#“She had stopped attempting to purposefully harm her opponent.”

[azoosepted]

i must draw bl don x kurokumo ishmael yuri i must draw bl don x kurokumo ishmael yuri i must draw bl don x kurokumo ishmael yuri i must [dies]

[dragongirl642]

Dreadwing x shy human reader x Skyquake (TFP)

Author note:

Requested on Wattpad.

Keeping fairly canon so expect some angst and hurt/comfort. Only change is Skyquake survived long enough to have a room and possessions aboard the Nemesis, (about a three weeks), and meet reader…before engaging the Autobots in battle and dying.

(y/n) = your name (first name)

(l/n) = last name

(h/c) = hair colour

(e/c) = eye colour

(m/f) = male/female (pick your presenting pronoun based on how your feeling right now)

(she/he/they) or (her/his/their) = pick your descriptor.

Breem = 8.3 minutes

---------------------------Start---------------------------------

 Heavy thumps echo through the Nemesis’ corridors as its leader returns to the bridge. Drones hurriedly stumble out of his way or risk accidentally angering an already volatile Cybertronian.

As the green glow of a portal closes in the wake of the warlord’s departure. Three Cybertronian mechs linger in the bay. The Nemesis’ Second-in-command Starscream, Third-in-command Soundwave, and newcomer, Dreadwing.

Following his master’s pedesteps, Soundwave, silent as always, drifts away from the other two towards the bridge. The remaining two mechs stare at each-other, one with disdain, and the other with blank uninterest.

Starscream eyes Dreadwing and sighs, “follow me. Your quarters are this way”, he waves (fabulously) for Dreadwing to follow him and begins to walk down the corridor.

A few corridors later, accompanied by the echoing click of pedes, the jetformer struts to a stop and sneers. He gestures to the nearest door. “You should be grateful Lord Megatron saw fit to bequeath you Skyquake’s possessions, Dreadwing.”

The mech in question merely hums and proceeds to enter. Starscream doesn’t appear impressed with this reaction, or lack thereof, and sniffs haughtily before continuing down the corridor.

Inside is a set of officer’s quarters. It is clear the previous owner did not have much time to get settled in. It’s sparse, no personal possessions in sight bar the one abandoned datapad lying on the shelf to the side.

Another door on the other side of the room opens when Dreadwing approaches. He peers inside to see a fitted washer and waste-disposal facility.

The second door in the other corner of the room, also opens when approached. Dreadwing steps into a blank berthroom. This room reveals more signs of life than the others. A few scratches on the surface of the berth suggest someone had recently recharged there.

“Skyquake?”

Dreadwing turns at the small voice. Eyes narrowing as he spots the small fleshy peering around one of the legs of the berth. Upon meeting his gaze, their eyes widen, and they duck behind it.

Swiftly, Dreadwing crosses the berth room and reaches down to grab the human before they can escape. Squirming in his grip they whimper and claw at his digits in vain.

“What are you doing in my brother’s room?”

The human stops their attempted escape at his rumbling statement. Sudden understanding dawning on their face as they take in his similar frame. “Brother?”

Dreadwing lifts them higher as he studies their form. Optics rove over the (h/c) strands covering the human’s head. He noted their oddly coloured plating that seemed to offer no protection bar hiding their fragile protoform from sight.

(She/he/They) wiggle in his grasp, craning (her/his/their) neck as if striving to see over his shoulder. “Where is he?”

 {Flashback:

 Upon being awoken, the spiked Cybertronian showed disdain at following the orders of the Decepticon Leader (former Second-in-Command) Starscream. He didn’t have long to voice his displeasure before the Autobots arrived. A fight ensued.

In the wake of the departure of the Autobots and their human ally, the spiked Cybertronian looks around his surroundings with a curious awe. The clack of dislodged rock catches his attention. A scan of the surroundings reveals a lifeform crouched in a nook.

Skyquake crouches and attempts to grab the being. Digits scrape against the cliff-face as the lifeform crawls further into the crevice. Unable to reach his quarry, the mech opts to crouch before the crevice and peer inside. “What are you?”

The smaller being presses back into the rock, trying to will themselves to phase through the cliff and out of sight. “I’m a human.”

Skyquake blinks, mild shock evident on his faceplate upon discovering the smaller being can talk. “A human? Do you have a name?”

“Um…I’m (y/n)…(l/n).”

“Will you be a worthy battle opponent (Y/n).” It’s more of a statement than a question, prompting the human to shake their head vigorously.

“No…I won’t…”, they look around in panic, “I don’t know how to fight!”

Skyquake hums in contemplation. He analyses their form and moves back to stand. “You may come out I will not harm you. It would not be honourable.”

He retreats two steps and waits. Optics supposedly lazily surveying the surroundings. His patience is rewarded when (Y/n) crawls out from the crevice, clambering to stand on unsteady legs. Heart beating a mile-a-minute, they regard the giant in-front of them. They drag a bag behind them, and hastily shove the rectangular object cradled in their arms into its confines. “Um, I’d like to go home,” they glance at the sky where the others had left, “I’ll just leave, I won’t tell anyone I saw you.”

The mech feels a surge of unfamiliar protectiveness rising in his spark, the smaller being reminding him of a sparkling, unsteady as they find their pedes in their protoform. This is quickly stamped down by his limited knowledge of the Decepticon’s position on this planet.

Skyquake hums in contemplation, “I…I do not believe I can allow that.”

(Y/n) gasps and immediately turns to crawl back into the crevice, but Skyquake scoops them up in a servo before they can. They wriggle in his grasp and blink back tears, “Please, you said…”

He gently squeezes, the threatening pressure causing them to squeak and fall into silence; turning his servo to examine them, they watch him wide-eyed. “You are no warrior,” he transforms, a cacophony of whirring gears surrounds the human being tossed into his jet-form’s cockpit, “…but you may be one day.”

Skyquake ignores the human’s protests as he soars upwards, heading for the Nemesis.

 *                   *                      *

 Over two days, the human’s appeals for release had turned to sullen silence, had turned to tears, had turned to barely whispered pleas. The only interaction they had been brave enough to initiate with Skyquake, was to ask to be taken to the toilet, after an awkward explanation, the mech had set up a mini-facility in the washer-room.

Now soft gasping breaths flutter from the chest of the human lying prone on the berth-side table. Skyquake looks up from his spot on the end of the berth.

“Human?” No answer. He moves forward and gently prods them with a digit. “Human!”

They groan and grasp their head, pushing themselves up to their knees. A pallid sheen coats (her/his/their) skin, despite the blush inflaming their cheeks. (Y/n) blinks drearily and gulps, the air searing their sandpaper throat. They wince, the sudden motion upsetting their stomach, which they promptly empty onto the table.  (Y/n) crawls away from the puddle of bile before promptly collapsing again.  

The mech leaps back, a look of disgust flashing across his faceplate. This slowly switches to concern when (Y/n) collapses and stops moving. “Human!”

They weakly blink but otherwise don’t answer.

“(Y/n)!”

The room seems to grow cold, a chill creeping down Skyquake’s spinal struts. He turns and leaves the room.

 *                   *                   *

 Pede-steps echoing through the corridor of the Nemesis as Skyquake purposefully strides to the communications centre. The domain of Soundwave.

Monitor stations line the walls, the only source of illumination, throwing strange shadows across the floor. The personal drone assistants of the communications officer check the screens and input or highlight important information for Soundwave’s perusal. In the centre of the room, within a raised station of glimmering desks and hovering screens, stands the mech himself; tentacles latched on to the console in-front of him.

