#connecting is so hard and swallowing differences that might seem hostile is so hard | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

helloalycia · 3 years

Text

just a kid [two] // wanda maximoff

summary: you decide to get to the bottom of things, suspecting Wanda has something to do with your troubled memories.

warning/s: mentions of death and explicit/descriptive violence.

author's note: here’s the second and final part! bit of an angsty one oof

part one | masterlist | wattpad

In all of the time Wanda and I spent together, we'd never lied to one another. We always told each other everything, even if we thought it would make the others person upset. So, I couldn't for the life of me understand what she was doing behind my back now.

After a while of trying to collect my thoughts and reigning in my agitation, I returned to Doctor Maya's office to see she was alone. When I entered without knocking, she looked up with surprise, but now that I knew that she was hiding something, I saw a hint of guilt.

"Y/N, what can I do for you?" she asked without so much as a shake in her voice. She'd practiced well. "Did we have an appointment?"

I closed the door behind me, stepping forward but not quite committing to taking a seat.

"I still feel nauseous," I said with stern eyes. "I still get nightmares. My thoughts don't feel like my own. My head hurts every time I try to remember my accident."

"Y/N, I've told you, it'll take time to–"

"Stop! Stop lying!" I exclaimed, gripping the back of the chair tightly. "I heard you and Wanda talking earlier. I know you're hiding something. Something to do with Wanda. So, tell me. What is it?"

Other than jumping at my sudden outburst, she showed no expression on her face, nor acknowledgement to my words. I tried a different approach, shoulders sagging with defeat and expression softening.

With a normal volume, I pleaded, "Please. I have a right to know if it concerns me."

Still, she said nothing. Only avoided my eyes and played with her fingers nervously on her desk. I clenched my jaw, trying not to snap.

"Fine," I gave in. "Can you at least tell me if Wanda was there when my accident happened?"

Finally, she spoke, nodding. "Obviously she was. She was the one who got you to the quinjet after you were knocked unconscious."

I chewed the inside of my mouth, trying to piece together the incident. Things still didn't make sense...

"The agent that I was trying to help," I said, remembering that was the reason I was out in the field in the first place, "what happened to them? Where are they now?"

She straightened up in her seat. "As I told you before, he made it out okay. But I cannot tell you where he is."

"And why not?"

"It's not relevant."

I narrowed my eyes at her. "Well, now I know you're hiding something."

She pressed her lips together, unsure whether to respond or not. After opening and closing her mouth like a fish in water, she opted to stay silent.

"I guess I'll keep taking my medication like a good girl," I said with sarcastic smile. "Thanks for nothing, doc."

With an eye roll, I left the room and decided to take matters into my own hands. If neither her nor Wanda would tell me the truth, I'd make a start to finding out myself.

First thing's first – Wanda had some sort of connection to this whole thing, excluding the fact that she was hiding it. I recalled hearing her say something about 'working out the kinks'... what was she trying to work out?

I knew she had powers and was capable of many things; was it linked to that? I was having trouble remembering and the only two people who seemed to know were my doctor and Wanda, the girl who had the abilities to manipulate thoughts to her own will. But she wouldn't, would she? That was an invasion of privacy, morally wrong. She was a good person. The only time she'd done that was when she was trying to defeat the Avengers, but she wasn't that person anymore... she wouldn't do that to me, right?

It was getting late and I still had so many pieces of the puzzle to put together. All I had were theories and nothing to back them up. So, as I headed to Wanda's room with tired eyes and a curious brain, I tried to push it away for the evening and focus on getting some sleep, if any.

Wanda was tying her hair up in the mirror, already dressed for bed, when I stepped in. Her eyes caught mine in the mirror and she spun around, expression softening.

"Hey," she said gently, probably taking caution after how our last interaction went. "D'you have a nice walk?"

I pursed my lips, studying her carefully. How could she act like this? So concerned for my well-being as she watched me suffer, when she knew something that might help me?

"Yeah, I guess," I spoke, before taking my shoes off and going to the ensuite to get changed.

It was quiet as I got ready for bed and brushed my teeth. Wanda, thankfully, didn't push me to speak, but I was still confused. I wanted her to tell me what she knew, but she was playing it safe. Maybe I could test the waters a little...?

As I clambered into bed beside her, I saw she was sat up and reading a book in the light of her bedside lamp. I began to take my watch off and glanced at her subtly, deciding to say something.

"I think something is wrong," I said, earning her attention. "I think I might be remembering my accident incorrectly."

She lowered her book, giving me her full attention. But unlike before, I now saw the doubt swimming in her eyes.

"What? Why do you think that?" she asked with confusion.

I put my watch to the side and paused, deciding whether I was in the mood to get into it.

"How do you know it was a mine?" I asked her, quirking a brow.

She pulled a face, as if suggesting my question was silly. "I was there, Y/N. I saw it."

I wanted to believe her, I did.

"Did anyone else see it?" I asked, unable to stop myself.

Closing her book, she shook her head, distracting from the panic settling into her expression. "What's with all of the questions?"

I ignored her. "You can manipulate people's thoughts, can't you? Get into their head. Read their mind."

"Yes...," she answered, nodding with a puzzled frown. "So?"

I'd known Wanda long enough to know she was hiding something. I should have detected the signs sooner. The constant avoidance of my eyes, the fiddling thumbs, the way her accent grew a little stronger. I was right. She was keeping something from me.

"You've never got into my head before, right?" I asked curiously, wondering if she was reading my thoughts right now. Did she know I was on to her? Did she know I knew she was hiding something?

Resting a reassuring hand on mine, she shook her head. "I would never."

I glanced at her hand that squeezed mine, then to her dark green eyes swimming with certainty. Was she lying now? Or was she just getting better at it?

No, I still had my doubts. She must have done something to my thoughts. And I would never know unless she told me, which she clearly wasn't going to.

"You're mad at me," she realised, letting go of my hand.

I shook my head and looked away, frowning. "I'm not. I'm just tired."

Without another word, I got under the covers and turned my back to her. I wasn't sure what else to do. She was blatantly lying to my face when I thought I could trust her. How could she?

Sleep came to me quickly that night, thankfully not bombarded by painful dreams. But when I woke up and had a shower, I realised how angry I still was. Wanda was lying to me and I didn't understand why.

"I'm gonna go back to my flat," I told her out of the blue after drying my hair.

She walked out of the ensuite and leaned against the doorframe, seeming taken aback. "You're going back?"

I nodded, maintaining eye contact. "Yeah. I can't stay here."

Wanda frowned. "This is about last night."

She looked so hurt by my words that I almost took them back, but I didn't. She was a liar.

"Yeah, it is," I said, crossing my arms with certainty, a hostile expression taking over my face. "I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, Wanda, but you're lying to me."

She straightened up, eyebrows furrowing together. "What are you talking about?"

I squeezed my hands as I continued to cross my arms, hiding my frustration. "I know you're in my head."

She hesitated – a split second, but I saw it – and it was enough to confirm my thoughts.

"I would never do that," she said with a shake of her head, making me clench my fists.

"Stop lying to me, Wanda!" I shouted, finally bursting. "I know it's you! You're in there, I can feel you!"

"Y/N–"

"No!" I cut her off, tears brimming my eyes. "You're mixing my thoughts up and spitting out something that isn't real. You have to be! Because if you're not then– then– then I'm going insane."

I swallowed hard, wiping my eyes and looking away momentarily, trying to collect myself. Crying wasn't my intention, but God, the discomfort in the pit of my stomach and the constant restlessness I felt was eating me alive. I needed to know the truth and the one person I thought I could rely on wasn't helping me.

"I'm sorry," she said, and I looked at her to see she was watching me apologetically. "I don't want to. But I have to."

I licked my lips, partially fed up. I was hoping I was mistaken, that the most that would happen is I accused my girlfriend of something immoral. This was way worse. I was right.

"Why do you have to?" I questioned with burning eyes. "What happened that I can't know?"

She stepped forward, but I stepped back. Frowning, hurt, she ran a hand through her hair.

"I can't tell you," she said regretfully, making me groan loudly. "Look, it's not as easy as you think. This is for your own good, Y/N."

"No, no, it's not," I disagreed, before pointing an accusing finger her way. "You don't get to decide that for me! You have no right!"

Glassy green eyes met mine. "This is all to protect you. The truth hurts."

"Fuck yeah, it does," I said bitterly. "Discovering my girlfriend is mind-controlling me is never a nice thing to learn."

"Don't say that!" she snapped, clenching her fists. "It's not like that."

"It's exactly like that," I said lowly, scowling at her. "You're treating me like your enemy. You don't just get to prance around in my head because we're a couple. That's not how this works."

"That's not what I'm doing!" she shouted, eyes beginning to glow red with frustration.

"Then tell me what the hell is going on!" I said, not backing down.

She clenched her jaw, red eyes and anger dispersing as her expression softened. "I can't."

Through blurry vision, I glared her way. "Then fuck you, Wanda! I'll figure it out myself!"

I was sick of her feeling like she could control me, like I was some sort of helpless being who needed her protection. It was my head and I deserved to know what the fuck was in it!

In the two years we'd been together, we'd never argued this bad. And I'd never imagined it would be because she was manipulating me like she was.

With determination, I stormed down to the medical floor of the Tower and straight to Doctor Maya's office.

When she saw me, she looked up with surprise. "Y/N, what are you–"

"Cut the act, I know the truth," I interrupted her. "About Wanda mind-controlling me. How you were both in cahoots. I know it all."

She seemed shocked. "I– I don't know what to say."

"You can tell me where the agent I tried to help is," I got straight to the point.

"I'm not sure if I should–"

"One way or another, I'm going to find out," I deadpanned, not in the mood to be played. "Just tell me."

It didn't take much convincing, as I soon found myself on the way to a hospital at a nearby S.H.I.E.L.D. facility where the agent was recovering in. With my clearance, it wasn't difficult to get inside, and after explaining who I was, the agent – Agent Montgomery – was happy to have me visit him.

When I walked into his room, I saw he was sitting up in his bed, watching the TV hung on the wall ahead. When he saw me however, he muted it and smiled brightly at me. I noticed the bruises littering his body and though he was wearing a hospital gown, I suspected his injuries were bandaged beneath it.

"Doctor Y/L/N," he addressed me. "It's such a pleasure. I've been wanting to thank you ever since you helped me out a week ago."

