

"Fine. We'll take four dozen."

"Isn't that too many?"

"We want this to last. It's a lot of trouble for everyone to keep coming out, isn't it? And everyone eats a lot."

"There are other items we must purchase. We should be wiser in our selections."

"Fine." You acquiesce, waving at the merchant. "Excuse me, could we have three dozen instead?"

Noticing the judgemental look Hanzo is giving you, you throw your hands up. “It’s less than four dozen!”

“Two dozen.”

“That’s too little!”

“And whose card is paying for this?”

You both know immediately that Hanzo has won this round, and you curse your own inattentiveness and haste. Having nothing else to say in response, you sulkingly turn back to the merchant and raise two fingers.

“Two dozen, please.”

“Certainly.”

The omnic hands you your purchase just as Hanzo gives his card, flashing you a smug look.

"If we find our final haul is lacking, we will return and get the other two dozen."

You grumble, holding your eggs close to your chest. You’ll get him for this. “I thought you wanted me here for my ‘expert’ opinion.”

“You are. I am making executive decisions.”

You barely manage to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at him, choosing to continue tent-hopping for the ingredients. Hanzo doesn’t seem too offended, following after you with the rice sacks back on his shoulder.

You take your time with the selections, explaining to Hanzo, who listens attentively to your endless stream of information. Hanzo eventually takes the initiative to look into other tents, asking for your opinion on different items. New products fill your arms with every tent you both visit and you begin to trail behind Hanzo, the weight of the growing bags dragging you down.

Despite that, it is the most fun you've had in a long time. The visits are filled with light-hearted bickering that makes you forget everything that had happened in the past few weeks.

Freedom is sweet.

It’s not until you’ve both explored most of the market that you decide it might be nice for Hanzo to pick something for himself. It gives you an opportunity to put down your bags for a moment while Hanzo browsed a mead store near the edge of the market.

You momentarily put down your bags just to give your arms a brief moment of respite.

Dizziness strikes you as you stretch, making you stagger in place. It takes you by surprise and you shake your head to clear it, but it only gets worse. There’s a dull ache all around your body that makes itself more known with each beat of your heart which feels like it has begun to pound with more force.

What’s happening to you?

A few steadying breaths do little to help.

Vaguely, you remember your promise. The third condition.

But you’re sure you can hold on. You’ve been through worse.

Besides, what would happen if you told him? He will just send you right back to the medical bay and then you would be confined again in the bed with no one telling you anything about things you should be involved in and then what?

But he did bring you out here in a show of goodwill. It would be unfair to take advantage of it and go against your word even if it meant cutting your trip short. Sighing and resigning yourself to the promise, you squint at the crowd in the tent, seeking out your chaperone.

You find him browsing the mead, talking with the store keeper in hushed but enthusiastic tones. You shouldn't interrupt him. He seems to be having a pretty good time, if you do say so yourself.

Another wave of nausea and pain nearly knocks you off your feet, the grounds sways once, violently. Your head throbs. It's hard to focus, the edges of your vision shimmering if you leave your eyes open for too long.

Forcing another two steps, your hand reaches out, but you hesitate—what are you doing?—before your hand drops, the feeling of pins and needles immediately swarming on the limb like vultures.

Taking in a few more breaths, you shake your hand to clear the feeling, but it wouldn’t leave. The ground beneath you feels wobbly, making any attempt at walking a challenge.

You falter in your steps, stumbling two steps back and nearly knocking the merchandise off the tables in an attempt to steady yourself. No. You're a liability like this. As much as you didn't want to go back, you didn't want to cause any more trouble either.

With what little coordination you had left, you barely manage to grasp Hanzo by the edge of his sleeve.

"Hanzo."

"Chef?"

"...our last condition. To tell you...when I don't feel good." Taking a shuddering breath, gooseflesh rising everywhere, the feeling of needles pressing themselves deeper and deeper into your torso, your lungs, you admit through grit teeth, "I feel really bad right now."

You can see his body language change from leisurely to tight to liquid. Whatever he saw, he must not have liked. You’re not even sure how you look at the moment. You know you feel weird, but it shouldn’t be so bad.

A hand grasps the bottom of your elbow, hoisting you up against him. You could feel the gush of breath as he carries all your purchases with the other arm.

Faintly, you think of his hands and how strong they are. They must be from using his bow and arrows. It’s...comforting.

Just how many times has he seen you in such a poor state? How must he think of you? The unease weaves itself into the nausea. The noise in between your ears just won't stop.

"Can you walk?"

"Think so."

His steps are hurried and you're stumbling over yourself trying to keep up.

He holds your hand tight, pulling you along a sloped path. This is objectively embarrassing. You're an adult doing some grocery shopping, it shouldn't exhaust you after an hour nor should you be breaking out into sweats. It feels like your body is burning up all the oxygen it has, reducing your steps to mere shuffles and your breath to small puffs.

Eyes half closed and disoriented, you aren't sure where you both end up.

"Watch your step."

The tips of your toes skim across steps and lifting your legs feel like a Herculean effort, but you force yourself to obey. You have had worse. You can do this. You have to do this.

There's noise all around, and you can feel the rumbling of Hanzo's voice against you.

At some point, the support disappears and you sink heavily onto a surface—a plush chair—that creaks beneath you. Shivers run up and down your skin without Hanzo's warmth. It's strange, you had only leaned on him for a short while, but already you're missing the heat he gave. It was comforting.

"Drink this."

Something is pushed into your hands. It feels like a cup. Your vision is still blurred by shine and colors that are slowly swimming away from the center of your vision, but not soon enough.

You hold tightly to the cup, carefully lifting it to your lips. The motion alone saps any energy you are able to muster, forcing them down onto your lap before you are able to take a single sip.

Taking in a few bracing breaths, you try again, successfully managing to swallow the tepid water until you drain it all. Almost immediately, the cup is taken from your hands and another replaces it just as fast.

This time, you just hold the water in your hands, waiting for the unsettling feelings and colors to pass. Maybe you were too hasty in leaving. Maybe you shouldn't have left without talking to Dr. Ziegler. You don’t know what was in the drips you were being provided or the medicine she was giving you. Maybe you wouldn’t be in this situation if you weren’t so hellbent on proving something that you had no control over.