All information that passes through the Nemesis, passes before the optics of Soundwave.

The ever silent mech doesn’t turn when Skyquake storms into the room. Nor when he growls at a nearby drone who approaches to ask if he can help him. He only inclines his helm slightly to the side when Skyquake stomps to his side and leans into his peripheral vision.

“I require your help.”

A further imperceptible shift of Soundwave’s frame lets the mech know he has his attention.

“I have a…pet. I do not know how to care for it, and it seems to be…”

“Dying.”

Skyquake’s optics widen at the recorded reply coming from Soundwave.

“The…human…is dying.” Soundwave turns to face Skyquake, disconnecting one of his tentacles from the console as he does; he raises it and the end sparks menacingly. “What is the…human’s…purpose?”

If he were human, Skyquake would be sweating. The TIC is immobile, stance calm and open, or at least it seems to be.

Skyquake cools his face into a blank expression. “I was holding it for study, of the planet’s indigenous species.”

Soundwave tilts his helm and one of the monitors suddenly changes, human security camera feeds and literature flash across the screen.

Skyquake eyes it warily. “I was told the Autobots have human allies. I wanted to…to study a live one for weaknesses,” he tries a ruthful smile, “I’ve found one so far. I just need to keep it alive to find more.”

Soundwave doesn’t move. But the screen suddenly switches, files in Cybertronian and English flash side-by-side. A datapad pops out of a slot in the side of the console. The raised tentacle stops sparking and swiftly snakes down to extract the datapad. Soundwave slowly waves it in-front of Skyquake, who hesitantly takes it.

“Your report will be…expected.”

Skyquake nods and takes a step back out of Soundwave’s zone. He nods and turns to leave. He fights down the urge to run and forces his pede-steps to remain even as he walks out.

In the communications centre, a drone brings a blank datapad to Soundwave and inserts it in the empty slot. They silently return to their station and Soundwave returns to his work, pulling up two small windows in the corner of the screen, a near-unconscious human front-and-centre in one, and a quick-marching mech in the other.

.

.

.

Skyquake thunders into the Nemesis supply warehouse. Optics scanning the datapads screen intently. The two drones on door duty scampering out the way. “Water…fuel…heat…”

Another drone squares his shoulder-plates and cautiously approaches. “Can I help you Sir.”

Skyquake takes one look at the towering shelves and the dark shadows hiding probably labyrinthine series of storage units, decides it isn’t worth searching himself, and begins to scrutinise the drone.  They shift uncomfortable under his gaze.

“I require what this planet calls dihydrogen monoxide, sodium chloride, sheets, and…fuel! No! Food…human food.”

The drone jolts in shock. “Um…sir, that’s…we don’t…”

“It’s for a report,” Skyquake growls, “…for Soundwave.”

The TICs name is all it takes for the drones to snap into action. “We have some ice stored you can take. Uh…uh we can see about acquiring the human fuel…I mean food, for you.”

One of the other drones’ sprints into the storage units, emerging a breem later with two storage cubes in hand. Mist rising from the cold unit in their servos. Another follows, digits full of a variety of folded sheets and canvas covers.

Skyquake accepts both with a slow tilt of his helm. “I will return tomorrow.” There’s promise in his tone and violence in his optics. The drones shakily nod and snap to salute, a motion which is lost on the mech who is already striding out.

.

.

.

The berth-room door can’t slide open fast enough for Skyquake, his shoulder-plates catching on the metal. He thunders in, dumping his collection on the berth. He glances at (Y/n), they haven’t moved, they don’t even acknowledge his entry.

Skyquake quickly fetches a blade and bowl from the main room in his quarters. He opens the storage cube and shaves a chunk of ice into the bowl. The click of gears accompanies one of his servos switching to cannon form. It hums as it powers up, the air beginning to waver hypnotically above it.

He holds the bowl above his cannon, optics zeroing in on the mist rising from the frozen liquid. The bowl begins to heat up in his servos, a red glow starts to eliminate from the metal. Optics hardening against the pain, Skyquake doesn’t lower it, he just watches the droplets begin to form from the icy surface. The ice slowly sinks into the bowl as it melts.

Once it’s gone, he swirls the bowl and transforms his cannon back. Digits streaked with energon burn marks. He places the bowl near the human and scuffs his servos together to remove some of the blackened dust. Once his digits have cooled, he nudges the human, they groan and weakly fight against him.

Skyquake carefully props (Y/n) up and brings the bowl close to their face. “Human! Wake up! You need to drink.” The water sloshes over the lip of the bowl, some gets in their mouth, most soaks their clothes. They gargle and fight, but drink all the same, greedily, water dripping down their chin. Primal survival instinct kicking into high gear. Skyquake pulls the bowl away too quickly for (Y/n), they grab for it, but he moves it back to the berth.

Opening the second cube, he pinches some of the salt and places it in (Y/n)’s lap. “Eat this. Not too much, just a…” he trails of when (Y/n) licks the chunk of salt and promptly spits it out. He sighs and kneels, resting his servos on the table either side of the human. “Please (Y/n), if you don’t replace your frame’s salt levels, it will reject the water.”

Bleary eyes blink up at him. “Why?” (Y/n)’s voice croaks softly, mouth dry as they force themselves to chew a small bit of salt. “Why keep me alive?”

His spark heavy in his chest, Skyquake grabs the water bowl again. “When I told you, I would not hurt you and that you may one day be a warrior.” He slowly raises the bowl for (Y/n) to drink again. “I truly intended for you to see that day.”

 *                      *                      *

 “Tell me about human culture.”

(Y/n) sits up, sheet falling from around their shoulders. The berth-room is dark, but they can see the glow of Skyquake’s optics hovering over the berth.

“Now? There’s a…there’s a lot of cultures.”

A low hum emanates from the mech’s frame. “Then tell me what you would need in your daily life.”

“Well,” the human snuggles back into their pile of blankets, “Food and water. Toilet access. All things I have here.”

The mech ex-vents heavily, baring his denta in exasperation. “That’s not…what I meant.”

“Well, I liked to read. Mostly fiction, like the fairy tales in my bag. I also liked…” they sigh, “…singing. My mum knew the best lullabies.”

“Show me?”

“Um…show you?”

Skyquake’s optics flicker in the dark. “The lullabies.”

“They’re not really something I can show, I’d have to…have to sing.”

“Why don’t you…sing?”

(Y/n) shakes their head, aware Skyquake can sense the motion in the dark, even if he can’t see them. “Um…how about I tell you about fairy tales instead?”

“Very well.”

 For the next few hours, (Y/n) talks until the words run out. It’s uncertain whether it’s from fear of the Cybertronian, or nostalgia at the memories, that keeps their voice going. Tales weave through the air. Their voice slowly lowers, until it’s a whisper, until it stops. Light snores begin to fill the berth-room.

“Rest well little one.”

 *                       *                      *

 “Human!”

A startled “eep” follows the human-in-question’s ducking out of sight.

Skyquake growls as he enters the berthroom, and the human jumps back into sight, recognising the warning.

“Why did I encounter Starscream panicking over small monsters attacking his pedes and infesting the vents.”

(Y/n) immediately hides their face in their hands, fighting to stifle the grin that breaks out on their face as they remember Starscream’s startled face and feminine shrieking.  

A warning growl emanates from Skyquake towering overhead.