I offered a small smile, stopping by his bedside. "There's no need. I was just–" I hesitated, feeling like an idiot as I couldn't even remember what I'd helped him with. "I was just doing my job."

He chuckled. "So modest. It's just nice to know you're doing okay. If it weren't for you swooping in on the scene, I'm sure I would've bled out. I wanted to thank you, but the doctors here told me that you were pretty shaken up after what happened and needed some time."

My eyes fell to the monitors beside his bed, avoiding his eyes. "Yeah... what exactly happened that day?"

He seemed surprised. "You don't remember? It wasn't... it wasn't good. I thought that's why you were taking the time for yourself."

I looked up, catching the way his smile faded into a frown and he looked down to his hands sadly.

"Can you refresh my memory?" I asked gently, unsure whether I was ready to hear the truth or not. But it was now or never.

"Well, from my perspective, I was laying on the ground, thinking I was gonna die from blood loss..."

This part of the city was desolate and destroyed, remnants of broken buildings as a result of the Avengers' fight surrounding me. When I was rushed into the field with my team, with plans of finding the handful of casualties to be extracted, I followed usual protocol.

It was supposed to be empty of enemy combatants. We were just supposed to be prepping the casualties for evacuation, as usual. This time was different though.

I came across Agent Montgomery's body by myself, separated from my team as they spread out amongst the rubble to find the rest of the bodies. He was laying there, body unmoving as his hand was pressed to a point above his stomach.

Instinctively, I rushed over to him and began to unload my medical equipment on the ground beside him. I squinted in the hot sun – why was it so bright out? – as I tried to pull the agent's helmet off.

"Hey, I'm here to help," I told him reassuringly, giving him a smile that I hoped would put him at ease. "Can you hear me?"

"You helped me, patched me up," Agent Montgomery was explaining vividly, and I found myself hanging onto his every word.

For the first time in a week, my memories were making sense. They flowed as one rather than in mashed scenes of a broken film.

He nodded, to my relief, and let me move his hand to the side so I could see what I was working with. A bullet wound and from the looks of it, the bullet was still lodged in there.

I spent the next five minutes patching him up well enough so I could eventually take him back to the quinjet, whilst making conversation with him so he would feel better about everything. When I was done, I radioed my team to help collect him and planned to wait by his side until they arrived. But I heard someone calling for help and looked up with confusion, hand resting on my own pistol.

"There was this kid," he recalled, wincing at the mention of her, which made me wonder what went wrong. "I was a little out of it, I'm not gonna lie. But I could never forget it. Forget that poor girl."

The voice belonged to a little girl. It was as if she'd appeared out of nowhere. Her clothes were tattered and she was covered in dirt, like she'd climbed out from one of the collapsed buildings. I wouldn't have put it past her. People did live here after all. Or, at least, they did.

"Hey," I said quietly, letting go of my pistol. "Are you okay, love? Are you hurt?"

She frowned, lip quivering. "I don't know where my family is."

My heart sank at her words, watching the look of horror cross her expression. I couldn't imagine what she must have witnessed as the battles raged on earlier. She stepped closer to me, eyes blinking innocently, before finding the state of the agent on the floor.

"He'll be okay," I reassured her, earning her attention. "And so will you. I'll help you find your family, yeah?"

She nodded, wiping away fresh tears.

"She was just a kid," Agent Montgomery said, his own eyes glassy from pent up emotions. "She didn't deserve what happened."

I swallowed the lump in my throat. He didn't need to finish. I remembered it so vividly.

"Do you have a name?" I asked her, removing my medical gloves and throwing them to the side so I could give the girl all of my attention.

I outstretched my hand, offering it up. She rested hers in mine, making me smile.

"Selena," she mumbled.

"Well, Selena," I began, hopefully, "that's a pretty name. And I'm sure we can find your parents in no time."

We just had to wait until my team came and then I could try to look for her parents. It wouldn't be hard and I refused to accept they were dead, despite the likelihood of them being alive being quite low.

Selena nodded, her tiny hand squeezing mine, searching for comfort. I squeezed it back, kneeling before her and giving her a quick nod.

Before either of us could say anything more, the unexpected happened. It was as if there was a bomb set in the middle of that tiny girl's body because one second I was staring at her, and the next, she exploded all over, coating me in tiny, fleshy pieces.

My jaw dropped with disbelief, ears ringing from the explosion and heart dropping at the suddenness of it all. I risked looking down, only to see the girl's hand still intact and resting in mine. But where her body should have connected, there was nothing there.

I couldn't help but think how strange it all looked, like a prop from a film set, or a mannequin hand from a clothing shop. I dropped it without thinking, watching it bounce onto the blood-stained ground.

Smoke and blood infiltrated my nose. I looked down and my hands were shaking so much, covered in what looked like minced meat. Meat. Blood. Smoke.

My stomach curled, but I couldn't move. Eyes were permanently widened. Hands were still shaking. The girl's voice played in my ears amidst the ringing. One second she was there and the next she wasn't.

"It came out of nowhere," Agent Montgomery muttered. "Some weapon HYDRA were testing. Had the ability to make its target explode within seconds. She was just another victim of the senseless violence that day."

I swallowed hard, my stomach curling. So much nausea. So much aching. I pocketed my sweaty, shaking hands. Looked to Agent Montgomery.

"That avenger, the witch?" he continued, looking up to me. "She got us out of there. Killed the HYDRA agent. You must've passed out from shock. But she saved us both."

Wanda. She was there. She'd seen it all happen. She'd saved me.

She'd lied to me.

My mouth was dry like sandpaper. My head hurt. I felt sick. The memories were connecting as they flashed through my mind.

It came out of nowhere.

She was just a kid.

"Thanks for telling me," I managed to get out, already backing up. "Good luck with your recovery."

He may have responded, but I wouldn't know. I left the room, ears ringing like I was still there. I looked down, half expecting my clothes to be covered in flesh. Selena's flesh. That poor girl...

She was just a kid.

My vision blurred and I had to pause, hanging in the empty hallway of the medical wing. I raised my hand, covering my mouth as I struggled to breathe without shaking. But it was impossible.

It came out of nowhere.

I don't know where my family is.

"There you are."

I looked up, blinking away tears, making out Wanda standing before me. She seemed reluctant to come closer and for a moment, I wasn't sure what I was feeling.

"Doctor Maya told me where you were," she explained quietly.

Do you have a name?

"I don't have t-time for this," I got out, pushing myself away from the wall and moving forward, walking past her.

"Y/N, please wait," she pleaded, grabbing my arm, and I shook her off so quickly. The thought of being touched right now, when I was covered in–

I looked down. I was clean.

Selena.

"I shouldn't have controlled your mind," Wanda continued from behind me, sincerity in her words. "It wasn't right. It wasn't my place."

I turned around, breath catching in my throat. My ears were still ringing. Hands still sweaty. I pocketed them, though they shook so much my jacket was moving.

Well, Selena, that's a pretty name. And I'm sure we can find your parents in no time.

"She was just a kid," I said, expecting such ferocity in my words, but they barely came out above a whisper. "She wasn't supposed to be there."

Wanda swallowed hard, taking a small step forward. I didn't move back.

"It wasn't your fault."

"She just wanted her family." I clenched my jaw, squeezing my sweaty, shaky hands into fists. "She shouldn't have been there."

"Y/N..."

I squeezed my eyes shut, tears flowing out, before shouting, "You had no right! You– you– you had no fuckin' right!"

Wanda watched me with glossy eyes. "I know. You're right."

Just a kid.

The ringing stopped. I clutched my stomach, wishing the stabbing nausea would disappear. Now that my thoughts were whole again, I felt like I was experiencing the whole thing once more. It was catching up to me quicker than I could adjust to.

She opened her mouth to speak and I shook my head, signalling for her to stop. I couldn't take it. I was so angry and hurt and shocked and I– I–

"I hate you," I breathed out.

She frowned, eyes screaming with guilt. "Y/N..."

My jaw ached from the pressure I was putting on it. Marks were forming in my palm from how hard I was squeezing my fists. She had no right.

"It wasn't your fucking place," I repeated, moving forward and bundling her shirt in my fist. Glaring at her through my tears, I saw the way she put up no fight, expressions softening and etched with guilt. "You– you– you–"

My hands began to shake again. The ringing returned. I couldn't take it. I let go and shoved her back, needing a moment. But I didn't know what to do.

I wanted to hate her. She had messed with my head. Made this so much worse than it could have been if she'd just let me suffer in the first place. But at the same time, a small part of me wished it would have worked. That her mind manipulation would have done it's job and I wasn't remembering. Because fuck, remembering hurt like a bitch.

More tears came and I squeezed my eyes shut, squeezing my stomach to ease the never-ending pain. I opened my mouth to speak, but a sob came out instead, and before I knew it, Wanda was wrapping her arms around me, letting me fall into her.

"It's okay," she said with certainty, squeezing me. "You'll be okay."

I shook my head because I knew that wasn't true. Nothing was okay. I couldn't imagine it ever being okay.

She was just a kid.

#wanda maximoff #scarlet witch #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #mcu imagine #marvel imagine #mcu #marvel #elizabeth olsen

357 notes · View notes

spencerscoven · 3 years

Text

— sad girl

about ; Spencer wants you more than anything, but he already has someone waiting at home for him.

gif by saramichellesgellar

CONTENT WARNING: smut, oral sex (fem receiving), slight choking, fingering, semi public intercourse, unprotected sex, cheating, brief mentions of violence, slight angst

a/n : came out of the fic closet for this <3 any request, concepts, or if you would like to be in a tag list, send your request to my inbox !! and enjoy

Being a mistress on the side, it might not appeal to fools like you...

What you could never tell a soul was that it started months before, weeks before he had ever first officially laid his hands on you. The lingering eyes, antsy hands, the words that had meant something else that went unsaid. They had implied the words that Spencer would never say out loud, in fear of the guilt that lined his stomach: I want you. But I have her.

Creeping around on the side, would not be something you would do...

JJ kissed him on the cheek, hands softly massaging the knots of his shoulders while she whispered the words that announced, "something came up..." and with that, she left Spencer with the taste of desire on his lips as his eyes gaped towards your direction. He watched you like he always did when he got a chance, seeing how the tips of your fingers ran across the edge of your cubical, your legs cross and eyebrows furrowed in thought. He knew what you were reading— only because his eyes glazed over the same file. The unsub was a 43 year old man with the signature of engraving x's into his victim's chests. And he wondered, thought hard, if you could focus on the case while you wore a skirt that tight.