Beside you, the sound of a chair scraping and something bumping up against your knee. The jostle makes a mockery of your attempts to feel better and it sets off another wave of nausea that makes you clasp a hand over your mouth. Immediately, a hand is on your back, unmoving. The weight is hardly comfortable, but it gives you something to focus on in the midst of this imaginary swaying. Among everything, it’s the only steadying force that keeps you anchored.

It’s a slow process, but everything eventually settles into place, allowing you to sit up and finally look around the small space that you had been occupying. Hanzo’s hand slides off your back, the heat dissipating and making your body feel so much lighter. Beside you, Hanzo sits on a chair, a cup in his own hands with something that looks like coffee. The interior is that of a cafe, wooden walls and shelves, the gentle smell of freshly baked goods carried by the underlying aroma of espresso. The beginnings of daylight peek in through the window on the other side of the little shop, the employees nowhere to be seen.

"Where…?"

"A cafe. It was open. They’ve allowed us to remain here until you feel better.”

Absentmindedly, you look up at the clock hanging on the wall. You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting here, wasting time with all the trouble you’ve brought upon everyone. Now even unrelated people were involved. "The other agents should be having their breakfast by now."

"I do not believe you are in a position to be worrying about others."

"I'm sorry."

“Do not apologize. You were just doing your job.”

“No, I mean…”

Hanzo did not say anything, nodding for you to continue.

Heat creeps up your face and you can't look him in the eye. "For what happened just now and...when I had a temper tantrum in the room. I didn't mean for you to see any of that.”

"Is that so," he says simply.

Silence blankets you both as he sips his coffee and you look down at your water. Embarrassment prickles at your skin and almost instantly, you regret having confided in him. But you're sure it would bother you more if you didn't at least apologize for it.

"I envy you."

Your head snaps up at the sudden exclamation. You must have heard wrong. Hanzo does not look at you, instead, he stares off to the side, past the windows, past the slowly brightening streets and everything they contain. He stares like he's watching something from long ago.

"That you could be like that."

"I don't usually—"

"I am aware. You are professional, and a professional. We are your customers. You attend to us because it is your duty."

"...yes."

“It is easy to follow the rules dictated by your duty, especially rules that have always been there, established by others you’ve seen as superior.”

“What would you know about that?” you hiss angrily. “I have to—”

“And what do you think I know?” he asks softly.

His words sound like a challenge, but a melancholy one, one that tells you that you are far less knowledgeable in your subject than you presume to be.

“How far would you go to please those you serve? How far will you go to complete your duties?” he continues, voice strong but so very distant.

"I…"

"If the Head Chef returned, would you take all his orders even if you disagreed with them? Even if his orders were not what your clients wanted?"

"What are you talking about?"

A short laugh makes it out of his mouth and he shakes his head. “Forget that.”

“...I’m just trying to do my job,” you offer.

“You do more than your job, chef.” A rush of humiliation floods you when he spits your title back at you. “They are not so helpless that they need so much coddling. The money, the support—leave that to us. Those matters are not for a chef to concern themselves with."

You bite your lip several times, shrinking in on yourself. There was nothing he said that you could deny. “I’m sorry, I guess I only brought more trouble.”

“That’s—Do not—” Hanzo pinches his eyes shut, pressing his thumb and index fingers into the bridge of his nose, exhaling. “Do not presume that,” he says wearily. Hanzo makes a complicated face and clicks his tongue, the sound sending a sharp and cold shard of fear through you, pins sticking into you anew "...it is not a criticism of what you've done so far, Chef. "

Perhaps seeing how you tensed, he sighs, pressing his lips together and parting them several times.

"...what I want to say is…" Hanzo suddenly looks slightly embarrassed, a hand curled into a fist in front of his mouth as though to muffle the world and hold them close to himself instead of letting you hear; curious look. "It would do you good to rely on others more often. You've done well so far. Thank you."

“Oh.”

You didn’t really know what else to say.

Thank you.

You've heard those words many times before from many different people. Somehow, this time feels different. It’s a little awkward and stilted like it comes from someone who isn’t used to saying it. It reminds you of when you first heard it from Hanzo on a lonely night before this whole mess and before you two really knew each other.

Face now several degrees warmer than before for reasons you couldn't name, you ask, “Why are you helping me so much?”

If anything, it should be you thanking him. One should never look a gift horse in the mouth, but you couldn’t help wondering why Hanzo of all agents would help you. Not even the veteran agents would fill you in on the current situation, and neither did the more outgoing, newer agents. No one made the effort to even ask you what you wanted or get you involved when you knew that they knew you were deeply entangled in the mess that is currently Overwatch. So why Hanzo alone?

He stares back blankly at you, lips parted like he was about to say something but he doesn't.

Maybe...you didn't dare hope, but…

Hesitantly, you ask, "Is it becaus—wait, no. Are we...friends?"

Almost immediately, he replies, "Are you and McCree friends?"

"I guess?" The answer just falls out of you without much thought. It's not a lie, not really. But where did that question even come from?

"Then are we the same as that?"

You fall silent. You and McCree are, very loosely, friends. He gets you into mischief and you retaliate. But were you and Hanzo the same thing? He didn’t treat you the same way McCree does. It’s different, but you couldn’t articulate how.

"...something like it?"

"...then let it be so."

With a self-satisfied smile that seemed more lonely than anything, Hanzo closes his eyes for a moment, allowing his words to settle the conversation. You don't know why, but you didn't want this to end this way, and yet, you couldn't find the right words, so instead, you have to swallow what is unsaid with the rest of your water.

"We should be getting back. Are you able to stand?" Hanzo asks after a few more moments.

"Of course, I rested long enough." The confidence is undue and did not come from any concrete proof, but you're glad you were able to get up without falling on your face. You've embarrassed yourself in front of Hanzo enough.

Truly a kinder hero than most people give him credit for.

Especially when he grabs all of today’s purchases in his hands before you’re able to even touch them.

"I can carry something."

"It is training for me."

“That’s not fair. I can’t make you do this.”

“You’re not making me do anything. This is my choice. And what did I say about relying on others?”

You couldn’t not come up with any excuse or argument against an agent who is hellbent on doing things his own way. This isn’t the kitchen, this is the outside where you have no control.