Tremors wracking their body, the human (m/f) gulps for air. “I…I…” they breath and count to ten. Finally calming enough to speak they flap the blanket around their shoulders. “Another one of you came in here, so I ran into the vents. I was looking for you…”

“What happened?”

“I had my blanket over my head, and when I tried to cross the corridor Starscream was there and…and I just climbed over his pedes to get to the other side. He started shrieking and…I may have hit him…with this.” They hold up a twisted but sturdy piece of discarded plating.

Silence meets this confession. Tension claws its way down (Y/n)’s spine, and twists in the air.

A startlingly loud grumble cracks the silence. The human jolting in shock as Skyquake begins to shake. Deep chuckles, like the growl of an engine, steadily surging from beneath his chestplate. Skyquake, still chuckling, brings all his focus down to bare on the human; the first smile they had seen him give, blooming brilliantly on his faceplate.

“You may make a mighty warrior yet (Y/n).”

*                   *                    *

 The swish of the door sliding open accompanies Skyquake’s entrance. It only just manages to cover the startled gasp from the human sat among the two cubes under the table. His derma twitches as he notices their eyes following the cubes in his servos.

He places his load on the floor and lowers himself to kneel. He opens the tops and places them on their side, nodding to (Y/n) to come forward. The (m/f) does so, crawling out from their pile of blankets to look inside the new cubes.

The shadowy depths of the first, gives way to boxes of groceries, barrels of water, and cans of food, most likely taken from a delivery truck ambushed on the road.

The second, reveals piles and piles of clothing, acquired in much the same way as the food. Sealed bags of mass-produced t-shirts, jeans, skirts, dresses, and lingerie.

The mech watches as his human pulls a bag out, splits it, and reaches into the pile of fabric and pulls out a pair of jeans. It is a luxury item compared to the ripped, fading, mud-stained pair they wore.

“I thought you would appreciate more human necessities.” As he says this, Skyquake draws a small bundle from within his chassis, barely the size of one of his digits, placing it beside (Y/n). The (m/f) leans back and looks at the bundle in confusion. Reaching over, they flip the corner of the sheet away. A small datapad, the size of an average pc monitor, sits nestled among the rags. Its screen flares to life, the home screen containing icons that wouldn’t look strange on a human computer: a book, a globe, a CD, and a phone symbol.

Upon tapping one the CD icon, a music player appears on the screen. Tapping back out and on the book, reveals a library of human, and some translated Cybertronian, literature. “This is��” (Y/n) gazes up at Skyquake in thankful confusion, “…is this a datapad? For me?”

Skyquake stands. “The human communication device symbol will allow you to contact me.”

The doors swish as the mech exits, and softly thump as they close.

 *                   *                     *

 “Little one?”

(Y/n) looks up from their spot near the head of the berth. Bookmarking their spot and placing the book of fairy tales to their side.  Skyquake steps closer and kneels, making sure to push (Y/n)’s supplies under the table so he doesn’t crush them, laying a fist on the surface beside them. Opening his digits reveals a small tablet with a handle.

“For you.”

(Y/n) slowly takes the gift and feels its surface.

“Careful!”

They quickly drop the object at their feet when Skyquake suddenly stops them. Scooting away from the object on all fours. “What is it?”

A low rumble sounds from beneath Skyquake’s chest-plate. (Y/n)’s look of surprise slowly morphing to annoyance. Placing a digit on the berth, he swivels the gift around. “Hold the handle and point away from your face.”

(Y/n) returns to their previous position and cautiously grasps the handle, lifting the (surprisingly heavy) object and pointing it forward. Thumb finds catch and presses, causing the tablet part to split and leap forward into the shape of a blade. Glowing plasma racing along the edges. The gift now resembled a mythical sword from one of (Y/n)’s fairy tales.

(E/c) eyes trace the edges and their fatal glow, while hands shift to a more comfortable grip on the moulded handle. “It’s…comfortable.”

“I had it shaped to fit you.”

(Y/n)’s eyes widen as they snap the catch to retract the blade. “Is this for…” they slowly lower the sword and sighs, “is this for me to…to fight you.”

The mech’s optics widen surprise, a strange feeling of guilt welling in his spark. “No, this is…for you to defend yourself. From the others if they try to stop us.”

Confusion fills (Y/n)’s eyes and wells up, spilling forth. “What do…”

“I am being sent to slay the Autobots as a test of my skill and loyalty. I must leave now but when I return, I will return you to your people.”

A watery smile blooms on (Y/n)’s face and (he/she/they) pull(s) the datapad into their lap. “Thank you Skyquake.”

The mech hums, keeping his voice calm despite the sudden skip of his spark. His servo twitches with the urge to hold a digit to (Y/n)’s cheek, to feel (his/her/their) warmth and know they are alive.

“It is the honourable thing to do.”

 End flashback}

 “You knew Skyquake?”

(Y/n) looks back at Dreadwing, “Um…yes.”

The mech scans the rest of the berthroom. Optics alighting on the open storage cubes turned on their side under the table. Sheets and human supplies spilling from the recesses. Dreadwing vents, the human’s scent drifts around the room, testament to how long they’d been staying there. “How long have you been living here?”

“After Skyquake didn’t come back, I started rationing. It’s been about a month…. I think.”

Dreadwing narrows his optics and places them on the floor. Kneeling to look under the table, his optics trace the ladder of twisted cables hanging down the back of the table and the open vent leading in the direction of the washer facility. A low hum flows from his chassis as he stands. “Skyquake was caring for you…why?”

“Well he was, until…” (Y/n) chokes, tears beginning to well up and spill from their eyes. They sit among the blankets and wrap their arms around their knees. “He was supposed to come back…he promised.” The (m/f) breaks down in tears, not-caring anymore for the hulking Cybertronian above them.

He watches as they release their grief, mourning the loss of their only friend aboard the Nemesis, mourning the other half of his spark. The shadow of his own grief rises above him, threatening to spill. Dreadwing was a mech who preferred to release his own emotions in private. But watching their tears, he feels heat rise to his faceplate and his optics burn with pressure. For a moment there is anger, that something so fragile could outlive someone as strong as Skyquake. But a wave of understanding follows because it was Skyquake’s care that ensured their survival.

His sense of loyalty to the Decepticons wars with the sounds clawing their way out from (Y/n)’s body sound; so close to spark-break, that Dreadwing can neither force himself to leave, nor attempt some sort of comfort. So instead he opts to sit in silence, cross-pede’d on the floor, back-struts to them. The lubricant running down his faceplate his only support.

---------------------------------------Time-skip-------------------------------------

Dreadwing cannot bear himself to lie down or remain in the berth-room, the shade of his twin’s presence hanging over the room like a cloud.

The human had passed out, dead-to-the-world, curled up in the mountain of rags tumbling from a storage cube. If he listens carefully, the mech convinces himself he can almost hear their heartbeat in the other room.

He lies on the table, having set up a temporary recharge station and power’s down his optics. His recharge is filled with swirling scenes, he sees his twin and the human fulfilling the memories (Y/n) had described for him. He hears voices in the dark, the human’s voice weaving foreign music through his processor.

----------------------------------------Time-skip----------------------------------------

“What was he like?”

Dreadwing looks down in surprise, not having expected the human to suddenly appear from the vent at his feet.

“Before coming to earth, I mean.”

His optics soften as he regards the fidgeting human from his position sat at the table. Considering whether to answer them or continue reading his latest debriefing, a sudden surge of nostalgia wins out and he leans down, offering them a servo. They climb on and he lifts them up to the table, pushing the datapad he was perusing out the way. He rests his helm in a servo and hums. “You wish to know about our life before coming to earth.”