"JJ's gone? Hotch just left, looks like it's just you and me. Now, what do you think of this?"

You inquired, shocking Spencer into looking up to see you standing beside him, the steps you took to get there unknown to him at the time they had happened. He pinched his thigh through his slacks. Get a grip.

You slid into his cubical next to him, stacking "The Narrative Of John Smith" in the next corner, along with his other books that were too advanced for you to even begin to understand, so you could sit your hips on his desk and place the annotated file next to him.

"So, I've found that Avery Pincher was abandoned by his mother at eight. She found another life elsewhere, and he didn't fit into the picture... you get the gist of it all," You looked up and smiled sheepishly, flattening out the top of your skirt which allowed Spencer's eyes to heed recognition of the smooth goosebumps laid on your thighs. He wanted skin to skin, mouth to mouth.

But you haven't seen my man... you haven't seen my man.

"Cold?" He questioned, sight trailing up your torso, only to see that your eyes already met his.

He could keep this up like he had for months, he could act like he couldn't cut though the tension between them. He could imagine that Morgan didn't squint his eyes at him every time he said your name in the conference room. He could set his hopes on thinking he had enough strength to go home and meet JJ, make love to her instead of fantasizing about fucking you. It was part of his job, bending people to his decree and staying in control. But he just didn't have the will when it came to you.

"Cold? No Reid— So I studied the letters his mother sent him after she left, all of them signed with an X, for kisses, as she signed them off. She thought it was endearing, he didn't seem to like it... hence his signature and the victims looking like her—"

"Then why do you have goosebumps?" He announced, rather than asked, as his long fingers wrapped around the top of your knee. He felt you take in a sharp breath before he heard it.

He's got the fire, and he walks with flames...

"Think about what you're doing, Reid. You think I haven’t caught onto these little things? Because I have,” Your words were spoken with quiet vexation even though you leaned towards his chest, but most importantly they told him that you knew. Your eyes were criminal, finally revealing your awareness of the depraved cat and mouse game that kept up between the two of you.

You'd seen the way he watched you. You'd felt his eyes down your blouse, his fingers that ghosted too long on your waist as he opened the door for you in the mornings. You’d spent nights thinking, rationalizing that Spencer was brilliant, and surely knew what was good for himself. You fought so hard, only to land on the realization he was just a man. A man with an insufferable craving in the pit of his stomache.

"I can feel your pulse. I have thought about this. Day in, day out. You don't think I've seen you looking too?" He stood, hands dragging further up your legs, to your waist, under your skirt, your hipbone, the insides of your thighs to feel your heat. He couldn't stop the soft smile forming on his lips when you sighed.

"Here you are, ass on my desk, pussy right in front of me, and you're telling me you didn't know this was bound to happen?”

His Bonnie on the side, his Bonnie on the side...

His lips mashed into yours, wasting no time, both your breaths hitching as teeth clashed and he fought to destroy you, to drown you in dizziness and lust. Finally, finally, finally, skin to skin, mouth to mouth. With his hands wrapped around your neck, nails digging in and stifling the moans threatening to uprise in your throat as he held you back from his lips, allowing you to gaze up drunkenly as your head lulled back and forth.

"I've barely touched you." You could hear the smirk in his voice, sticking your tongue out as he slowly pulled at your wet panties, your black skirt already bunched up your waist.

"This is what you want?" He mockingly laughed, gathering his saliva and spitting upon your tongue, serving his passion with hostility.

Obediently, you swallowed, thrusting your lower half into his own abdomen before your lips connected again, good sense and respect thrown out the window as you two forgot completely about the world outside, allowing each other to envelop each whole.

"You've been waiting to do this forever, I can taste it on my lips... so go ahead and ruin me." You murmured softly, as if the building was full and it was only meant for him to hear, but roughy in nature, your hands reaching for his cock that was already hard and showcasing a tent in his pants. Spencer slapped them away, placing your hands back on the edge of the desk as he situated himself in the leather chair of his office, pulling your pussy closer to his face.

"Spencer—"

"I think about you a little more than I should. I think about this," He hungrily ran his middle finger down your vagina, spreading your wetness from your hole to your clit, basking in the way it glimmered off the insides of your thighs before placing the tip of his finger between his lips, a selfish act. "well, I think about this a lot."

You reach your hands down to cup his cheeks in silent approval, his pupils dilated while he begins to pump just his middle finger in and out at a steady pace, your hips thrusting up to meet his just seconds before his tongue pounces. At first he doesn't hear your noises— too focused on your taste and allure as he takes your clit into his mouth and sucks, adding another finger. Above him, you grasp the short cubical wall, holding on as if you'd fall into endless abyss without it, making animalistic noises that make Spencer think he could die right there and here, his face and fingers buried in your cunt. He's a man of science, yet he thinks he's seen God.

He witnesses you grab his head of hair, pushing him up against you and grinding up and down as if you couldn't get enough, shouting his name, and spouting your release on his lips. You twitch, riding out your high with his face planted between your legs and your soul located on another planet.

You look down to witness Spencer cleaning you off with his tongue, his mouth swallowing your wetness that had spread to your thighs, his hips under a spell, causing them to thrust into the empty space, allowing you to realize in that moment that he hadn't even noticed he was doing it, either. You grab him by the top of his sweater bringing his face to your level with a simple request,

"Fuck me, Spencer?"

He smiles gleefully, reaching down to unbuckle his trousers that already spotted precum on the front of them, a moan rising lowly in his throat.

"I need to get this dick inside of you before I cum." He pumps himself a few times, before pushing into your cunt, hand rising to hold your legs back, unable to keep the strident moan from coming out of his throat, your fingernails drilling into his hips, waist, mouth, neck, anything you could grasp.

He's got the fire and he walks with flames...

One after the other, his hips snap to yours quickly, meeting in a smack as his thumb connects between the both of you in circles to rub, coaxing your second orgasm out.

He's got the fire and he talks with flames...

You both moan out, cumming over one another, producing what Spencer would call "the perfect melody", if there had ever been one.

He kisses you one last time, and this time's different. It feels like longing, and you can't be too sure as you draw back to look at him and he stares blankly across the room, breath heavy. You watch as he bends to look through his desk, pulling out a tissue and wiping his cum from your core softly, eyes focused on anything but your face before he's shoving it into his pocket to dispose of outside the office.

What shocks you most is when he takes your peach panties that were once discarded on the floor and tucks them into his desk, under files, for safe keeping. But Spencer still won't meet your eyes.

You hoist your hips up, sliding off the surface of the wooden desk to spread out your skirt, now wrinkled, and to sweep your hair out of your face, that to your surprise, he does himself to catch your attention.

"Look, I just..." He begins, and you bite your lip, the realization of what you've done setting in.

In the back of your mind, you know what makes you actually feel bad. It’s the fact that you don't feel much remorse, if at all, and it causes the high tides of your mind to drown, shame swallowing you from the inside out. The lingering touches, the stares— the everything, they happened before Spencer and JJ. You reminisce, afraid to blink, scared that you’d see the memories of Spencer telling you about her would come flashing behind your eyelids, replaying like they always did at night.

Before he was JJ's, he was yours. Part of you begged to say he still was, even though you watched who he walked into the office with each day when they exited the same car, hand in hand. You tilted your head, as if to encourage him to go on, to finish telling you he regretted it, even if his eyes showed the opposite. There was not a single chance in the world that he could utter what he really wanted to, not after he had been pining after her for years. Not one of you were stupid enough to do that and you knew it.

His Bonnie on the side, his Bonnie on the side, makes me a sad, sad girl...

"I just wanted to tell you that I know we shouldn't have done this but—"

He glances down as the phone in his left pocket begins to ring, and before he even pulls it out, both of you are eerily aware of exactly who it is, the ironical energy of it all lingers in the air as Spencer gives you a sad look, picking up the phone.

"Hello? Oh— no. I was just getting ready to leave. Just finishing up the night." He looks right at you, contemplating, before cleaning off the rest of your wetness on his chin with the sleeve of his jumper. He’s just fucked you silly, only to go home to her.

You find yourself shoving your heels on and collecting your things off your desk across the room, his eyes following you and doing the same.

I'm a sad girl, I'm a sad girl, I'm a sad girl...

Spencer walks beside you to the doors of the BAU, knowing that hours from now, in the morning, you’d both come to work. You'd act like it never happened, avoid and ignore each other, until wondering hands wondered again. Until then, Spencer would deny himself of the woman he spent his time thinking about. He’d act as if he didn't need you.

He placed his hand on your lower back as he opened the doors ahead of you, slinging his messenger bag strap higher up his shoulders, and let his fingers dawdle there for just a second more than needed, the signal not unbeknownst to you. With just the two of you here, he loiters on the idea that that cannot ever be, you and him. And on his lips he tastes spite, mixed with wishful thinking.

I'm a sad girl, I'm a sad girl, I'm a mad girl.

part 2

masterlist

#spencerscoven #spencer reid #criminal minds fic #spencer reid angst #spencer reid smut #mgg #matthew gray gubler #spencer reid x reader #angst #bau #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fan fiction #spencer reid fanfic #requests #bau fanfic

291 notes · View notes

lovestrucked-again · 4 years

Text

Sanguine III

Genre: Mafia AU Warnings: dark themes, blood, guns, creepy evil guy. Word Count: 3k

Summary: You’re a second year med student taken in by the house of NCT. It’s not uncommon to be the last to learn things within the house but when your safety is threatened, you’re forced to leave home with no option. But it only makes things worse.

A/N: my tags werent working and it really bothered me, sorry. Prev | next _____

The car ride to wherever you were going was very awkward, it was painfully clear that this group of people you were taken by were an extremely hostile group. The leader who previously had so much interest in you was now completely ignoring your presence.

You sit in the car, wedged between two members who you learnt went by the name of Jimin and V. You try to hold back your voice and the quiet sniffles but it’s a struggle. As you feel time drag out you can’t help but think you’re only getting further and further away from home; and you begin to sob uncontrollably.

A heavy sigh comes out from the man driving, “Can someone shut her up? I’m trying to drive.”