Sighing, you resign yourself to Hanzo’s whims and follow beside him as best you can. You supposed those two dozen eggs will have to take a rain check.

The trip back is quiet, but the streets become more and more occupied with people with every changing increment of color in the sky. Hanzo does spare a glance every once a while, and each time he does, guilt pricks at you, knowing that he's carrying everything. It takes you a little while, but you notice that you've been walking a little longer than usual.

"Aren't we going back to the warehouse?"

"We should not take the same path we came," he says simply as though that explains anything. It's not very logical since it's a much quicker path to go through the tunnels—that's what they were made for, but you don't have much of a choice but to follow him.

Along the way, you notice the macaques up and about, running around without a care in the world. If only you could do the same. Smiling bitterly to yourself, you wonder if you'd ever have the chance to come outside like this and enjoy your time with another agent. Even if you managed to successfully hold everything together at the Watchpoint, there's no guarantee that when the Head Chef returns that you'd have a place here. So many rules broken and so many people troubled. It would be a miracle if you were allowed to work anywhere ever again, let alone Overwatch.

But despite all of that, you gained a friend.

Despite all your shortcoming and all the trouble you caused, you were still thanked for everything you've done. And that makes something sublime stir in the depths of your heart—maybe it's gratitude, maybe it's humility, but it's something you cannot put a name to, much like many of the expressions Hanzo has shown you today.

It wouldn't be a day you'd forget anytime soon.

The path you both walk leads you up to the backside of the Watchpoint where the space opens up to the hanger. Upon seeing the familiar sight, you both slow down. Given the time to finally relax, everything in your body throbs, your stomach wounds most of all. But you couldn't care less about it.

"Thank you, Hanzo. I had a really great time today. I don't know when I'll be able to do this again, but I really appreciate—"

Hanzo turns on his heel, a fierce sort of look on his face that makes you freeze in place.

"Chef...I will ask you again." He stands tall, staring at you with piercing eyes. Imposing like a king. His voice is loud, declarative. The sun sits at your back, shining on him. "What do you want to do? Not what would your previous Head Chef do, but you as yourself."

"I…"

"Ach du lieber Güte! Are you finally back from your adventure?"

The voice, clear as a bell, rings out across the lightening land. Zenyatta's orb zooms right by, spinning in the air before settling near your shoulder, an instant ripple of calm rushing through you that only deepens with every moment that passes. Three figures emerge from one of the doors of the hanger, approaching you and Hanzo.

"Finally. We were about to send Genji after you." Dr. Ziegler points her thumb at the cyborg behind her so gives you all a two fingered salute. Barely perceptible, Hanzo flinches beside you.

"Now then, Chef, if you're done with your trip, please come with me. We have to do a check up and make sure your trip did not have any adverse effects on your body."

Before Dr. Ziegler could escort you away, you give Hanzo a heartfelt smile.

"Thank you, Hanzo. I had a really great time today."

Hanzo's reply and expression is lost in you when both Zenyatta and Dr. Ziegler usher you back into the base, leaving the two brothers to their own devices.

Chapter 18>>

#my writing #twtah #hanzo x reader

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sepulcrorum · 4 years

Text

JUDE LAW, FIFTY, ARCHBISHOP DE MEDICI. ❝ ⤚⟶ EUROPE, 1458. thanks is given by the DUCHY OF FLORENCE, ARCHBISHOP GIANCARLO DI GIAN GASTONE DE’ MEDICI, from FLORENCE. they are at best CHARMING, and at their worst IMPIOUS. whilst abroad, their ambition is to REAP EVER MORE GREATER LUXURIES FOR HIMSELF. HE seems to remind everyone of JUDE LAW & DESIRES BOTH HERETICAL AND UNHOLY : THE SONG OF SOLOMON SPILLING FORTH FROM ONE’S LIPS WHILST IN THE THROES OF PASSION ; INTELLECTUALISM SOUGHT FOR HEDONISM’S SAKE : ANTIQUATED TEXTS SMUGGLED FROM THE CRUMBLING REMNANTS OF ANCIENT ROMAN VILLAS AND DISPLAYED TO EXPECTED LOOKS OF AWE ; & HOLINESS FOUND, HOLINESS LOST, HOLINESS REVERED : A CERTAIN SLANT OF LIGHT SHINING THROUGH HIGH-VAULTED ARCHES. ❞

introduction

Provide a blurb introducing your character generally. This should include an overview of strengths, weaknesses, aspirations, and set backs.

It has been once said by the Lord: be ye like children, for ye to enter the Kingdom of God. Capricious, selfish, absorbed only by thoughts of himself, petty, and whimsical, the Archbishop de’ Medici does not assume the dignity of his station as a member of the Church but he does assume all the qualities of a child in him, and that makes him saved by default.

His theology is quaint, bordering on unorthodox, and it’s almost tempting to call him out for heresies but he knows too much about Scripture and can run circles around any fellow servant of Christ, much more the ordinary layman. He’s either mystical or absolutely canonical: at a certain point in theology, everything becomes one and the same. Give him time, and he can justify anything—the cruellest of acts as well as the most compassionate acts of goodwill and charity—with verses pulled from the Holy Book and the most seraphic smile on his face, almost as if his lips are intoning a blessing. He’s a Devil’s advocate in perhaps more ways than one, the destruction of Rome entire as one itinerant preacher once called him, and yet he luxuriates on wealth on top of the social pyramid, secure in his position and backed by the splendorous wealth made available by his family’s support.

Yet despite all this, despite possessing all the qualities of a man who could be—intelligent, charming, sociable, and ambitious—Giancarlo ended up being the man who isn’t, by some strange (perhaps cruel) twist of fate. With his dubious origins erasing any hope for a cardinalate, much less a chance for the Throne of St. Peter, he languishes in his role as a mere archbishop. As the years pass, he has turned bitter, cruel, recalcitrant—for what does a child do when they are given what they want?

They throw a tantrum.

What are some potential plotlines you are interested in pursuing?

I’ve inserted the little nuggets of the plotlines I plan to pursue on the blurb but to expand on it:

First is I am definitely very interested in making him a Cardinal and that is very much a thing he also wants for himself, even as much as he denies it and says he never wanted it anyway. It’s a way for him to rationalise the fact that, strictly speaking, his life didn’t go the way he wanted it to go, and so he subsists on the lie that his life (as it is right now) was what he always wanted—but ultimately, I do think that he’s still on the lookout for any opportunity to finally have the red robes of a cardinal.