(Y/n) interrupts, “and maybe, if possible…before the war?”

The mech powers down his optics briefly, before focusing on (his/her/their) shining eyes intently watching him.

“Where do I begin…”

-------------------------------------Time-skip-----------------------------------

“Dreadwing, where are you going?”

The spiked Cybertronian turns and salutes the Decepticon Warlord as he enters the Ground-bridge control centre. The few drones manning the stations also snapping to attention.

“I was…going to scout the Autobots last known location.”

Megatron squints. “Really now.” He stalks forward. “This would have nothing to do with the human Skyquake was keeping.”

The sharp vent is all the evidence he needs.

“Soundwave informed me of its existence and survival. Tell me,” he bares his denta, “what are you planning to do with it?”

Dreadwing straightens his spinal struts as he pulls himself even more to attention. Rehearsed words flowing calmly from his derma. “It is a distraction…but it would be dishonourable of me to offline something Skyquake cared for. So, I will continue to care for it, as a pet of sorts.”

Megatron looks to the side, where Soundwave silently slinks from the shadows. His visor lights up with a security feed, the image of what appears to be the human’s feet poking out from the storage cube as they sleep, appears on the monitor. A fence has been constructed around the table, creating a cage, like one you would keep a hamster in. The feed cuts of and Soundwave tilts his helm slightly.

“Very well Dreadwing, report to me when you return.” With those words, the Warlord turns and leaves.  

Dreadwing waits a moment, but when soundwave doesn’t follow their leader, he instead opts for a tactical retreat. Walking towards a drone, he requests a Ground-bridge to the last recorded location of their enemies and proceeds to walk through.

His last glimpse of the Nemesis being the reflection swirling in the TICs visor.

---------------------------------Timeskip--------------------------------

The sun sits just past the brow of the horizon as Dreadwing lands in the shadow of a butte overlooking Jasper Nevada. (Y/n) tumbling from his cockpit to his servos as he transforms.

“Is that it? Your home?”

The human blinks back tears in the dying light of the sun. “Yes.”

“Do you have your provisions?”

(Y/n) hefts the backpack they are carrying, the same they had when taken by Skyquake. Their personal possessions as well as some snack bars and bottles of water jangle and slosh within. (He/She/They) nod(s).

“When it gets dark, I will accompany you to…” he stops, the distant sound of approaching engines interrupting him. A scan of the horizon reveals its source. “Autobots,” he hisses.

He holds the human closer to his spark and steps further into the shadow. Another scan reveals the distance to be traversable by (Y/n) in two hours, which coincidently is the time they have till true nightfall.

Swiftly kneeling, he places them on the ground. Servos cupped around their body, as if to savour their heat. “It would go against my duty to allow you to fall into Autobot hands. You must walk from here.”

He does not move or pull away, waiting as (Y/n) performs a very human gesture, a kiss to the digit closest to them. Resting their own hand on his, as if afraid to pull away.

“Thank you Dreadwing.”

The Decepticon stands, “I will lead them away.”

(Y/n) nods and turns, not wanting to watch but listening as he transforms, clothes writhing in the downdraft he creates as he soars away overhead. They begin the trek to the town, even as he fires upon the Autobots, causing them to U-turn to chase him down.

They force their feet to carry them further, even as he fights to keep his path steady…having left the final part of his spark behind.

“Goodbye.”

[witchymarvelspacecase]

Spread Your Wings: Part 12: The Angel

Summary: Reader is a HYDRA experiment (like the Maximoffs, but not voluntary) who grows wings (like Angel from X-Men). She escapes, and is now trying to rescue and prevent further kidnappings and experiments.

Word Count: 2507

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of violence… honestly, I’m not even sure anymore

A/N: I swear I’m still alive!!!

Send all the love to the bestest best person ever: @writingwithadinosaur​

Spread Your Wings Masterlist

Funny, you hadn’t realized how annoying that faint buzzing sound in your head had been until it stopped. You couldn’t figure out what the noise was, or when it had begun, but it was familiar, like you’d heard it before.

Odd.

All you could focus on was that sound. You were vaguely aware that there was something else, something important that you needed to be paying attention to, but you couldn’t seem to remember what.

“Weird,” you thought. But what was weirder, was the fact that the memory lapse wasn’t concerning. All you could focus on was that buzzing. Where had it come from? And why, when it stopped, did it leave a ringing in its place?

It felt like your head was full of bells.

…

Y/N’s eyes glazed over. Her facial muscles relaxed, and suddenly she was just… gone. The Angel stood in her place, and it took the team a moment to notice. That moment cost Natasha a gash across her cheek and a sizable chunk of her hair as she shoved Tony out of the way of a dagger that Y/N had been carrying just a second ago.

“Clear the fucking room!” Nat shouted as she evaded the next blow, aimed for her torso. Not that her command was taken as one. Tony was in his element already. His suit was engaged and covered his body seconds after Natasha had pushed him out of the way. Clint, who already had a full arsenal of weapons on his person was also clearly planning to stay in the room. That left Steve and Bruce.

Steve would fight literally anyone, but Bruce, he was best kept out of a fight until there were no other options. As the already injured party, Natasha pulled Bruce from the room herself, leaving Steve, Clint & Tony to handle the Angel. All they had to do was incapacitate her and get her back into the cell. At least that was all she hoped they had to do.

“FRIDAY, lock down the lab until given further instructions,” Natasha called as she pulled Bruce through the doors.

The doors swung closed and a loud series of clicks could be heard immediately after.

“That’s only gonna hold her off for maybe a minute,” Bruce said as he jogged down the hallway. “She can hack that.”

“All it has to do is hold her back long enough for the guys to incapacitate her.”

“Do you really think that’ll work?” Natasha shot him a look. “I read the reports from your fights with Barnes. Incapacitation is not gonna be easy. We need a backup plan for when this goes even further into shit.”

“FRIDAY, locate Sergeant Barnes!”

…

Bucky was halfway to the common room when he was practically knocked over by not one, but two people. Bruce and Natasha came sprinting down the hallway, stopping bare inches from him.

“What the-”

“Angel’s been activated.” Bruce couldn’t have gotten Bucky’s full attention any faster. “Tony, Steve and Clint are blocked in the lab with her.”

“They know to incapaci-” Natasha began.

“They can’t be aiming to incapacitate.” Bucky interrupted, his voice gaining a cold edge that hadn’t been there before. “She’ll notice they aren’t willing to hurt her, she’ll take advantage of that. They can’t be worried about hurting her or they’re toast.” Bucky was halfway to the lab before he realized it.

…

Bucky was right. With the men unwilling to potentially cause damage, the Angel was wiping the floor with them. No one had fought with her enough to have learned her style, or her tells. Only Clint had spent any time in combat with her, but that barely counted considering they’d been protecting each other. Already, Tony’s suit was nearly useless. It provided protection against her knife blows, but the electronics were overtaxed. Y/N was smart, and the Angel was ruthless. The chip in her head would already have made her a threat, Tony had hoped that HERMES would have been a bit of a safeguard, but she had overwhelmed HERMES’ safety protocols in seconds.

“I know this is a bad time, but I really gotta remember to offer this kid a job when she’s done trying to kill us,” Tony half-shouted as the Angel forced him back. That was when the hydraulics in the legs of his suit jammed. He couldn’t release the suit, and he couldn’t move his legs. “Well fuck.”