The two men at your sides only shrug at each other and you stifle your sobs as hard as you can, not wanting to anger them and endanger yourself more – but it’s a struggle.

Finally, the leader who is sitting in the passenger seat turns to look at you, his eyes a fury red “For fucks sake, princess can you please be quiet?”

You choke back the cry that’s about to leave your lips and pinch down on your thigh in an attempt to focus on the pain instead.

“V block her sight, we’re almost near.” The driver calls out, signalling to the man beside you. The member on your right begins to shuffle in his seat, searching in his pocket for something. He pulls out a line of fabric and leans over to tie it around your head. You hold your breath as your vision becomes blinded by darkness; fighting to stay still. He gives it a little tug around your head and you jerk at the tightness letting a quiet growl of annoyance and pain.

It’s only a matter of minutes before the car finally pulls to a stop. You turn your head around, clueless of what to do as you hear doors open and shut.

“Get out.” An unfamiliar voice tells you. You shuffle further away from him, refusing to move and he sighs, reaching in and pulling you by force – out the car with a heavy grunt. You stand behind him, your arms flailing for support as you step with caution and no vision. An arm grabs you by your wrist and drags you up to what you presume is a staircase.

“Slow down.” You yelp, trying to keep up with his pace.

“Stop being so fucking slow.” The guy grumbles

“Then give me my goddamn sight back.”

Finally, the guy leading you has enough and you bump into his figure, almost falling at the sudden impact. “Fucking hell.” He mutters as you hear him fishing through something.

Unknowingly to you, he reaches into his pant pocket pulling out a white material and a small bottle. Unscrewing the lid, he empties some of its contents onto the cloth.

“Why’d we stop?” you ask, your stomach turning at the unexpected cease of movement.

The guy turns around, gripping your wrists together and the smell hits you faster than you realise. You struggle against his hold trying to fight back but when you finally fly free, hands link around your arms, cuffing them behind your back.

“Got you.” The voice behind you laughs.

“Let me go!” you scream, releasing the last bit of breath you have before you sink to the floor and lose consciousness.

***

“She’s awake.” You hear an unfamiliar voice says, the person stands at a distance from you, staring at your direction. He has sharp eyes and a set jaw; from where you were looking he seemed really tall as well, but you aren’t certain.

Your vision’s blurry as you sit up, falling in and out of consciousness for a good 20 minutes, until the faces and voices around you start to become clearer. You scan your surroundings lazily, aware of the soft bedsheets under your skin. The room was simply put together; a couple of dim lights, a bed, table, and a connected bathroom.

You’re unaware that there’s another man standing in your room as he’s covered by the shadows of the dim lighting. As you attempt to get out of the bed, he steps out from the doorway.

“There’s no point looking around, you’re not getting out unless told.” He sneers.

You close your eyes, trying to regulate your heavy breathing and the ringing voices that you could hear coming from different sides of the room.

“What should we do with her?” the guy closer to you hums to himself, the question rhetorical as he twirls a knife between his fingers.

“Stop scaring her Jungkook.” The voice from the door says, leaning against the frame.

“Why it’s not like RM’s keeping her alive for long anyway.”

You hear footsteps approaching and the two men inside straighten up a little, presenting themselves in a better manner. You look to your left and the door to the bathroom remains open. With little thought, you jump off the bed, darting straight to the entrance, but in two strides, Jungkook catches up with you.

“Where do you think your running off to?” he chuckles, turning you around to face him as he slams your back into the wall with a loud crash. You cry out in pain and drop to the floor.

RM’s voice is easily distinguishable, booming with authority as soon as he enters, “Careful with her.” Jungkook retreats back to his original spot beside the bed, letting RM approach you. “Get up” he tells you, offering his hand to you. You refuse, wrapping your hands around your legs and curling into a smaller ball as he clicks his tongue in annoyance. “I said get up” he warns, bringing his hand close to your face. Who does he think he is? Fucking leaders all think they can demand everything.

You respond by spitting into his palm and turn your head back into your legs.

The other two men in the room stifle back their laughs whilst RM chuckles, wiping his hand on your hair. “What a pain.” He mutters. He takes a step back, signalling the laughing men to come over and pull you up. You yelp when the rough arms tug your arms away from your knees and bring you standing upright. RM smiles, seeming satisfied with you now and he places himself just a few centremetres away from your face.

“Let’s try this again shall we?” he smirks at you disturbingly, sending chills down your pained back and bringing your hairs on your arms to rise. “Who are you to Taeyong?” he asks in a patronising tone, making you feel somewhat sick.

You don't answer him, choosing to look down at your shoes instead. They were still the slippers from the hotel room but now covered in a dirty mess; no longer white. You think back to your arguments with Lucas and his annoying snoring that had kept you up the entire night. If you had fell asleep then maybe you wouldn’t have noticed the ringing, you wouldn't have been bought into this. But would that mean, the boys would be dead? The guy pinches your chin between his thumb and index finger, pulling your head roughly towards his face. “I asked you a question dumb bitch.”

You swallow hard, thinking of something to lie and respond with but before you’re able to answer, someone beats you to it.

The driver from before enters the room, “She was taken in by NCT back in 2018, apparently her parents died in a car accident and they found her.”

“Car accident? Was it suspicious?”

“I’m not sure, I’ll look into it.”

“Thanks J-hope.”

Jungkook still holding tightly onto your arm grins to himself as he murmurs the words aloud, “And here I thought you were Taeyong’s girlfriend.”

The leader turns his attention back to you, tracing his fingers over your lips, “Who are you to him princess?” he coos, stroking the side of your face in a less than comforting way and staring straight at your eyes, squinting slightly. You answer back straight away, this time, not wanting to repeat the same mistake.

“I’m just someone they took pity on.” You mutter.

“Did your boyfriend teach you to lie as well?” he asks, edging his face closer to yours in attempt to intimidate you.

“He’s not my boyfriend and I’m telling the truth. I barely see or talk to Taeyong and it wasn't even him who found me. He doesn't care about me.” You wanted to sound brave, but your voice comes out with little confidence, just the squeaking noise that makes you look more pathetic as you struggle against the grip tightly around you. “Just let me go.”

“Sorry sweetie but that can’t happen.”

You heart was racing out of fear at the realisation that every single man in the room was staring at you. A few other unfamiliar faces who had joined in on the show without you noticing. You try to think logically, coming up with a plan that would ensure your survival for as long as you could last.

“If she means nothing to them… we can kill her, right?” Jungkook asks, a bit too excitedly.

“No, not yet.” The other member on your right mumbles

“Why are you always ruining my fun Jin.” Jungkook groans. “Oh okay how about torture her instead? She might even expose some secrets along the way.”

“No.”

RM starts walking towards the door of the room, leaving as he picks up a call on his phone. “You guys can keep an eye on her for now, I’ll be right back.” And with that, he walks out the room, slamming the door behind him.

***

Night comes fast. The two men from previously, Jin and Jungkook had stuck with you the entire time, watching you like a hawk as you sat still in bed, spacing out in your thoughts. They stayed silent and finally disappeared after staring for hours on end when you ducked under your covers and fell asleep.

When you wake up, you realise it’s only early in the morning, the clock on the wall indicating around 3am. There’s no one in your room and you decide it’s probably worth checking if your bedroom door was locked from the outside. You tiptoe over to the door, pushing down on the lever as softly as possible and it clicks open; the door creaking as it swings. You gasp softly as the corridor comes into view.

The corridors are long, hollow and dark once again being illuminated by only the moonlight coming through the far window. You don’t know where you’re going but you were going to have to guess your way as best as you can. It’s dead silent as you move and you assume everyone’s fast asleep, taking the opportunity to tip toe as fast as you can.

When you come to a corner you and turn swiftly, your heart skips a beat at the sound of sharpening knives.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

Your mind goes blank and your heart drops; you were so close. You back away, turning around and begin to run in the opposite direction where you came from, travelling down an unknown route. As you hear something clatter on the floor beside you, you sprint faster realising knives are being thrown at you.

“The further you run the worst it’ll be.” He shouts. You hear the back of your shirt being teared as the knife skims past you, nipping at your skin. Ignoring the pain, you take another turn and realise you’ve made it into what looks similar to the meeting room back at home. There’s a phone at the end of the table and you dart towards it after locking the door.

“Come out, come out wherever you are.” Jungkook sings out, twirling his knives in his hands as he approaches the door.

You stumble at the phone, quickly punching in the number you had been forced to memorise for situations like this. The line rings once, and you start biting at your nails, on the second ring you can hear the door handle jiggling, on the third ring – someone finally picks up.

“Hello?” the voice answers.

“Johnny?”

The voice comes out in a ramble, urgently asking a string of questions, “Y/N? Is that you? Where are you? Are you okay?”

“I don't know where I am,” you cry, clutching onto the phone, “I think I’m at their house or something.”

“Are you okay?”

You slide down to the floor, choking down your sobs. “No, help me, I don't know what to do.”

Johnny can hear the broken down tears in your voice and it brings a great deal of pain to him being so far apart. But the only way he can help you now is to offer you instructions, “They won’t hurt you Y/N, just listen to them okay? Don’t anger them. We’re trying to find you now.”

You nod frantically, forgetting that he’s unable to see you, “I think there go-”

Your words are cut off as you hear the door creak open. Your heart pounds against your chest as you breathe heavily into the phone, watching Jungkook’s footsteps pace slowly around the entrance of the door. Your hand is covering your mouth to prevent yourself screaming and exposing yourself but it’s too late. Jungkook clicks his tongue, scraping the knife against the wall as he bends down into a squatting position. You watch as his chest comes into view, then his shoulders, then his mouth, and finally his eyes.

“Found you.” ________

Back at home:

As soon as the door shuts, Taeyong rolls his head back, letting out a soft swear as his mind runs in a mess. He’s aware Mark is somewhere within the house, having noticed his movement earlier on when you were still there.

“I’m calling for the others.” Haechan informs Mark, pulling his phone out to call for everyone to group together. “Be careful going down, they might still be around.”

Mark and Johnny give a nod to each other before moving down the stairs, splitting up to search the area first.

“Left side’s clear”

“Right side clear.” Mark repeats, heading straight to Winwin. He holds his breath as he places a finger on the unconscious boy’s neck, checking for a pulse as everyone stands silently, waiting for his confirmation, “he’s alive.”