Second is the state of Florence and of Italy as a whole. The blemish of the riots on the Florentines’ reputation is something that must be rectified—not even because someone died (after all, very many people die everyday) but because it sends the message that they are unable to control their own people. The Church as an institution that does much works of charity can be used to pacify the rebellious masses and perhaps turn them into the better angels that they haven’t been before. Meanwhile, Italy as a whole concerns him because they are still, ultimately, disparate nation-states with differing goals and ambitions. In a world filled with empires and hegemons, Giancarlo realises that the Italian peoples must unite—far better that it be headed, of course, by the Church or by Florence, but unity itself is non-negotiable. If the Italians do not want to be swallowed up by their neighbours, they must pool together their resources and make a stand for their existence.

Thirdly is the option of interfaith dialogue. Giancarlo is by no means perfect, but I do imagine he’s a touch more tolerant than most holy men are. He’s less a crusader and more of a diplomat, far too disillusioned to really believe in any cause of holy war. Entrenched in cynicism—usually a character flaw—he’s cognisant enough of the fact that humans are going to be shitty one way or another, and religion has almost no bearing on whether one is a good person or not. As such, I do think he has a lot of plotting potential for those characters following a different faith, and it’s fun to see how that might all play out.

three bullet-points.

Giancarlo di Gian Gastone de’ Medici is born a stain of shame. Birthed by a servant-girl and the man from whom his name marks out as his progenitor, he is kept by his father as a spare heir—only to be tossed away when a legitimate one finally comes. In this act, his father has taught him the harsh realities of life: one minute, you can have everything in front of you; the next, it all comes crashing down with nothing to show for it. He is left with no security save that which his father carved out for him: mastery of an abbey at twelve years of age and, from there, the religious life. There was nothing else for him. There is nothing else to him.

Giancarlo takes to the intellectual and monastic life quite quickly. His learning under humanist tutors in the household of his father has enabled him to take quickly to reading dense texts that speak of grand contexts. It helps that he is good with languages, and that he is friendly to everyone he meets. How bright his career would be, some would say, before adding: if only he wasn’t illegitimate. And so that stain of shame that adorned the Medici family history now mars his own future: he was always going to be a mistake, and the world will never let him forget it.

He is, by all accounts, a very disenchanted man who works himself through a façade of mustered charm gathered from who-knows-where with his mind an utter repository of Scripture and theological concepts. He can quote from Papal Bulls enacted centuries ago as easily as if they had been dictated to him just that moment; yet he always says it so drily that you’d think he’s mocking the words he’s citing. He’s in the habit of mentioning what kind of sins one is doing but always concludes it with a small note of how God is a forgiving God. He delights in the company of the wicked and the infamous; truly good people disgust him. He thinks God is present more in ugliness than any kind of beauty exemplified in art and song, and that He is dirt-covered, bloody and bruised, made with mulch and rot and diseased flesh. His God is filthy; it is only natural. We all fashion God into the form that would accept us the most.

character sheet.

FULL NAME : giancarlo di gian gastone de’ medici TITLES :

commander of badia fiorentina ( from 1420 - 1428 )

commander and rector of badia fiorentina ( from 1428 onwards )

metropolitan archbishop of florence ( from 1446 onwards )

master of the sacred apostolic palace ( from 1450 onwards )

BIRTHPLACE : florence, italian peninsula

AGE : fifty, b. 10 november 1407

LANGUAGES : fluent — italian ( tuscan ), french, ancient greek, latin, arabic, spanish, german, bavarian ; conversational — english, portuguese ; learning — ottoman turkish, farsi / persian

DYNASTY / HOUSE: house de’ medici

MOTHER & FATHER : unnamed servant girl & gian gastone de’ medici

SPOUSE : none

ISSUE : none

SIBLINGS : giovanni, lucrezia, and girolamo ( half-siblings )

OTHER : lorenzo de’ medici ( tbd )

ZODIAC : scorpio sun / sagittarius moon / scorpio rising

RELIGIOUS AFFILIATION : roman catholicism

ORIENTATION : bisexual biromantic ( with a medium to high preference for his own gender )

PERSONALITY TYPE : estj-a / choleric-sanguine / enneagram tbd / slytherin

VICES : everything

VIRTUES : knowledge can be and is a virtue but not with giancarlo, babyyyyy

FACECLAIM : jude law

HEIGHT : 6′1″ or 1.85m

RECOGNISABLE FEATURES : kindly-seeming blue eyes that speaks to unfathomable depths — look too closely, and you just might find yourself falling in them; an ever-present smile that can turn earnest or mocking depending on the conversation; a smug demeanour that you can’t help but feel that he thinks he knows better than you

REPUTATION IN PORTUGAL : a famed master theologian but also a widely known libertine, giancarlo both attracts and repulses the whole of christendom with his easy smiles, his kindly-looking blue eyes, and the power of the storied lineage that has produced him. for all those who’ve had the chance to coalesce in rome—or perhaps even the italian peninsula—his name will revoke memories of scandalised whispers erupting from people huddled in corners as soon as they see him make entry into a room. portugal as of yet is a new frontier, not for reasons of lack of opportunity but due to lack of interest. after all, why stray from that eternal city whose glory is sung in ancient ballads and whose place in the world is the envy of millions? now that he is here, however, he is more than eager to make his mark.