Steve had no shield, and Clint didn’t have his arrows, but they were both doing what they could. Neither had an issue using whatever they could find as a weapon. Their biggest problem was that the Angel had more knives on her than either of them realized, and they were both bleeding.

Even worse, if ever she was left without an opponent, the Angel was at a computer terminal. Tony shouted at FRIDAY to close all access, but it was likely a moot point.

…

Bucky, Natasha, and Wanda rounded the corner at a sprint just as a shattering sound filled the hall. Steve had been thrown through a wall, and he’d taken what had been a large and probably insanely expensive piece of equipment through the wall with him.

Natasha cursed and moved to help Steve up. As they’d run back, she had taken a moment to arm herself, and though she would have rather had her widow bites, she felt better with a gun in her hands.

Bucky and Wanda advanced, sharing a quick look. Wanda would try to enter Y/N’s mind, if that wasn’t possible, she would restrain Y/N until Bucky could release her.

A horrible metallic screech echoed in everyone’s ears a moment before Tony, in his Ironman suit, flew through the hole that Steve had made just moments before.

“She’s on the workstation. No idea what she’s into, but I’m not optimistic,” Tony groaned, pulling himself from his now useless suit.

Bucky quick-peeked through the hole.

...

It felt like hours had gone by, but you still couldn’t place that buzzing sound and the ringing wasn’t stopping. It wasn’t annoying, but you did wish it would stop. You had the oddest sensation that there was something you were supposed to be doing, but that noise; you just couldn’t focus on anything else.

…

Clint was dancing just out of the Angel’s reach; close enough to provide a distraction, but managing to avoid most of her attacks.

The Angel’s emotionless mask was beginning to show a shadow of rage.

Wanda’s eyes were glowing red as she reached for Y/N’s mind, only to come up against what seemed like a solid wall. A solid, cold, and translucent charcoal barrier blocked Wanda’s access to Y/N’s mind. She could see the other woman’s mind, or at least where it should be, but there was no way she would be able to get through that wall; not quickly, and not without trauma to Y/N’s mind. She moved to her second option; restraint. Her tendrils of power wrapped around the Angel like a vice, and clamped her as tightly as possible.

“This won’t last long,” Wanda warned, strain already evident in her voice.

Bucky moved into the room then. He didn’t hurry, or hide himself, but strode slowly, and purposefully towards the Angel, maintaining eye contact the whole time.

“Mission report,” he demanded, hopeful that the Angel would recognize him as had happened before.

She looked at him, assessing, but instead of answering him, she struck out, or at least she tried to. Wanda’s power held her, but only just.

The second time the Angel attempted to break free, she succeeded, and Wanda dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

Bucky was on the defensive as the Angel swung sharp, and well aimed knives in his direction. It actually took him a moment to remember that he was trying to deactivate her.

What should have been easy; touching her with his metal arm, was nigh on impossible. It appeared, some part of the Angel was aware of Bucky’s ability to shut her down. Every time Bucky reached toward her, she evaded.

Clint and Steve were helping, and though three men, two of whom were well armed, were against her, the Angel wasn’t slowed. Despite her injury, she was flaring her wings, alternatively hiding and freeing them, and using them to force her opponents back and away from her.

The men were all unwilling to harm her, and like Bucky said, she noticed and took full advantage. The Angel didn’t give a shit if she got hurt, she was focused on killing her opponents.

Exhaling sharply, Bucky ducked a knife before swinging out his own. As much as he didn’t want to hurt Y/N, the Angel would decimate him and his friends if they stayed on the defensive.

Bucky had expected Steve to be the one to adapt to his change of pace first, but to his surprise, Barton was right beside him. They hadn’t fought together much in the past, but the archer seemed to pick up his style almost immediately.

Clint was at his back, and despite his wounds, the two of them were able to corner the Angel. It took three of Clint’s hidden daggers to pin one of Y/N’s soft, dove grey wings to the wall, and even then, Bucky took a deep gash to his thigh before his left arm finally came in contact with the side of the Angel’s neck. Her body froze a moment, before she began to shake violently.

“Pull the blades out, Barton. And grab any of hers you can find,” Buck muttered, keeping his hand, and eyes, on Y/N. Her mind was being split in two. Hoping he could help, Bucky started talking.

“Ya know, I never thought I had a fear of heights, or fallin’. I guess that developed after the train. Never knew the name for it, though, I don’t think I cared much really. Don’t know why you went and learned about phobias. Maybe you’ll tell me one day.” As Bucky talked, Clint moved slowly around to Y/N’s other side, checking her for weapons. He moved steadily, not hiding, but not moving too quickly as to draw her attention. “Didja learn about phobias to keep yourself occupied? I had a hard time with that too. Wanda suggested photography. I thought it was dumb at first, but I have a couple different cameras now. I take pictures of all sorts of weird stuff, or at least Sam tells me it's weird. I just like how it looks, ya know?

“Sometimes I just see somethin’, and I don’t recognize what it is right away, I just know it looks cool, or whatever. Then Sam sees the picture and gets all ‘why’d you take a picture of a sewer grate, Barnes?’”, Bucky mimicked Sam’s voice, and brushed some hair off Y/N’s forehead using his right hand. His left, stayed where it was, on the side of her neck, the fingers along the back, and his thumb rubbing from the front to the side gently. “Birdbrain just doesn’t understand art.” When he paused, unsure of what to talk about, Y/N blinked and her head fell forward, her forehead meeting Bucky’s chest.

“Y/N? Doll, you okay?”

“Oh god,” she groaned, her voice gravelly, “What did I do?”

…

Looking around the lab, you felt your heart in your throat.

The moment Bucky’s vibranium hand touched you, the ringing cut out, leaving utter silence for all of a millisecond, before it seemed like the world went into fast-forward; the volume increased to ear shattering levels. Part of your mind tried to cling to the silence that had been shattered, the other desperately tried to make sense of the movie clips being played in your mind’s eye.

That movie was all you would get. The only parts of your time as the Angel that you would be able to recall would come from this, but no matter how hard you tried, you could only catch brief glimpses. Only remember tiny snapshots. Even watching a recording, you couldn’t recall everything that happened. You couldn’t remember the ringing sound at all, nor the silence; your brain was overloaded.

“Y/N?”

Bucky. You mentally latched onto his voice. Reaching slowly, you rested a hand on his metal forearm, letting the feel of the cool vibrainium ground you further.

You took a deep breath before speaking again. “Put me back in the cell.” Your voice only shook a little.

“Doll, ya don’t-”

“Please.” You wouldn’t let the tears fall, but they were blurring your vision. “Please put me back in the cell. I can’t trust myself.”

It was Clint and Natasha who came forward. Natasha offering you support as she walked with you to the cell, and Clint stepping to Bucky’s side as they watched you leave.

Wanda was sitting up, leaning back against the wall and rubbing her temples, and Bucky moved to crouch by her.

“She feels out of control. The cell offers a sense of security,” Wanda spoke softly. “It’s not that she feels at fault, James. She just doesn’t feel it’s safe for us.”

It wasn’t that Bucky didn’t understand. Hell, that had been his reason for going back on ice in Wakanda, he just really didn’t like the lost, fractured look on your face when you realized what had happened.

“Do we know how to clear her triggers?” Steve asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Tony brushed debris off his arms and shoulders and crossed the room to a largely undamaged computer terminal. “Yeah, we know how Barnes’ were cleared, but his were specific to one language. FRIDAY?”

“Still here, boss.”

“Scan Y/N once she’s settled in the cell. We’re gonna go through her brain with a fucking microscope.”