The members give a nod and relax visibly, everyone much less anxious than before.

“Sorry we’re late guys.” Johnny mutters, untying the bonds from Yuta first. Yuta pulls out the cloth in his mouth and spits it out.

“They fucking ambushed us.” He growls, turning to his side and freeing Jaehyun. Johnny works at the rope around Jeno’s hands.

“Why was Y/N here?” Jaehyun asks, groaning in pain as he sits against the wall, pressing into the wound at his side.

“Their leader called her here apparently. Threatened her with our lives.” Mark responds, being the one you told directly.

“Fucking bastard.”

Mark moves over to help Taeyong as Yuta crouches beside Winwin, checking for other injuries and preparing to administer basic first aid. “Hey Jeno can you go get the first aid kit from the kitchen?”

Jeno nods, disappearing further into the house to look for supplies.

Haechan walks down the stairs, joining Yuta to look after the unconscious member, “They’re on their way.”

Once everyone’s finally free, Johnny glances over the mess of the ruined room. The members are all injured varying with severe bleeding to bruises and cuts on faces and body parts; and as well as that, you were missing. Johnny rakes a hand through his hair in frustration, the silent room eating at his nerves as everyone keeps themselves busy, “Taeyong I think you should explain to us what’s going on. What are they accusing you of?”

All eyes are trained on Taeyong as he tries to get back up on his feet, turning around to face the group.

“RM and I grew up together as kids,” he whispers out, only slightly audible, “he thinks I killed his younger brother and I’m guessing he’s here for revenge.”

“Did you?” Haechan asks.

“No. I was framed, but I don't know by who.”

“And taking Y/N is revenge?” Johnny confirms, his anger boiling.

“I’m assuming so.”

Johnny turns to the wall, keeping his breath steady as he attempts to calm himself. He was one of the members who had been on the minority side, arguing that you would be safer staying with the group rather than leaving the city, “Fucking hell.”

It’s quiet for the next 20 minutes or so as everyone tries to help each other out, grabbing bandages and all the medical supplies for Kun when he arrives. Just as Yuta and Jeno lock themselves around Winwin, the door opens and the members pile in.

Doyoung who happens to enter first stands struck in starlight, unsure what to say, “Wow you guys look...”

Jisung follows after, finishing his sentence, “Great.”

“Better than usual for sure.” Chenle pipes up.

“Bring Winwin downstairs, I’ll meet you there.” Kun informs the boys, heading straight to the infirmary with Renjun trailing hot behind him.

“Did you find anything?” Taeyong asks, directing his question to Doyoung.

“Jisung’s been trying to find the vehicle that left the house. We lost them at a turn.”

“They turned at a corner and the camera in that area seems to be switched off.” Jisung explains.

The leader falls back against the chair, clutching onto the burning pain, “Damn it.”

***

The members move swiftly throughout the day, allocating themselves to a task whether it was cleaning up, helping in the infirmary, or finding your location. A day had already passed since you were last seen.

While most people followed the orders well, Johnny seemed to struggle with concentrating on his task. He avoids Taeyong, knowing that he’d only lash out at the leader if he says a word. Instead, he chooses to sit on his balcony just outside his room and he leans into the comfort of his chair. He taps continuously on the table beside him as he stares at the moon, wondering if you’re okay, if you’re fighting back.

The sudden vibration in his back pocket brings him out of his trance. He digs for the phone, pulling it out and debating whether to answer the unknown number. He places the phone to his ear, sighing as he answers, “Hello?”

#nct #nct mafia #nct imagines #nct scenarios #nct fanfics #nct johnny #nct127 #nct dream #nct taeyong #mafia #nct mark #kpop #nct reactions #kpop mafia #kpop imagines #kpop scenarios #mafia imagines

203 notes · View notes

doorsclosingslowly · 3 years

Text

Your death is a number but I cannot count that high (10/16)

In which Obi-Wan’s day gets worse. And worse.

Zombie Savage AU | 3k | warnings for body horror, mention of sexual assault

Obi-Wan’s troopers are staying mostly out of sight, aside from the few of them doing key maintenance or still manning the helm to enable quick escape if necessary. He knows they disapprove of the fact that he’s leading Savage Opress, renegade Sith apprentice and apparent undead creature and slayer of uncounted of their brothers and two Jedi, onto their small reconnaissance spaceship. He can’t see them, but he can still feel the worrying glares.

He also knows it’s necessary.

Identifying Darth Sidious is of utmost priority.

For the war effort. For the Republic. For the Jedi Order. For Obi-Wan himself, who’s lost so much to the machinations of this Sith, from Qui-Gon a decade ago to friends and soldiers daily right now.

He doesn’t quite know what breaching into the zabrak’s head will entail, but Obi-Wan will be likely out of commission for some time, which should be much safer on the ship. Plus, they are going to leave Entralla anyway. Once they know who Sidious is, they’ll make for his location posthaste—with an optional detour to Coruscant, should he decide he needs reinforcement. If everyone’s already on board, it will speed up the process. And the zabrak isn’t currently hostile.

He’s following Obi-Wan onto the ship without another word, head slightly bowed and apparently incurious.

He follows him into a small unused cabin.

He stands there, unmoving except for the metal insectoids in his cheek.

“How do you want to do this?” Obi-Wan has always been a courteous host. Even facing the undead creature that watched Satine die, it’s hard to shake the instinct.

Opress glances around the room. Only the wriggling of his cables betrays his nerves—if that is what it means.

“You suggested this. I know the Jedi ways of entering a mind—” in theory, and it was never Obi-Wan’s focus of study, though as unexpectedly easy as interaction with the grunting and brutal Sith is turning out to be, he mustn’t expose any lack of surety without reason— “but I assume you know your own techniques for mindmelding. Your familiarity might make this easier.”

“The cot.” Opress pulls at it until it’s dead center in the small room, then strips off the bedding and tosses it into a corner. “This ship is not earthen, but at least it is currently touching the soil, even if it’s not the soil of… It should be darker here. Can you locate braziers?”

“No.” Open fire? Inside a spaceship cabin? It would take a skilled engineer an hour to even shut off the smoke alarms because they are so elementary for safety.

“Then the electric light will serve in its place,” Opress rumbles. It’s hard to work out whether he’s disappointed. “I will strip—” he touches his shoulder pad, the one that was a clone’s helmet an hour ago, and shies away as if burned— “I will lie down now. You will stand behind my head.”

Obi-Wan follows his direction. The earth, the fire, the dark, and their arrangement—it seems deeply ritualistic, and although the Sith tend towards the dramatic he’s never thought them this primitive. In a less dire situation, this would be interesting.

“You will raise your hands. I will close my eyes.”

From the vantage point right above the supine zabrak, Opress looks even more wretched than he appeared on the battlefield. Occasionally, Obi-Wan can see straight through one of the holes in his chest before thick wriggling cables block his view. The other’s filled with an emitter guard—with Opress’ saber’s emitter guard. His torso is well-covered with junkyard debris, and where skin peeks through armor or trash it only seems slightly discolored. The arms are a different matter: the left forearm is prosthetic, of course, dull and lifeless compared to the rest of him, and the upper arms are sore-ridden and blistering and shiny with blaster burns. There is a deep gash all the way lengthwise down his right forearm, stuffed with crap, and the skin at the edges is swollen and purpling black. Flecks of trash move across the gash restlessly like misshapen ants. Despite Savage Opress’ size, somehow, he looks small.

“And then?”

Ridiculously, Opress looks offended. He rumbles, “You do magic.”

“Magic?”

A deep sigh heaves Opress’ metal-studded chest. His brows bunch. He bites his lip. Then, he rumbles, almost monotonously, “I gave myself up for my brother. Brothers. I am here now, and I will not resist. Picture it. I gave myself up. I will not resist. I paid the price for his life. I offer myself for my brother. I am here, Mother, Your Weapon, and whatever Your magic—"

Obi-Wan almost chokes on his vomit. The acid settles, uncomfortably, in his esophagus. Hunts have been lean recently, and there’s not much more to bring up. What hunts—The acid resists being swallowed because he’s lying down. He’s flat on his back and it’s dark outside his closed eyelids and he is terrified. He can feel the musty air on his bare chest, and he wishes he had something to cover himself. Anything. Only this isn’t what he’s been brought here for, he knows, he will soon be bred and—he’s lucky he still has his skirt. It won’t be long now. Maybe She will accept his lack of experience, and despite the tales She will be gentle. Only some Sisters enjoy causing pain.

It won’t be long, he thinks, trying to swallow back bitter spittle, trying to even out his breaths, it won’t be long, and the green that flashes behind his eyelids and seeps deep into his bones is no more vivid than the stone under his back. It won’t be long. It won’t last. It won’t be long.

He sinks.

He—there was a purpose here. He had a purpose. He is… He is Jedi. He’s Obi-Wan.

He’s Obi-Wan, and he just entered this mind.

This isn’t real, or rather—

It isn’t now.

He needs to find out a way to navigate these memories. Find Sidious. Find the Sith’s face. The fate of the Republic depends upon it. He can’t dwell on these… revelations about Opress, disturbing though they are, for all their sake.

Sidious, Obi-Wan tries thinking. Darth Sidious.

He’s still on the slab.

Savage might not care enough about the other Sith, he decides. This seems like a traumatic memory. Maybe it’s easier to access these, and what did Savage say…? The monster slaughtered him. Killed his brother. Maul’s death.

Maul’s death, he thinks. Maul is dead. Maul gets dismembered. Maul—

The crib is the only thing upright in this room. All other scarce furnishings have been torn asunder, searched and searched and searched and turned over as if something could possibly hide under a thin strip of linen.

The crib is an altar, and he kneels before it. He’s been kneeling for days.

The crib is empty.

He failed.

The baby is gone.

No, that’s not what Obi-Wan needs. Maul is dead. Maul is—

Maul is everywhere here, suffusing the air, a green tether—

Maul is dead. Maul is dead.

“What have they done to you, brother?” Obi-Wan can feel his mouth form the syllables, mournful and hard. “How could anybody do this? Hurt you, brother?”

They left the cave the day before yesterday, and finally, finally the brother in the cargo hold gave in to exhaustion and fell asleep. Finally, finally he can inspect him, from the safety of the door’s window, in bright shiplight.