WANTED CONNECTIONS :

i sought whom my soul loves — were giancarlo any other man, they could have been together, a couple enjoined in the warm embrace of love and unity; yet, alas, the Church has bound giancarlo to herself, and he is a weak and foolish man who cannot find himself able to stand up to anybody. ever since then, their meetings have been few and far between—but no less precious to giancarlo, no less treasured, no less sought for. ::: ( open to anyone, preferably female but any gender can technically work ! )

a young deer on the mountains of Bether — arcadian idyll had been the theme of their shared years, wild and wandering, when responsibility had been a far off concept that seemed as foreign as greying hair and the yoke of adulthood. they frolicked in sun-kissed green-topped hills and ran as carefree as the wind. now they are old, both with their respective offices, and there is nothing else to them save nostalgia over lost innocence—if they had innocence at all. ::: ( open to anyone of the same age range as giancarlo ! )

beautiful as the moon, clear as the sun — a look at them and they’re like fourteen again, dumbstruck and awed, ashamed of his own lowly station and the stain of his origins—yet now they are old, and they have significantly more resources available to them now than they had before. giancarlo has always loved what he has thought is lacking within himself; he has always sought the true, the good, and the beautiful. he deludes himself into thinking he’s found it in god, but he is about to discover he’s wrong. ::: ( open to anyone ! )

with my royal people’s chariots — people have the propensity to think that giancarlo’s last name and relative wealth and status makes him the gatekeeper to the pope’s favour. he does not think himself as holding the keys to anything, but he lets other people do—mainly because it affords him the simulation of power the likes of which he only imagined as a child. of course, there is no real backing to the promises he says he’ll fulfil for them, but it is a merry show nonetheless and a piece of theatre that giancarlo’s keen to continue in lisboa. ::: ( open to anyone who’s looking to curry favour with the pope ! )

you who dwell in the gardens — there are many blooms in the garden of God’s creation and it is not a stretch to say giancarlo is absolutely besotted with the idea of experiencing all of them. this meet in lisbon might prove to be a more fortuitous moot than the one in florence, and he is always keen to start dialogue with any and all those who would like to exchange knowledge for knowledge’s sake, even those that the rest of christendom would not welcome. ::: ( open to non-christian characters ! )

the shadows flee away — giancarlo isn’t known for moderation and temperance; he has always been one driven to excess, and he has never toned down his appetites for the sake of any cause or person. he is a flit of a thing, a butterfly eager to sap the nectar out of any willing flower before moving to the next, willing to spill honey-laced words out of cherubic lips if that is what it took to mark one as his next conquest. in this, he has doubtless transgressed against many, and there are some whose memories run long and whose desire for correction would cover even those who are consecrated to God. ::: ( open to anyone ! )

#crhs.intro #* ( 𝔤𝔦𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔩𝔬 ) ╱ per speculum in ænigmate : info !

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thebibliomancer · 4 years

Text

Essential Avengers: Avengers #207: Beyond a Shadow...

May, 1981

“After countless centuries HE LIVES AGAIN! THE SHADOW LORD COMETH!”

He cometh riding upon a tornado like its a mighty sand worm. What a guy, this Shadow Lord.

Honestly seeing the Avengers tumbling about in a tornado cracks me up every time. Especially Wonder Man who looks nonchalant about it aside from being ass over head.

So I don’t think we’ve really talked about it but this period of Avengers is kind of between main writers.

Since issue 200 and its four writers, we’ve had David Michelinie and Roger Stern on the two-part adaptation of that Ultron novel, David Michelinie for that weird story with the Crawlers in the sewers; Jim Shooter, David Michelinie, and Bob Budiansky for the Yellow Claw two-parter, Bill Mantlo for the everything is on fire story and now Bob Budiansky and Danny Fingeroth for this issue and the next. We start getting a consistent writer again starting in #211.

I wonder what was going on behind the scenes around this time.

Anyway, onward.

So we start the issue with who I assume is the Shadow Lord. But he’s not riding a tornado, like Pecos Bill. He’s standing on an invisible ocean structure of some kind. Apparently a mysterious invisible ocean structure of some kind that hasn’t been seen for almost two millennia.

And yet, someone has kindly painted the title of the issue in English on the mysterious invisible ocean structure of some kind.

Some guy, maybe the Shadow Lord: “The dreaded time has at last arrived, the moment I prayed would never come... the moment I knew would surely come. He is soon to return, and only the power entrusted to me is capable of stopping him. And even that power may not prove sufficient.”

“With every passing second, my city and myself pass ever more fully into the Earth’s plane of existence. Would that the cause of my return here from the barren vastnesses of the Shadow World was as joyous as the glow of this new day’s sun.”

“But the grim responsibility of an entire race is my unwelcome inheritance. It is a duty I cannot shirk. Alas, I must take what comfort I can in knowing that no matter what the result of the coming debacle, I will at least be free to rejoin Ayshera, she whom my heart holds most dear... though whether our reunion will be in celebration of victory -- or in darkest mourning for the ashes of this planet -- none willy truly know until the final battle.”

Some Guy sure is helpfully monologuing his entire life story here. And even so he manages to be vague, inside his own mind, about the nature of the threat he faces. Way to preserve the mystery, Guy.

Also, he’s from the Shadow World so he may be a Yugioh.

Anyway, as one might expect, a city appearing in the middle of the ocean out of nowhere is of alarm so US aircraft carrier Poseidon shows up and starts yelling at Some Guy.

Some Guy decides that they sound mad but he doesn’t have time for lengthy explanations so instead he gestures and the winds and waves start whipping up.

Welp! Seems like the US Poseidon is going on an Adventure!

Meanwhile, Mt. Vesuvius!

Yup. Its that kind of story, the kind partially set at Vesuvius.

Some archeologists are digging in the foothills of the mountain in what has been a fruitless several weeks of archeology but one of the archeologists finds a hand shaped object which may be a hand.

They mistake it for a statue at first but realize its actually a perfectly preserved lava mummified corpse.

And while they’re busy congratulating each other about how wealthy and famous this discovery will make them, they fail to notice the hand moving its finger shaped fingers.

And elsewhere again, the best damn thing.

A cowboy shouts “SLAP LEATHER, YA GALOOT!” and then gets shot by a cannon.

This isn’t the Wild West of the America, this is a spaghetti western film set and the director is very upset at Black Bart’s shitty death acting. How hard is it to get hit by a cannon and then to fall down and pretend to die like you just got hit by a cannon?

You wouldn’t think there’s a wrong way to get shot by a cannon but you’d be wrong.

Simon Williams, Wonder Man: “I’m sorry, Mr. Bertolini. It’s just that, being Wonder Man, it’s hard for me to pretend those cannonballs are hurting me when I can hardly feel them.”

Mr. Bertolini: “True, signore Wonder Man, but I hired you because I thought you could-a act!”

Oh yeah, Mr. Bertolini talks like Mario. So that’s another tally for Marvel’s respect of other countries and cultures.

Aside from this being the seventh take on a ‘guy gets hit by a cannonball, beefs it’ scene, cannonballs are expensive. The cannonball that bounced off Wonder Man’s midsection looks fine but maybe you can’t just reuse them.