“Yes, boss. HERMES is disengaged, but functional. Should I reboot him?”

“Let’s give her a minute. She just got back in her head, let her adjust before we throw another voice at her.”

Bruce and Tony tossed ideas back and forth for a while after that. Bucky only understood every third word, but he wasn’t ready to leave just yet.

“Something in my arm deactivated her, right?” Bucky asked into a pause in conversation.

“Yes, it looks that way,” Bruce replied.

“Can you scan it and see if there’s some sort of connection between the two?”

“Actually,” Tony said, “it shouldn’t even work anymore.” When everyone looked confused and more than a little concerned, he continued, “Practically nothing about the arm you have now is even related to the one HYDRA made.” Tony began pacing and gesturing as he talked. “Whatever it was that deactivated the Angel, shouldn’t be there anymore.”

“Unless it’s the vibranium itself,” Clint said quietly. You could have heard a pin drop.

“FRIDAY, contact Wakanda, and get their full specs on Barnes’ arm.”

“In all my spare time?” the AI sassed.

Tony sighed loudly before adding, “please.”

“Do you want King T’Challa or Princess Shuri’s line?”

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

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[gnoodle-studios]

The Grim; Chapter 4

“Agnes!” said Edith, with the enthusiasm of someone recently told they have to eat a slug. “How… pleasant to see you again.”

“Of course,” replied Agnes. “Haven’t seen you around much though, I must admit. You aren’t sequestering yourself in that house of yours, are you? I would be devastated to learn the loneliness of an empty home is catching up to you.”

“I so appreciate your concern for my health, my dear, but I assure you I am faring just fine! I have simply been spending quite a lot of time on my latest crochet project!”

Agnes narrowed her eyes, almost imperceptibly. “A crochet project? Of what kind?”

“Oh, haven’t you heard already? The milliner is having another child! I’ve been crafting a blanket, I’m sure it will be ready by the time they give birth. I had no idea you were so far out of the loop, dear Agnes, or I would have informed you myself!”

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” Agnes replied cooly. “It is so unfortunate you haven’t the time to keep up with old friends, but I suppose I haven’t put much effort in on my end. Perhaps I could bring over my recipe for raspberry scones one of these days! You never could get them quite right, from what I remember.”

Horse looked back and forth between the two women, feeling a bit scared. As he glanced back to Edith, He had to rescind one of his earliest discoveries about this place. While it was true that many things in this world were not Rock or Fire, it turned out that sometimes the Rock and Fire disguised itself. And now, it appeared they may have been disguising themselves as humans. 

Which, in retrospect, explained why Horse had liked Edith so much. She was very much made of Fire, even if she didn’t look it. She was nice, and warm, and sort of soft, in a strange, intangible way. Fire never hurt Horse, and neither did Edith, but Fire always had a preference for hellhounds, and then went on to burn humans and wood and sometimes even demons indiscriminately. A part of the world clicked into place, and things made just a little more sense, in Horse’s book.

But the other, the one standing across from Edith and smiling sharply, was undeniably Rock. There were angles to her, her face and her joints, like the Rock was barely trying to hide itself underneath stretched skin and pointy grins. 

Despite being thin, she seemed unmovable and steady, an element that told you exactly what it was and what it was going to do before it even did anything. 

And so Rock and Fire faced off. 

Fire is always unpredictable, and changes direction at the slightest move. Fire is hungry, and bright, and quick, and leaps on anything it can.

 But Rock does not burn. It stands, unaffected, and attacks methodically, patiently, or sometimes unexpectedly, like a rockslide, burying the opponent. But Fire cannot be crushed in such a way. 

So they are at an impasse, as attacks and blocks and retaliations are made over Horse’s head, as bloody and ruthless as any battle.

Rock and Fire walk away, and Horse has no idea who won. 

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

The baker knew something was going to happen as soon as Agnes and Edith locked eyes across the street. 

They had traded their barbed compliments and faked concern meant to harm instead of heal, and then had gone their separate ways, but she could tell Edith was still out for blood. As much as an old woman wearing a lace cardigan could be out for blood. 

The baker shuddered, imagining the potential destruction.

Which is why, when Edith ran into Peter, she finished the sale she was making and put the ‘on break’ sign up, before leaning back against the counter to watch the ensuing annihilation. 

Peter was not the brightest man in town. He had always been kind of an ass, even when they were all kids, and now he ran the general store, which gave him some kind of false idea of power. Knowing how to run a business, and a necessary one had gone straight to his head, and knocked out a good deal of the common sense while it was there. 

Common sense, such as ‘don’t mess with Edith, or risk being burned’.

Peter had taken a good look at the grim- er- Horse, and started to walk purposefully across the square, before coming to a stop in front of Edith.

The brave (and stupid) stared, the ignorant continued on as though nothing was about to happen, and the smart watched, but in a way that made it clear they were absolutely not watching and indeed keeping their noses in their own business, thank you very much. 

The baker, knowing which group she was a part of, carefully positioned herself in a convenient shadow near one side of the stall underneath the awning, where Edith’s back would be turned to her.

Normally, she wouldn’t have bothered (or risked) being an onlooker, but it had been a good while since she had seen Edith exchanging pleasantries with anyone, and Peter had recently raised the price of flour despite there being no good reason (he claimed ‘shipping prices’ had gone up but she had checked with the man who delivered goods to their town from the nearest port, who had said shipping was cheaper than ever), and she figured she should keep an eye on that dog of Edith’s and how it was going to react to a git like Peter. And who knows? Maybe she would learn something. 

“Hello there Edith,” said Peter, walking somewhere between a saunter and a strut. 

“Peter, so nice to see you again,” replied Edith, who looked and sounded very sincere about this statement, except for how much she didn’t.

“I see you picked up a mutt!” Peter laughed loudly and obnoxiously, throwing his head back.

Edith did not join him.

Peter, demonstrating all the intelligence of a brick wall, barreled on. 

“My gods, woman, where did you find that thing? A gutter? I didn’t know the boogeyman was moving in next door, much less that he had a dog!”

In an amazing display of restraint, Edith neglected to throttle the man. Not that she could if she tried, though. Peter wasn’t a very large man, but he also had a bit of height and weight over Edith. Still, the baker found that retirees had quite a lot of time to sit and think, which could be a dangerous thing, especially where people as sharp as Edith, and surrounded by as many idiots as Edith, are concerned, and so she figured the old lady could probably have figured something out. 

However, as it stood, Edith found a good deal of her weapons in words, and as she straightened up and cleared her throat, it was clear she was skipping past all of the pretty little daggers in front and some of the smaller swords, even the larger swords, perhaps a spear or two, and heading directly for the morningstar.

“I suppose it would be hard for you to keep track of new residents these days, what with how often I’ve seen you visiting the doctors.” Edith shook her head sadly. “Are you sick, dear? I’m sure many in the town would be happy to help you out.”

Peter flushed from his fingertips to the top of his ears. 

To anyone outside the gossip chain in town, it would have sounded like a fairly innocuous statement, even like Edith was perhaps concerned about his general wellbeing. However, the baker had a friend who worked at the doctor’s office as a nurse, and had it on fairly good authority that the receptionist and Peter had been… sharing several intimate moments together, sometimes even while the receptionist was on duty. The baker wasn’t about to judge two adults entering a consensual relationship, even if the nature of the relationship may be considered a bit ‘scandalous’, but for the love of someone, do it on your own time, not on the clock! A house was a house, and a business was a business, and the actions of the two shouldn’t get mixed, in the baker’s firm opinion.