Maul is on the floor curled into a quarter circle, though it’s obvious he would have taken a fetal position if his body allowed it. His metal arachnid abdomen sticks straight down, awkwardly.

His horns are far overgrown and rough, making him look friendless and undignified, but that’s the least pressing issue.

He’s emaciated.

He only got a few tossed pouches of reconstituted spiced meat because eating too much after starving makes you sick, and he wolfed them down. He emptied the hydrosacks much more carefully, sticking his tongue into the opening after so as not to waste a single drop. Water must have been scarcer than food on Lotho Minor.

Food and drink, that’s all he could give Maul. It’s not all his brother needs: companionship, perhaps, solace and sanity, and above all healing and care. Whoever fitted his grotesque prosthetic held no love at all for Maul, for they did nothing to protect his flesh. Maul’s stomach skin is inflamed all over, in places even gangrenous or with open sores smearing pus and blood all over the floor. It’s a miracle he still lives. But he does.

Someone cut him in half and he lived and someone screwed a spider’s ass into him and he lived and someone cut him and he lived and someone screwed it in and he lived and some monster cut Savage’s little brother in half and—

Maul’s dead, Obi-Wan thinks. Maul’s dead. Maul’s dead.

He’s tiny and feverish, and Savage got him just a fortnight ago and it’s already going wrong, he’ll fail his baby brother and—

I didn’t know, Obi-Wan thinks. I didn’t. But I still need to find—

The crib is empty.

It swings, slightly, in the storms.

The body he wears is sobbing.

Maul’s dead.

Maul is worrying his lip thinking of his brother right this moment in the bright green air—this doesn’t feel like—he’s kneeling in his room, but even knowing he might be able to feel the force connection will not allow him to settle into meditation. Savage is in the grasp of Sidious. Savage has been in his grasp for weeks while Maul idled—this isn’t the Maul of these memories—and any liberation might come too late. If they succeed, which they won’t. But still, his brother—this is real. It’s not a memory. Maul’s alive—his brother survived and Maul tried so hard to keep him and—what did Maul do?!—

Focus. Sidious. Sidious’ face. Maul’s... injury?

He never thought there was anyone more powerful than his brother in the galaxy, and he was wrong. Simple hero worship, he was dimly aware, and gratitude and adoration, and he hadn’t followed Maul for his strength anyway, but still, sometimes, he’d glanced sideways and thought, You could wipe the floor with Master Dooku. If he wanted to electrocute me now, you’d kill him, because I’m with you now. I’m your apprentice. He hadn’t thought, you could take on the Mother. But he also hadn’t not thought it.

The twin disasters against Kenobi hadn’t changed his mind. Kenobi might have had the upper hand those times, but he still was a gnat. Hey what…

He’d thought that there was no-one more powerful than Maul, and he’d been happy. Maul would live. Maul’s alive. Obi-Wan just felt his presence but—

He’d thought that there was none more powerful than his brother.

And then, the monster came.

The monster who stole the toddler Savage should have raised and tortured him instead, who is just as supercilious and cruel and ugly as Savage suspected. He wears a heinous purple hood robe—he’s hiding his face but Obi-Wan needs to see it—and he just kills Miks and Jema. Maul, immediately and obviously terrified, tries to placate him with lies of servitude. Getting smashed against the wall hurts less than hearing Maul call the creep Master.

Distantly, Obi-Wan catalogues the fighting stances used by the body he’s inside and the two others, though focusing mostly on trying to get a clear view of Sidious’ face. That chin seems oddly familiar. Too familiar. Who is… The body—Savage—has other priorities, glancing back and again at Maul. Maul, who has to live. Maul’s unconscious now, and Savage won’t win, but maybe in his struggle and death he will buy enough time for his baby brother to get away—a blurred view of the face but it’s clear enough and—Maul has to get away—Palpatine—the monster whirls around—the Chancellor?!—and pain, pain—the Chancellor—pain—the Chancellor, Obi-Wan left Anakin so often alone with him and the Chancellor is the Sith Lord—pain—the—

Floor, far away, for a minute. Not long left. Only time for—a hand, grasping his, and Maul. Oh, Maul. Oh, brother.

“I am an unworthy apprentice,” ground out with the last of bis breaths. An apology. A goodbye, because he’s leaving Maul here with his old nightmare and if Savage were better, if he were just a little bit better, he could have protected… “I never—”

Maul doesn’t accept. His hand is hot against Savage’s mouth. Savage bites down on reflex and the green light rises—Obi-Wan’s seen too much of this light, what does it mean—the green light rises and Maul forces it deep into his brother, with his own body and his mind unheeding the brutality or material reality, while the vortex of magic swirls and swirls around them. Debris sticks like static to his skin—Obi-Wan can feel it and he can feel Maul giving in to anything that may grant power, and oh, Savage outside these memories is crafted and reinforced with trash and does that mean—the light pulls shrapnel and detritus left on the battlefield inside and forms—and Darth Maul forms an undead behemoth out of the almost-corpse of his brother.

Darth Maul did this.

A technobeast.

That’s what they are called, amalgamations of organic and machine matter.

Obi-Wan read of mechu-deru, and mechu-deru vitae, after the reappearance of dismembered Darth Maul when a sai tok should have ended him. A prosthetic lower body is within the remits of the eccentric darkside art of mechu-deru, but Savage the undead machinistic creature extends far beyond that and into sheer barbarism. Mechu-deru allows its practitioner to understand and influence inanimate and robotic constructs. On the lowest end…

The technobeast.

Metal and flesh intermixed to create a weaponized cyborg. A willing slave.

Darth Maul was willing to lobotomize his own brother.

He made a weapon of his brother.

That Maul could sink so…

And still, pervasively, poor Opress loves him.

Obi-Wan’s seen enough.

He’s seen the face of Darth Sidious—seen Palpatine—and he now knows the true depths of Maul’s depravity. He only has to wake up and inform the Jedi Council now. He must wake up.

He must wake—

A finger touches his forehead. It feels strange, as if his body had never before been touched. He opens his eyes in the dark musty Temple, and soon his eyes land on the Sister who won him. Who will breed him. He wraps his hand around Her neck, and distantly he is surprised both that he is angry—that he dares resist—and that his hand dwarfs her neck, but still he chokes Her and She begs, “Let me go,” but he won’t because he hates Her and then the Mother says, “Calmly, Sister,” and She repeats, “Let me go,” and he stops.

He stops.

Stops.

He stands up.

“Now, for the final test,” She who is Power says.

And They carry in a brother he thinks he should know and She who is Power orders him to kill the brother and, wrapping his hand around another neck and feeling like he should remember every single meal and every hunt and every night and every tear and every word and every laugh they ever shared, he does.

He kills the brother.

It’s Feral.

He killed Feral—

Obi-Wan sicks up his lunch. And his breakfast, for good measure.

“Did you find Sidious?” Opress rumbles from his cot.

He appears completely impassive, as if Obi-Wan hadn’t just seen him mourn the baby he lost and choke another of his brothers to death and skewered through the hearts by Darth Sidious—by Chancellor Palpatine, and they are doomed, doomed, how could this just slip by, how could Obi-Wan entrust his padawan to a monster for hours upon hours, how could the Republic just fall to his sway and if he commands Dooku then what does this mean for the war that has been destroying all of them for years—seen Opress killed by Sidious and then turned into a machine slave by Darth Maul, who’s meant to be Opress’ brother and Obi-Wan always assumed that he felt at least a modicum of comradeship for his kind, but if he’s ready to plumb these moral depths… Maul, who apparently, is also still alive.

It’s a bit much.

Obi-Wan feels faint. He pulls a chair out with the force and sits.

Opress, meanwhile, sits up on his cot. The cables on his chest wave and wrap tightly around him—a sickening testament to Darth Maul’s malice. They jitter. “You—recognized him?” Opress asks.

“I did,” Obi-Wan replies tonelessly. “It’s Supreme Chancellor Palpatine.”

“Good. Where does this Chancellor live?”

“Where does—” Obi-Wan doesn’t have the energy for this. “He lives on Coruscant.”

“Then let us go and kill him.”

“We can’t just kill the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic—” Something dawns upon Obi-Wan. He laughs hysterically. “You have no idea who that is, do you?”

“I don’t.” Savage Opress doesn’t appear any less buoyed by his gross ignorance. Maybe that is a result of the brain damage caused by Darth Maul’s ritual. “It doesn’t matter. I am the last weapon of the Mother. She resurrected me, and I shall avenge Her, and then I’ll die.”

Obi-Wan should probably tell him that Darth Maul used mechu-deru to enslave him and that’s why he’s an undead machine-contaminated monster now. He will. He will, soon, but his first duty is to the galaxy and the Jedi and the Republic, and Sidious is the most dire threat by far. He can’t afford the time to explain what he just found out to this hapless creature, and technobeasts according to the book were renowned for their power. Perhaps Opress will be instrumental in taking down the Sith Lord.

It’s not even deception. A lot of deception, anyway. Opress wants to kill Darth Sidious. That’s why he accosted Obi-Wan. The man killed him, after all. There’ll be time for truth later and—

The comm system whirrs alive. “General, we’re being boarded!”

It turns off, like there’s not even time for another missive.

Kriff.

Who could it be but Sidious?

Obi-Wan hasn’t even commed the Jedi Order.

And if he already found out then…

Obi-Wan sprints towards the door. Opress pushes himself off the cot. The air grows thicker, and thicker, and both keel over.

#savage opress #savage oppress #zombie savage au #dimtraces makes things

8 notes · View notes

starrynite7114 · 4 years

Text

two sides of reality: two

A/N: I have been overwhelmed with the response you have all given me for not only this story, but my other stories as well. I just want to thank you all for just taking time out of your day to read my stories. I love seeing the likes and comments you guys have been living me. Thank you so much! I hope you all enjoy this latest chapter.

The next prompt should be posted in two days. Snapshots update will be posted by the end of the week and another one-shot I have planned will be posted at the end of the weekend. I might post snapshot first, really depends where my muse will be this next few days since I have finals. But I will post for sure!

For anyone else having finals this week, good luck!