The filming breaks for lunch and Wonder Man wanders over to where his moral support is.

His moral support, of course, being Beast.

And he is moral supporting but he’s also multitasking with some women because even in Italy, women are just fascinated by blue fur. Furries are universal.

Wonder Man doesn’t feel supported though and this lousy spaghetti western film is a good opportunity for him.

If you remember, the last project we saw him get was as a cheetah print leotard wearing muscle man on a kids show and he got fired for making the host Uncle Elmer look ridiculous.

(Revealed to Simon’s chagrin in #194, lost to mishap in #201)

Being in an actual movie, even a spaghetti western, is the boost his career needs.

(I think we need to confront the actual possibility that Wonder Man is not a very good actor. But he might be a good stunt man if he can learn to act like things hurt)

Wonder Man’s publicist Rachel Palmer shows up as well and wow. Rachel has never appeared before and given the fillery nature of these chaotic no consistent writer times may not appear beyond this story. But you instantly get the sense of their working relationship.

And they have good banter too.

Wonder Man: “Wait. There she is -- Rachel Palmer -- the apple of my eye, the light of my life, the bane of my existence!”

Rachel: “If you delivered your lines that well in front of the cameras, Simon, you might actually keep this job -- which’ll make it just a little easier to hype you as a star back in the States.”

Wonder Man: “Your encouraging words are a constant source of inspiration, Rachel. But I’d appreciate it if you’d confine them to your press releases.”

Rachel: “You’ve got me all wrong, Simon. I hope this whole thing turns out well for you. Really.”

Wonder Man: “And for yourself. After all, if you make me a big name, you can ride along on my coat-tails and become a media hotshot -- instead of being stuck as a flak for Grade D Westerns.”

Rachel: “No, Simon. I--”

Wonder Man: “Forget it, lady. I’m a big boy. I know that all’s fair in love -- and show biz.”

And then he walks off towards his trailer, satisfied at getting the last word with someone whose job it is to make him look good. Beast says that he thinks Wonder Man was too hard on her and that Rachel probably digs Wonder Man.

Wonder Man: “Maybe you’re right. But I still can’t get over feeling that Rachel’s motivated by sheer self-interest and everything else places a distant second.”

(I’m pretty sure she does dig Wonder Man because unbeknowst to Wonder Man and Beast, she follows them to the trailer, wanting to convince Wonder Man that she’s not as self-serving as he thinks and also to invite him to a romantic dinner)

Anyway, Wonder Man’s social life isn’t important. At all. And not right now. Because when he and Beast go into Wonder Man’s trailer and discover the Avengers’ emergency signal briefcase is BEEP BEEPing.

It’s Cap and there’s an emergency situation that demands immediate investigation.

A brand new island city has just popped up in the middle of the Mediterranean slash off the coast of Majorca from out of nowhere and the government wants the Avengers to investigate.

Presumably the US government.

Because if I know anything about mysterious island cities appearing from nowhere - and I know exactly one thing - by jingo, they start wars!

Beast is enjoying his vacation so asks why the US Sixth Fleet doesn’t handle it instead. They’re actually paid to do things while on an ocean. But Iron Man just says that the fleet has had problems.

And with a little reading comprehension we can guess what problems. Because we’ve seen it. Its not a mystery.

Iron Man has a Stark plane sent to pick Beast and Wonder Man up and fly them to Majorca. Or somewhere thereabouts. I don’t know if Majorca has or had an airport.

Wonder Man bemoans that he’ll never be a movie star if he keeps leaving the set to go have exciting comic book superhero adventures.

Which is a little like complaining about being too handsome. Ya jerk.

And remember how Rachel Palmer was peeping on them? No? Scroll up a little and look at the above panels again. Back? And remember how Rachel Palmer was peeping on them?

Her media senses are tingling and telling her that she should definitely go check out the city that appeared in the middle of the ocean. She’s much intrepid for not a reporter.

Meanwhile, some slice of life filler fluff that doesn’t matter but that I find delightful.

And if this liveblog isn’t about sharing things that I find delightful then what is it about? Exhaustively recounting plots to comic books from decades ago? That’s just a side benefit!

The call to action back at Avengers Mansion comes right when Wanda is having Vision move a couch.

Vision: “Wanda, while it may be true that I am capable of moving this couch about all day, it seems a gross misuse of my android abilities to do so.”

Wanda: “Maybe if we just move those shelves then you just put it down there. We’re Avengers, not interior decorators.

This is the content I eagerly crave.

So back in not America, Beast and Wonder Man complain about the plane ride but passing over the ocean they see what trouble the Sixth Fleet was having.

Some Guy, Possibly Shadow Lord managed to strand the Poseidon aircraft carrier fully on a deserted island.

And I was wrong about the plane taking them to Majorca. Its apparently taking them to Poseidon because it lands on the ship’s airstrip so the two Avengers can consult the stranded sailors about what the heck is going on.

Captain Paul Garrison tells them that they were investigating the mysterious new island/city (not mentioning that they were also yelling at it) when a tidal wave suddenly swelled up and carried the Poseidon several miles and left it on this island.

And apparently the same thing happened to any other plane and ship that attempted to approach the island. Thwarted by winds and waves.

Damn you, nature!

Anyway, its all rather mysterious but Wonder Man figures

“Well, we were sent here to investigate. So... let’s investigate.”

And Wonder Man rockets off to investigate the city. While giving Beast a piggyback ride.

Which. Amazing image. Bless this issue for its bounty of amazing images.

Bear in mind that the captain said that the aircraft carrier was carried several miles. Wonder Man’s belt rockets have impressive duration considering he can’t be carrying much fuel on his person.

When they reach the city, they find a localized hurricane hovering right above it. But Wonder Man just flies down through the eye of the storm to get to the city.

Some Guy Shadow Lord is surprised because he had been expecting big boats and planes. Not a guy with rocket pants and a blue gorilla riding on his back.

But he’s able to shoo them away just as easily as any big thing, with a wave of his hand summoning a wind that carries Wonder Man and passenger Beast away from the city.

Meanwhile, Rachel Palmer is also here. She spent all her money renting a plane and then a boat but she’s going to get to that mysterious city and get an exclusive inside story!