“What are you trying to imply?” asked Peter defensively. 

He had never been good at playing the game. 

The back and forth insults disguised as compliments and simple comments that people such as Edith and Agnes spent their time with, trading cutting remarks back and forth until both women were satisfied with their jabs, and sore with their losses.

Many of the townspeople stayed out of it, and the ones who did were heavily persuaded not to try it again (Edith and Agnes combining forces was a rare thing, but a thing to be feared. It was like two natural disasters turning to smite the same person). 

Then, there were the people like Peter who didn’t realize there was a game being played in the first place, and so blundered into traps without even knowing there had been one set in the first place. 

“Imply, my dear? What could I possibly have been implying? I was simply questioning if you were poorly.” She laughed easily. “It’s not like I said you were up to anything illicit.”

Peter looked like his skin was attempting to color-match a tomato.

For the first time, the baker noticed how uneasy Horse looked. She couldn’t blame him. Being in the middle of a battle of wits (even if this one wasn’t so much a battle as a destruction) happens to be very unnerving. 

One of the first times the baker saw such a battle, it had been between Edith and one of her school teachers, the latter of which had dragged the baker into it for some reason or another.

 The whole experience made her vow to stay as far away as those types of situations as possible, and it looked like Horse was considering doing the same.

In an un-earned and potentially life-saving act of mercy, Jerald, the blacksmith, stepped in.

“Hullo, hope I’m not interrupting anything, but I finished that collar you wanted.”

“Oh, really?” Edith asks, any trace of hostility disappearing immediately. “So soon?”

“Didn’t take too long. And I had a delay on one of my other projects.”

“Well, thank you very much.” Edith took the collar from Jerald and fastened it around Horse’s neck. Horse froze like it was going to bite him, and looked to Edith for help. 

“You look very nice,” She told him, and patted his head. He settled a little, but still seemed apprehensive.

“Wellmustbegoingtalklater” Peter rushed out, turning quickly.

The baker watched as Peter all but tucked tail and ran. Edith looked around, smiling politely.

She shivered.

“PUPPY!” 

From across the street, there was a loud yell from a tiny child who looked intent on pulling her mother’s arm off. 

“Now, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Sarah,” the mother protested, trying to hold her child back. 

The child threw her weight forward with renewed force and broke free of her mother’s grasp before running up to Edith and Horse.

“Can I pet your dog, miss?” She asked, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. 

Edith gave her an approving smile. “Of course.”

Sarah, seemingly vibrating with excitement, started to scratch the dog’s ears and pet along his back. To her delight, her hand sunk into his fur until it almost disappeared.

Grims are apparently built for insulation, the baker noted absently.

“He’s so soft!” the child exclaimed. ”What’s his name?”

“Horse,” replied Edith, still smiling indulgently. 

The child contemplated this for a long moment, taking on on an air of seriousness and sincerity that only children of that age can properly manage without looking uptight. 

She nodded, just as seriously. “Horse is a good name.”

Edith produced a piece of candy from thin air, (or so it seemed to the baker) and offered it to the child, who took it and went bounding off back to her mother, who looked very tired, and a bit relieved.

“Goodbye Horse!” Sarah said, waving, before dragging her mother in a different direction. 

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

The small human was different from what Horse had seen before. It was much… bouncier. 

And louder. 

And stickier. 

Despite all of these things, it had given very good ear scratches, and Edith had seemed pleased with it, so Horse figured it wasn't so bad. 

The ‘collar’ was new, and not very pleasant, but more pleasant than some of the factors that came with existing in the afterlife (most of which, such as the fire, had little to no effect on hellhounds, but there were still the rocks, which could be very sharp, and there were a lot of very large, very angry, and very loud things that were also not very nice), so Horse figured it was an okay trade-off.

With this particular train of thought, Horse discovered that without realizing it, he had made the decision to stay in the town. 

On closer inspection, it made sense. Horse had a place that was Not-Rocks to sleep and live, and had found many good smells and things to eat, and an Old human who seemed very nice but also a little dangerous (like Fire!) and he came to the conclusion that this place was much better than the afterlife, and therefore he would be staying right where he was, thank you very much. 

Horse nodded with the finality and followed Edith as she led the way through the streets.

The afterlife could always send someone else to collect the soul he had been after. They wouldn’t even notice he was gone!

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

The demon was starting to wonder if he could function without a head. 

However, even if he could, he doubted it would help anything, as this seemed to be a very determined headache, and he suspected the lack of a head wouldn’t really even slow it down.

[intensitystoner]

Adjective challenge 3 – Profuse Sifki

The lordess of the neighbouring land matched him well at being spoilt, people would say. Her lawless acts, cleverly forged but following only her own mood swings, were a mockery of the entire system. Oh, except the land’s riches, she abused that to the limits of tolerance, and then further out of sheer spite against those attempting to reason. They were going to be a good match, people would say. If only they hadn’t used that determining phrase; then Loki would have accepted the invitation without a second thought. But people, the people, these low-rank nobodies, determining his path? Not in this life, no.

He fiddled with freshly borrowed codices, next to the table loaded with adorned golds, cashmere, ivory, and a hint of seidr, unoffensive. These factors had intruded his consciousness even though he’d been deliberately ignoring the gift all day. It was the umpteenth token of Sigyn’s desire for his company, arriving since his mischiefs had outgrown the palace grounds and reached across the realm, along with his fame. He really couldn’t have denied he enjoyed it if he had wanted to. His discontent lay entirely in the interference of outsiders, such as rumours, Thor’s good-natured and witless goading, or Father’s belief that he had a say in it. Come to think of it, Odin was the one that initiated the relation, through a pact with the land’s ruler: Sigyn the lawless maiden. That made it a strong capital NO.

With the momentary grudge stealing his consciousness, he unwittingly reached for the intriguing item, the one enchanted, in the neat pile of gifts. It was in his hand before he’d have resisted the urge and kept denying his curiosity. His sigh escaped through his nose while he opened the long, shallow box lined with jewels.

Inside lay a knife, the light melting on its triple fangs of reinforced mercury – his trained eyes quickly recognised the hint of blue shine. The self-willed fluid entrapped in a solid form of existence bore qualities that would stand against most in battle. The handle magic-wrapped in the softest fabric, gentle to the palm’s skin but never pelting off from strained use. The majority of the sorceric energy, however, tingled under his fingertips in the container’s cushioned filling. He closed the box, placed it back on the table and contemplated the meaning of it. Something would happen the moment he removed the knife, so much he could tell. Most likely, she would find out this way that he liked the gift: this was a simple and useful spell. The other possibility was that she had lost patience and was trying to lure him into a trap through a binding spell. In her position, it wasn’t impossible to get help from an enchanter to bind either Loki’s body or his mind to herself. If that was the case, she’d made great miscalculations about his cunningness. Although she chose the honey trap quite well: the knife came from a faraway land where a cold star’s breath was used to forge it before its rebirth. As an addition to the fun, many would have killed for such a possession. Loki’s readings on it told that this fabric was both fluid and firm, capable of alternating in a second according to an experienced user’s will. It was a challenge intriguing enough for him to pick up the case again to just feel it around with his inner senses. Lounging with the box in an armchair, he sketched up some scenarios in his mind about using the unwrapped gift to turn the palace folks on each other: the list of possibilities and forks in the planned thread of events went up to Plan K by the time he finally decided in which nobleman’s path he would forget the enchanted thing for a start of the fun.