Thank you all again! <3

Masterlist

tagged list: @justahopelessssromantic ; @iambabyharry ; @thegirlwhowritesfics ; @carlaangel86

Angel parked his bike beside Coco, Gilly parking beside him. EZ opted out, reasoning that he had some reading to do. Angel didn’t answer. Between himself and EZ, Rhian was a sore subject. EZ blamed him, always did when it came to Rhian, which he understood. It was his foolishness that broke their friendship, a ten year friendship down the drain. But EZ could have fought for her, the problem was, Emily became his main priority, Rhian truly just became a memory to EZ. At least from Angel’s understanding, that’s what happened.

Daniel had heard the motorcycles and prayed his tio didn’t decide to make a surprised appearance, but to his relief, it was Coco and Gilly, who regularly watched when Rhian was there. But what surprised him was Angel’s appearance.

“The fuck is he doing here?” He heard the disdain in Sergio’s voice.

The bad blood between Sergio and Angel occurred due to various reasons. But the most prominent, at least from what Daniel believed, was that Angel took Sergio’s opportunity with Erica and they never recovered from that. They were never friends, but they were at least cordial till that whole debacle.

Rhian walked over to Daniel and Sergio, waving hello to the Mayans members.

“Tio Taza is going a little overboard with the protection tonight,” Rhian stood beside Sergio, his arm wrapping around her shoulder.

“Angel never goes, why is he here? Is the club being threatened?” Sergio looked at Daniel.

He shrugged. “I don’t keep tabs on them, did you want me to start doing that too besides the numerous things you have me doing?”

“Don’t be such a wise ass.” Sergio rolled his eyes. “This isn’t your scene,” it was the first thing Sergio said, but he didn’t direct it towards Gilly and Coco, who he got along with. It was towards Angel.

“Why, you insecure I’m gonna steal your thunder?” Angel smugly retorted.

“Okay, okay, let’s not play who has the bigger dick,” Rhian rolled her eyes. “I’m dipping right after my race.”

“You’re the only race, drifting makes too much noise.” Daniel looked at the time, ten minutes till start. “Are you leaving for Seattle after your exam tomorrow?”

“Yes, well depending when this old man gets up,” she playfully smacked Sergio’s stomach.

“You’re such a brat,” Sergio shook his head.

“Seattle?” Coco questioned.

“Sergio goes with you?” Daniel never knew this fact. He always thought that Rhian went alone. At times Sergio was gone the same time as Rhian, but he always thought Sergio was in LA since his daughter was over there.

“Not all the time,” Rhian and Sergio shared a look. This didn't go unnoticed by Angel who was surprised by this. Did the two have something going on under Daniel’s nose? There was no fucking way. “He just joins me to make sure I don’t die.”

Daniel frowned. At times, he was intimidated by the relationship Sergio and Rhian shared. Sergio just seemed to be the better older brother to her and it didn’t sit well with Daniel every now and then, especially now.

“Don’t do that, it’s nothing big. He has a girl he sleeps with in Seattle.” That was a lie, but it wasn’t far fetched. Sergio was a good looking guy, he’s had his fair share of women.

“Oh, Daniella?”

Daniel fell for it and Sergio couldn’t believe just how well Rhian could lie at times.

“Yes, psycho,” Rhian agreed. “See you boys later.”

Rhian passed by Angel, smiling at him as she did. She wasn’t sure why Angel was here today, but she hoped this wouldn’t be a normal occurrence. She didn’t have a problem with Angel, whatever happened in high school, stayed there. Him and his brother were the ones who avoided her or acted awkward towards her. But she didn’t mind. The Reyes men were trouble and she rather steer clear from that.

“So, abandoned parking lot, I’m guessing she’s drifting?” Coco looked around and he knew that the only reason that the cops weren’t swarming the parking lot was due to their connections. The cops didn’t bat their eyes on street races in an abandoned parking lot, it was much more controlled than a drag race in the streets.

Drifting refers to a driving technique where the driver intentionally oversteers, causing loss of traction in the rear wheels through turns, while maintaining vehicle control and a high exit speed.

It was another form of racing. Not quite like the straight shot races where you had four cars battling it out on the streets of California. Drifting was slightly different.

For example, the usual drifting races only had two cars racing at a time and the usual venue for this type of race was a parking structure. The objective of drifting was to be the first one to get to the top of the parking structure. In every floor of the parking structure there were cars waiting for the racers to come up, recording the race on their phones, cameras, or GoPro’s. While the competitors make their way up the structure, the people from the first floor usually make their way up to see who wins. Some stay downstairs to prepare for the next race.

Basically, the objective of the race was to be the first car to reach the top floor. But the difference with other races was that one had to do it in style. Glide at every corner, with full control of your car, flawless being the key cause if you weren’t your car would end up totaled or worse, someone could die.

“Didn’t think this type of scene was still thriving, Fast and the Furious ain’t doing it for you two?” Gilly loved pulling Sergio and Daniel’s leg. They took this seriously, but he knew that the reason they were so invested since it brought in business for them.

“Everyone wants to emulate,” Sergio smirked.

“Can’t believe you let your sister put her life on the line like this,” Angel commented, causing both Daniel and Sergio to narrow their eyes at him.

“That’s rich, coming from the asshole who broke her fucking heart.” Sergio spat out with venom.

Daniel watched Sergio walk away and make his way over to the other members of their team, Knockout. “Listen Reyes, no one invited you to come and if you actually think I can tell my sister what to do, it just shows how much you don’t know Rhian.” He followed after Sergio.

“You just had to open your fucking mouth,” Coco shook his head, taking out a cigarette. “I told you, it was a bad idea for you to come here.”

“Why did you come? You never cared about Rhian before.” Gilly added.

“How the fuck would you know that I don’t care about her?” Angel countered.

“No need to get hostile hermano, I’m just pointing out that you and baby brother avoid Rhian like the fucking plague.” Much like Coco, Gilly knew of what occurred years ago between Rhian, Angel and EZ. The three never talked about it and for him, EZ and Angel was ashamed and for Rhian, well, it was years ago. She had other things to worry about that things that occurred in high school.

“See, told you I wasn’t the only one who noticed.” Coco scoffed.

Angel chose to remain quiet. He didn’t need to tell them his reasons. Him and Rhian had enough time to avoid one another, maybe it was time for him to grow a pair and make it up to her like he always wanted to do so.

Rhian inspected her car, making sure everything was in order.

“Rhi, I made some modifications in your car, should be able to drift much smoother than last time,” Aaron informed her, his handy tablet on hand. “We changed the shifter and it should be able to tell you when is the best time to shift.” It’s not that she needed a computer telling her to do so, but Aaron liked putting in the latest technology in Rhian’s car.

“You spoil me.”

“Someone has to.”

“Rhian, always a sight to see,” her opponent, Joey greeted her.

“Joey, still running the harem,” she nodded her head over towards the four women wearing white shirts behind his car. “How do you keep up?”

“You can join and find out.” He winked at her.

“Watch it mother fucker!” Sergio called out, hearing his comment.

“Tell your dog to heel, it was a joke.” Joey held his hands up.

Rhian laughed. “I don’t know, maybe it’s about time you get your ass beat by someone.”

“Why not put your money where that pretty mouth is and let’s add a stipulation.”

“And what is that?”

“I win, you go on a date with me, if I lose, I’ll double the amount.”

She enjoyed egotistical bastards like Joey who thought with their dick. This wasn’t the first time a stipulation such as this was added. Men were such simple creatures, especially men like Joey. To get their dick wet, they were willing to double an hefty amount of money just to appease their own ego.

Rhian thrived on that.

“So you’re gonna put in ten grand for a date that isn’t even guaranteed?”

“Oh, it is baby, your cute little mouth is going to be wrapped around my cock by the end of the night.” Joey looked over at the Knockout members, who were now joined by the Mayans. His brows furrowed, swallowing hard, knowing he may have stepped the line, but he was already in there.

“Guess we’ll have to see,” Rhian gave him a tight smile, looking back at her brother who did not look happy with Joey’s comment.

Rhian slipped inside her car, nodding her head towards the host. She turned her car on, taking a deep breath. Another race, another thousands of dollars in her savings. Once she was done with the cartel debt, which was in two months, then she could go wherever she wanted. It was insane how she was surrounded by so many people, yet, she felt alone. Everyone has their own interest and after being screwed over multiple times, she learned to take care of number one, herself.

The host stood in front of the two cars. The two women on the edge of the start line, dresses leave little to the imagination.

He pointed to the woman to his right. “Ready?” She said.

He pointed to the woman to his left. “Ready?”

“Go!” The host extended his hand to the front, signaling the drivers to be on their way.

As soon as they heard the host say the two letter word, Rhian and Joey immediately accelerated, Joey claiming first place immediately. He shifted gears perfectly, his smirk growing as he did. There was no one better than him in drifting, in every county in California, he has beaten everyone who had to be beat. Beating Daniel’s precious baby sister would be just icing on top of his already well layered cake. Daniel beat him years ago and he could never get the best of him. But he would now, even if it was over his sister. It was basically the same thing, except he would get a date after as well.

The first turn was coming. Joey looked over to his side view mirror and Rhian was closely behind him. Before colliding with the wall, Joey swiftly turned his steering wheel, perfectly drifting on his first corner, accelerating once more to the next corner. A few cars were on the side, cameras out awaiting on them.

Rhian, who was caught off guard by Joey’s speed, almost collided with the wall, but she recovered quickly enough to swiftly drift around the corner, accelerating faster to meet up with Joey. She knew she had to shift perfectly or Joey would win. There was no way she was going to lose to this prick.

Joey looked at his rear view mirror and found Rhian right behind him. He turned once more, nearly missing a spectator that was a little too close to the track line. Joey slightly swerved, but he recovered quickly, accelerating once more.

Rhian turned right after Joey, finally being placed right beside him since the parking lot grew wider. She knew that she had one more floor to go before reaching the top.

She couldn’t break concentration now.

She had to beat Joey.

The turn was coming up, Rhian was slightly in front of Joey now. Their cars were still neck to neck, but Rhian was winning. They turned at the same time, their bumpers were so closed to the wall, you would have thought that they scratched it. Rhian almost hit a car as she turned, but thankfully her car wasn’t that wide to hit it. She accelerated, leaving Joey behind. The road to the top was narrow and it was like a slide that you had to climb up with your car. If she got their first, she would surely win against Joey.