So is she a journalist? Or what? She’s Lois Laneing but as far as we’ve heard her job is to convince people they want to see Wonder Man do stuff in movies.

Wonder Man spots her and tries to fly to her rescue but two water spouts spurt up to ruin this rescue plan.

The first one launches Rachel’s boat into the air and smashes it to pieces. The second blasts Wonder Man out of the sky preventing him from saving Rachel from falling to her death.

But unseen by either of the Avengers, a strong breeze safely lowers Rachel to the ground of the city.

Because what is an Avengers comic without men developing weird and intense feelings for a nearby woman.

Some Guy: “How beautiful she is, how like my own Ayshera. And, also like Ayshera, she is courageous... and more than a little headstrong.”

Cool. I hope this doesn’t get weird. Or that we’re not asked to sympathize with a guy whose only ‘sympathetic’ trait is a possessive attraction to a woman. Looking at you, Living Laser. And, I guess, Graviton.

Anyway, Wonder Man doesn’t see Rachel getting rescued by an airbender so he works himself into a lather.

Wonder Man: “That sinks it! It’s one thing to attack naval ships and planes... one thing to attack Avengers... But when he kills an innocent woman who could do him no harm -- that guy’s gonna answer to WONDER MAN!”

Honestly, I think you’re selling Rachel short. I’m sure she could do harm if she put her mind to it. Like, what if she covered him in bees. That would suck.

Anyway, Wonder Man rages through the city’s protective winds and then gets SAFUUSH!’d between two walls of solid water.

He’s left sputtering and disoriented in the ocean. At least until some hooks hook down from the Quinjet, hook Wonder Man, and then hook him up into the ship.

I didn’t know that the Quinjet had hooks for grabbing people out of the ocean but I am thrilled.

Ideally, the Avengers would use their newfound ability to vaudeville hook people into orbit more often. I can think of so many instances where it would be useful, or at least hilarious.

Anyway, Wonder Man apprises the other Avengers into the situation.

Meanwhile, not dead Rachel Palmer wakes up and finds the Shadow Lord brood slouching in a chair and watching her while she was unconscious.

She is alarmed that he’s just sitting there staring but he basically goes ‘DON’T WORRY I READ YOUR MIND TO LEARN YOUR NAME AND LANGUAGE’ and then decides to explain his entire backstory.

Shadow Lord: “The city in which we stand is the Shadow Realm and I... I am called the Shadow Lord!”

DAMMIT I KNEW HE WAS A YUGIOH!

Anyway.

THOUSANDS OF YEARS AGO! Give or take! An ancient tribe decided to move to an island to isolate themselves from “primitive, superstitious neighbors who feared [their] more advanced society.”

Off to a good start with this guy.

Free of the mundane concerns of living in a world that hated and feared them, they were able to peacefully ALL BECOME WIZARDS WHO COULD CONTROL THE FORCES OF NATURE.

Maybe the X-Men are onto something.

So the Shadow Lord’s people learned to control, winds, waves, earth, and maybe fire so what I’m saying is that it was an entire island of Avatars.

Boom, sequel idea. Give me millions of dollars, Nickelodeon.

“Though veiled in mystery, rumors of our existence spread throughout the world. We were feared and shunned by the other peoples of the Earth -- which allowed us to continue our studies undisturbed.”

“Those who mistrusted anything they could not comprehend... they called us witches and sorcerers. Those who knew and understood us called us... the Earth Lords!”

“For centuries our sole purposes were to augment our knowledge of the Earth’s forces and to maintain the natural balance between these forces. Otherwise, we had no interest in the day-to-day affairs of the outside world.”

Maybe I was wrong about them being Yugioh. Maybe they’re the Time Lords from the Doctor Who.

Anyway, the Earth Lords were happy sitting on their island being Avatars but over the eons they sensed a disturbance in the Force, for I must reference all the things.

"Over the eons, we became aware of a seemingly immortal, human force of awesome destruction, one who could potentially plunge mankind into an irreversible slide to its doom.”

“Singlehandedly he could destroy towns. With an army beside him -- countries. Time and again, he did. It was when he finally joined the legions of Rome at the peak of the Empire’s power... that we first feared the balance of nature was in danger of being destroyed. Rome could forever take over the world.”

The Earth Lords tried on several occasions to destroy this menace. We don’t get to know what constituted these efforts and that’s disappointing because of what the final successful attempt was.

By 79 AD, they knew he was on the slopes of Mt. Vesuvius so they caused it to erupt, just to bury this one guy under hundreds of tons of rock and ash and lava.

Mission accomplished.

Except for the little thing where the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius also wiped out Pompeii and Herculaneum and other cities people know significantly less about, killing over 20,000 people.

As things go, that’s pretty dire amount of incidental deaths to kill one person. And the Earth Lords realize that this was a pretty major fuck up.

So they decided that they couldn’t be trusted with their powers and that they would disperse into the outside world to live and die as people do and have their powers dissipate over the years.

But before they did that, they discovered that the seemingly immortal guy they hit in the face with a volcano was somehow still alive somehow. Just trapped. Under hundreds of tons of rock and ash and lava that cooled into rock.

They killed thousands and didn’t even permanently kill the dude they were trying to kill? That’s pretty incompetent. They really can’t be trusted with their power.

Since he eventually might get out and resume being a dick, the Earth Lords drew lots and chose one of their number, the Some Guy later known as the Shadow Lord from the Shadow Realm, to forever watch over the city alone and await the day that the immortal guy would again walk the land.

And to help him solo the dude that took an entire city of people and a volcano to deal with, the Earth Lords concentrated all of their powers into this one Shadow Lord guy and taught him how to send himself and the city into a twilight plane of nothingness which is back to being called the Shadow World.

So this might also be Twilight Princess.

For two thousand years the Shadow Lord in the Shadow Realm in the Shadow World observed Earth and waited. And now, it seems that the seemingly immortal dude is back.

Rachel: “But I don’t understand. How can one man threaten a whole world -- and live for thousands of years in solid rock?”

Shadow Lord: “This is no mere man, my dear... this is the Berserker!”

And speak of the devil and we scene transition to him because we scene transition to Pompeii.

The lava mummified human figure that seemed to move before has stopped beating about with finger twitches and has gotten up to rampage around and backhand archeologists.