It was several days later that he saw the knife again, in the hand of someone he only expected in Plan H or so, and even there not like this, fending for her own life with it. She was being assaulted by a swirl of two moderately sized chain hooks, brave snarls against the sharp metals grazing her skin with a speed she struggled to overtake. She didn’t have her usual sword and shield, indicating that the attack reached her unprepared, though not frightened; light followed the knife in her hand tardily as she laboured to reach past the vicious chains and plant her weapon into her opponent.

The owner of the flying hooks was screeching like a Stormbird. Both her verbal and physical threats aimed to dishearten Sif. It was an unprecedented, most likely futile endeavour: although the Warmaiden seemed to overlook or deliberately ignore the potential of the volatile metal in her grasp, she was no less daunting as an enemy than with her double-bladed sword. Sigyn, who was suddenly here from her faraway palace for some reason, was tirelessly shredding the fort of resistance.

Eyebrows arching in surprise, Loki leaned to the wall with a shoulder to observe the amusing scene. The brawl halted for a moment as his presence was noted. But the ever-flying chains wouldn’t stop to fall idly: while the maidens glanced at him, Sigyn's upward slash sent blood drops into the air. Sif yelped and her lower arm collided with the second hook assaulting from upwards, possibly by a lucky accident. The chain dropped and jerked back up immediately, but the movement got broken as the Warmaiden pushed forth to hold down her opponent's arm.

"That is enough mindless fray," Sif pointed out firmly, her voice unaffected by the blood pouring from her left cheek.

"Thief," spat he foreign lordess. "I'll make sure you no longer have hands to touch what is not yours!"

"You are wrong if you accuse me of something as lowly as theft!" Sif retorted. "Look better before you throw your accusations! You're the one trespassing unannounced, summoned at your will! Be wary until I report you!"

"Liar! That knife isn't yours!"

"It is a present!”

“Like hell it is! You stole it, snake!”

The Warmaiden kept her prepared look on the lordess, who hissed her last note staring at Loki, her steel-coloured eyes narrow and urging.

The younger prince had solved most of the puzzle by now; it manifested in his tongue tip licking lips tight to prevent a triumphant expression. The spoiled ruler had indeed been trying to meddle in the events, and thus into Loki’s fate, by catching the moment he showed interest. A capital mistake. Pity.

“Lady Sigyn,” he greeted with a mild bow. “Your visit is mightily unexpected. How did you make it here so fast and quiet?” he asked, his eyebrows arching in innocence that clearly confused her.

Her tone remained unswayed, however. “Prince Loki,” she uttered while roughly jerking her hand away from Sif’s grasp and walking up to him. “I wished to be swift at seeing you once it occurs that my gift pleases you.”

“Your attention is precious. However, your unannounced entry to the land is likely to break the treaty between out nations.”

“That is no matter as long as there is a way to remedy it,” Sigyn said softer.

“You’d still better get briefed in with the rules,” Loki noted, royally ignoring the suggestion in her tone. “May I propose the library in the East wing?”

His smile was chosen lenient as she eyed him from personal closeness, her back deliberately turned to the brunette who idled around occupied with her bleeding wound. After all the years spent on common battle grounds, Loki recognised the readiness to strike in her casual posture. Was she worried for herself still? Or possibly for him?

“It could be a fine solution, if you care to guide me there,” said the lordess meanwhile.

“As much as it pains my heart, I have other duties to attend to. Please, have these fine soldiers show you the way.”

The eyes of faded blue didn’t follow as he gestured towards the three gold-clad guards entering the room. He waited patiently for her to process the words, the message, her proclaimed status. Her jaw was tense, her chin raised as she obeyed the royal command, although without an answer.

By the time she was out the door, Sif had made it halfway to the opposite exit. The prince was lucky to have long legs, because running would have felt mightily humiliating at the present situation.

“Lady Sif, I would take a look at your wound,” he announced across the hall before she’d have disappeared for good, as he knew she was never distracted by empty chatter.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she dismissed him lightly.

“I know, not for you,” he said as he caught up and his closeness forced her to stop and face him. “Still, it would be foolish to leave it, or to rely on the healers. I have the spell that could make it undone without a trace. A moment, no longer.”

“It’s a gracious offer, but it’s a waste for a scratch like this.”

“Please, allow me. I couldn’t sleep well knowing your beauty got scarred permanently by my fault. Against my intentions,” he added quickly at her look that let him know how ridiculous it sounded from the infamous forger of cruel pranks.

“How would it be your fault?” she wondered aloud.

“Well,” he faltered but for a moment before finding the right words; “It should be if I let you pay such price for an insignificant blade.”

He stepped closer before she could have responded, and she let his teal-glowing thumb trace her cheek; her look cast down to the side all the while, motionlessly enduring the shiver at his fingers over her neck. Enduring. He didn’t realise he was holding his breath until he finished the silent spell. He felt a dire need to deny, to divert attention away from his urge to swallow.

“Let me guess: a devoted admirer?” he inquired slyly.

“It is indeed a present,” she answered while her gaze lifted to his collarbone. “One that means nothing to me, personally.”

“A great loss for him,” Loki assured her, and a mild bow ended their interaction.

So the precious knife had been given away. Not by the man Loki had left it with, that one thing he knew. Those inclined to court the Lady Sif had carefully been excluded from his calculations: there were a few people he didn’t want to harm purposefully, however unknown this fact was around the palace. Had someone stolen it then? Or gifted it away, as unlikely as it was with the general nature of any society? What route had the knife travelled on before ending up in the Warmaiden’s hands? Finding it out would be his primary occupation for the next period, he believed.

“Your Highness–”

He frowned lightly before turning back to her: she knew his name well enough, proven many times on unofficial nightly monster-hunting adventures of Thor and his entourage of fellow adventurers. He knew that such a thick formal veil must have been covering something up.

“This blade, it appears valuable,” she said in a tone wavering ever-so-slightly; “a fine ornament for someone’s matching grandeur. In fact… I believe it suits you best. So I’ve been meaning for you to have it.”

Been? For how long? Loki gazed at the knife offered on an open palm. He stood dumbfounded between his own greed for havoc and the rebellious benevolence of people.

“No,” he breathed through his surprise. “It would be but a speck amidst my powers. But it shall do good service in protecting you.”

“Are you implying, in exchange of my good intentions, that you hold me weak?”

He laughed silently now at her flaring pride, her well known desire to prove herself equal with the sturdy warriors all around. She most likely failed to see how it only gave away her fragility. His hands engulfed her persistent fingers and closed them over the blade’s handle, the warm skin smooth against his palm like they didn’t hold swords and shields every day.

“Your strength does not need boasting, it’s the truest power I have seen among these goofs. It wouldn’t be lessened by a little… friendliness.”

Her look was on his face by then, allowing the lights to dance in it.

“Thank you,” she uttered softly, and for a moment, Loki got startled that she knew everything, that his initial malevolence with the knife was clear to her, that she knew he had always held the knife his own tool, and letting her keep it was an act of purposeless grace. But there was no scorn or triumph or malice on her features, just a clear look he knew so well from watching her interact with others. He could never solve it, it looked too straightforward, too honest to be real.

And then all thoughts stopped when she rose on her toes and kissed him on the corner of his mouth, lingering there with her softness for a second.

“So I don’t remain in your debt,” she breathed onto his skin, and she was gone before he could even have collected his composure for an appropriate response, leaving his mind to be drawn back to it from any cunning route for the night.