Don’t feel bad though. They were in it for the money and fame, those fiends.

Back at the city of Shadow Realm, the Avengers suddenly show up as a full team and basically enter swinging. Iron Man even blasts a wall for no reason.

Rachel tries to tell the Avengers that Shadow Lord means no harm but the Avengers can’t hear her over the sounds of Wonder Man loudly reassuring Rachel that they’re here to rescue her.

Iron Man exploding a wall for no reason probably also didn’t help.

So Rachel instead tries to tell Shadow Lord that the Avengers are a force for good. While he can hear her, he chooses to ignore her.

Using his powers of being the Avatar, he tries to pull a rocks fall but nobody dies. Rocks falling is something the Avengers deal with panache and also lasers and punches.

Some panache. Beast’s skycycle gets hit by a rock and he ends up leaping onto one of the spires of the city to avoid crash. And then, like a cat who climbs a tree except its a building in this context, Beast has a hard time figuring out how to get down from there.

While the larger Avengers punch and laser boulders and jump onto spires, Wasp just flies right in and shoots Shadow Lord in the eyebrow.

Amazing. Another good use of Wasp powers, being able to get in close while the opponent thinks the team is distracted at a distance.

Shadow Lord is none too pleased to be shot in the eyebrow by a tiny insect-sized flying woman and decides that a particularly karmic punishment is required.

Shadow Lord: “An insect-sized flyling woman! What sorcery is this? But if an insect you be, then it is only fitting I ensnare you in a cocoon of living wind... a cocoon which will grow and envelop your so-called fellow Avengers!”

And as Rachel still pleads with Shadow Lord to knock it off, he summons a giant tornado that suck in all of the Avengers (save Beast stuck up on his spire).

Shadow Lord even has the tornado carry him along, the better to continue mocking the Avengers as he carries them to their doom.

Shadow Lord: “You hopeless children! Did you actually think to defeat me, to deter me from my purpose? I who who command the earth and wind themselves to do my bidding?”

Yeah, dude. Definitely not sounding like a supervillain now. Cannot fathom why the Avengers are assuming you are one.

Iron Man manages to escape the tornado by firing his boot-jets at maximum, sending him flying free with a SHA-BOOSH! but also carrying him far away because momentum.

Shadow Lord then creates a whirlpool in the ocean and has his tornado carry the Avengers towards it. The whirlpool goes to the bottom of the ocean. Which then cracks open to reveal bubbling magma.

That’s right. The Shadow Lord is going to shoot them out of a tornado, into a whirlpool and into magma beneath the ocean floor.

Its. At least more precise than hitting them with a volcano, I’ll give him that. Definitely feels like overkill to go from rocks to tornado-whirlpool-magma execution but its definitely more precise.

Somewhat more precise.

Because when Iron Man manages to slow himself down to turn back he notices that a yacht is being swamped by the waves Shadow Lord is churning up.

And because of heroism, he takes the time to scoop the yacht out of the ocean and rest it safely on an island.

Geez. There’s a lot of boats being beached in this story.

Shadow Lord actually sees this. And a thought starts penetrating his thick skull that maybe he should have listened to Rachel.

Shadow Lord: “The armored one paused in his attack on me to save those people -- innocent people... which is more than we were able to do 2,000 years ago. Perhaps, as Rachel says, they are not agents of evil...”

He decides that he’ll stop throwing them out of a tornado into a whirlpool into magma but he doesn’t get the chance to put that train of thought on the tracks.

Beast waves Iron Man over. From his perch on the spire he’s noticed that the building he’s on is cracking from the strain of all the power Shadow Lord is throwing around even though he’s not been throwing it at that building.

So Beast deduces that the city is key to Shadow Lord’s power in some way and should have the shit beaten out of it.

And as Iron Man starts punching some wall, Shadow Lord doubles over in pain and the tornado he was about to dissipate dissipates.

The other Avengers get free and decide hey, follow the leader.

Jocasta: “The battle has truly just begun. Malevolent power such as this must not be allowed to exist. We must follow Iron Man’s lead and destroy the city -- totally!”

So unnoticed by the Avengers as they level the city into a pile of rubble, Shadow Lord staggers and swoons at Rachel’s feet.

But even dying, he still has some exposition bottled up.

To be fair, he’s been isolated for 2,000 years with no one to talk to.

He explains that the powers of an entire population of Avatars was way too great to be contained in one squishy mortal body so the powers were instead imbued in the city itself.

And with the city destroyed, it can no longer serve as a source of power and also can’t keep him alive anymore.

He’s honestly not too broken up over it. Since the Avengers are valiant and worthy, they can pick up his unfinished business while he goes and dies and gets to reunite with his girlfriend who died sometime during those 2,000 years.

Shadow Lord: “But please understand... I am as much to blame for today’s events as anyone... I bear you no malice... we misjudged each other. I have done my best... no more can be expected of a man... perhaps you will succeed... where I have failed. So do not mourn my passing... for me, death is but the long-awaited door that opens to my beloved... Ayshera.”

And the Avengers realize belatedly ‘we done goofed.’

“A sad -- and confused -- group of heroes grimly watches the passing of the Shadow Lord... and only then does the cruel truth reveal itself to them: what they had thought to be one of their greatest triumphs is instead... one of their most bitter defeats.”

Oh, and as I expect they’ll soon find out, the Berserker has been kicking the Italian army’s ass near Pompeii so that’s probably escalating into a bit of a situation and they just accidentally killed the guy who could have helped with that. Although in fairness, he deliberately ignored Rachel when she told him that the Avengers were heroes.

Like he said, he fucked up too.

Still, while its a bit of a Marvel tradition to have mighty misunderstanding fights, I don’t think they tend to result in people dying. One for the history books.

Next time: the Berserker.

Follow @essential-avengers. Also like and reblog. And send me Avengers triumphs that are way more impressive than beating up a city.

#Avengers #Essential Avengers #Wonder Man #Beast #SHADOW LORD #essential marvel liveblogging #Iron Man #Wasp #Captain America #Jocasta #Vision #Scarlet Witch #huh its been a while since they've gotten to do much #from the volcano thing and the tornado whirlpool depths of the earth thing #i think that the Earth Lords just had no grasp on subtlety at all #go big or go big

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