Joey couldn’t believe what he was seeing, Rhian was an amazing drifter, just like her brother. It’s not like he expected her to suck, but he didn’t expect her to be good. They never spoke about Rhian in their world. It was always about Daniel and Sergio, how their team was amazing, but nothing compared to them. He watched as Rhian reached the slide first, professionally turning her car in a sideways position, her side of the car facing the road to the top, as it went up the slide. Joey did the same, following right after her car, but she won.

She reached the top first, meeting a crowd of people not at all surprised to see her car to be the one to make it to the top. She stopped right in front of her team, who was cheering for her. Sergio opened the door and grabbed Rhian, dragging her out of her car. He hugged her as the rest of the members congratulated her. Coco, Gilly and Angel joined in, clapping for her, but their eyes were trained on Joey. They heard the disrespectful words he had said to Rhian, they couldn’t let that slide.

Joey’s car made it to the top and parked right beside hers. The crowd was now cheering for Rhian. Joey opened his car door, dismayed by his loss. But he recognized that he lost, he wasn’t an idiot to try and fight his lost, especially with the way the Mayan members were glaring at him.

“A win is a win, I can respect that,” Joey took out the envelope that held the money Rhian won, handing it over. “You’re almost as good as your brother.”

Before Rhian could reply, Coco and Gilly stepped in front of her with Angel in front of them.

“That’s cute, but do you think we can forget how you disrespected her before your race?” Angel gave him a sinister smile.

Joey backed up, holding his hands up. “Listen man, it was just my competitive nature.”

“Competitive nature? So you tell all of your opponents that when you win, they’re gonna suck your dick?”

“Look man, I don’t want any trouble.”

“Angel, it’s okay,” Rhian touched his arm, causing Angel to turn to her. “He’s harmless.”

He sighed and turned to Joey. “You lucky she’s merciful cause I would have had you eating through a fucking tube. Now beat it,” Angel dismissed him.

Joey immediately left.

Angel turned to speak to Rhian, but by the time he did, she was back in her car, going down the way she came up.

“Where’s your sister going?” Angel questioned.

Daniel shrugged. “I don’t know, she got a text message and got back in her car.”

“Do you even care where she’s fucking going?” Angel didn’t understand why Daniel just seemed so nonchalant when it came to Rhian, did he even care about his sister?

“Watch it Ignacio, you don’t know shit about my sister, what she does and where she goes is none of your concern.” Daniel was tired of Angel’s comments towards them. He cared about his sister, but he trusted Rhian. She was never a troublemaker, kept to herself, and that hasn’t changed. “You haven’t been part of her life since high school, why come back now?”

“Yeah, and who’s fault was that?” Angel glanced at Sergio.

“You’re insinuating that I had something to do with this?” Sergio scoffed. “Don’t give me all the credit when this is all on you. Rhian is her own person. Maybe if you weren’t so full of yourself, you would actually have a relationship with Rhian, Ezekiel would as well.” He brushed past Angel, making his way down the stairs where his vehicle was.

Coco just shook his head. “I told you, bad fucking idea.”

“Shut up.”

=================

Rhian parked outside of the dress factory that Galindo owned. She saw motorcycles and just cussed under her breath. Recognizing the bikes, it looked like one of them was Bishop’s. The others, she couldn’t really tell. She’s been doing this for four years and her uncle has never found out, now, the motorcycles that were parked outside made her nervous. They were supposed to be in Mexico or some shit, nowhere near the fucking dress factory. Taking a deep breath, she let it out, making her way into the factory. Once inside, she greeted Galindo’s men, people that she had grown to at least be civil with. She wasn’t an idiot, she knew what they did for a living. One of his men led her to the room where she usually collected the products she moved for the cartel. She thanked the man who led her inside, screaming in her head as her eyes landed on Coco, Angel, Bishop and Gilly, whose eyes widened seeing her.

“Fuck,” she cussed under her breath, moving further in.

“Rhian,” Miguel fondly greeted her. He gave her a hug, leading her further in.

Miguel was a nice man, but Rhian knew it was due to her taking on her ex-boyfriend’s debt. He was nice since he was being paid back. The world wasn’t rainbow and sunshine, she knew of his dark side and quite frankly, all she wanted to do was move on. He was always kind to her and he approached her like a businessman.

His offer was simple.

Take on his debt, or pay for the consequences.

He believed that if he threatened Rhian’s life, her ex-boyfriend, Bryan, would come out of hiding and save her. Well, jokes on him, Bryan was a coward and wouldn’t come out for her.

So she took his debt, but it was more for his family’s safety than his. After he left her at Bakersfield, Bryan could literally fuck himself for all she cared. Miguel somehow found her admirable for taking on his debt even though he did twist her arm to take it.

But she figured it was high honors to gain the respect of a drug lord.

“What are you doing here Rhi?” Coco questioned, not liking this situation whatsoever.

“Rhian has not informed you? She works for me.” Miguel informed them.

“What?” The four Mayans said in unison.

Rhian felt her world becoming smaller and she definitely wished she wasn’t where she currently was.

“What do you mean she works for you?” Bishop asked the question, knowing it was not advisable to seem that you weren’t on Miguel’s side.

“She moves my products up north.” Miguel shrugged, as if it was nothing unheard of and it wasn’t, except no one in the MC knew about this.

Bishop was seething. He saw a Rhian as a part of his family and this was a big secret to withhold from them. He could tell Rhian was uncomfortable with the way she had her hands intertwined in front of her, looking anywhere but him. Suddenly, he was thankful Taza wasn’t here since he would lose his shit.

“Since when?” Angel spoke up this time, his brows furrowing at their current predicament. Rhian was always secretive, which was within her own rights however, this was something she should have kept to himself.

“She’s been doing this for four years, but if she wishes to do so, I do not mind if she continues to work for me. The type of loyalty that she exhibits is what I want for anyone who works under me to possess.” Miguel explained. “I know your paths have never crossed however, due to the recent incidents during the Vegas run, I want someone to come with for her runs.”

Rhian screamed internally, but she figured she had two more months and that was it. The only thing that was going to be painful was her favorite tio finding out. She wanted to tell him, but the last thing she wanted to do was bringing him in all this mess.

It was her choice to take on this debt, she wasn’t going to bring anyone else in this mess.

“Miguel, you know Sergio goes with me.”

It all clicked for Coco, Angel and Gilly then. Daniel’s innocent baby sister was not so innocent after all. And from what they gathered no one knew about her job with the cartel. It didn't make sense for them as to why she would even be a part of the cartel.

“Yes, but Sergio can’t always protect you. I have to be sensible about this. You can have Sergio and a Mayan with you, it would ease my nerves.” Miguel reasoned.

Rhian didn’t want to argue. If this was what he wanted, that would be fine. She would just request for Coco or Gilly to go with her, hell anyone but Taza.

“That’s fine, shouldn’t be a problem.”

Miguel liked Rhian’s low maintenance. She did whatever she had to do, no questions asked, which was the reason he wanted for her to come and become a permanent member of the cartel. He’s sure he could find ways of utilizing her talents. He did his research, he didn’t let anyone come in contact with his cartel without being thoroughly investigated. From what he saw, Rhian’s education was placed on the back burner due to the debt she was currently paying off. Rhian dated Bryan, the man who owed him a large sum of money, ran away instead of facing his consequences, for three years. It shocked him how she agreed to take on his debt, but he admired her loyalty, not to Bryan, to his family.

As she had told him, “innocent people shouldn’t suffer due to his addiction.”

“I will let you all decide which one of you will go with Rhian, please keep her safe.” Miguel said his goodbyes, leaving Rhian to deal with this difficult predicament. It’s not like Miguel knew that Taza didn’t know. She wasn’t even sure if he knew she was related to Taza.

Once they were alone, Bishop spoke up.

“You have some explaining to do.”

#angelreyes #angel reyes fanfiction #angel reyes fic #mayans mc fanfic #mayans mc fic #angel reyes fanfic #tsor #angel reyes

38 notes · View notes

sserpente · 5 years

Photo

A/N: Request from anon. I loved the concept… and then I couldn’t stop writing and it went so well with some other ideas I had and it escalated and ahhh, you guys were supposed to get this Imagine three days ago. Anyway… enjoy reading! ♥ Words: 4628 (oops) Warnings: gore/blood, fluff (the combination doesn’t sound right, now does it)

Here’s an extra warning: I got a bit inspired by “Coriolanus” so there will be a very bloody and graphic scene… stuff I usually don’t write myself. As I said though, I really got inspired by the play so I just went along with it, if anything to not repeat myself with this one scene we all hate so much. It thus also might rip open the wounds Infinity War caused. Therefore, the scene will be marked with “*” at the beginning and the end in case you prefer to skip it.

“It’s a myth.”

“It’s not a myth. They are omens of death.” Thor argued. Grinning smugly, he leaned back and took a sip of his beer.

Tony buried his face in his hands. “You know I started believing in many things when you fell out of the sky to help us fight aliens but… there’s a line. ‘Black angels’? With shimmering wings? Please, Point Break.”

“Well, you wouldn’t know. They say only those before their imminent death can see their wings.”

“Have you ever seen an angel then?”

“No! I told you, they are omens of death. Volstagg’s father… he saw one. He swore he did. One week after, he perished.”

“Coincidence.”

Loki rolled his eyes. He had known before that mortals were ignorant and refused to face reality, Stark’s stubbornness however surprised even him. Many creatures shared their stories in the Old Norse myths, stories which his mother had told him before bed when he was a child.

Angels… omens of death. Black, shimmering wings… they said whoever saw one before death, their soul would leave their body contently… that they were of such beauty it would not compare to any other being in the nine realms. As a young boy, Loki had told Frigga he wanted to see one for himself—and Frigga chided him for wishing for such an atrocious thing.

Shivering, you wrapped your black coat around yourself tighter. You had bought it from a street market for little money which you had stolen from a peasant. High up in the sky, you were never cold. You were free. Those human sensations were downright irksome.

Perhaps it was your own fault you had ended up on Midgard of all places. Stranded and stripped off most of your powers, they had cast you out and forced you to live a mortal life—knowing you would never find friends on a planet inhabited by beings that would not grow half as old as you.

Perhaps you should have joined your people when they swore their allegiance to the purple titan. But you knew you would have made the wrong decision. What Thanos wanted was impossible—and you sincerely hoped he would fail. His lackeys were already spreading dread, fear and death across the planet. You had seen them lurking about, watching his evil plans unfold and wreak havoc when it was fun.

A high-pitched scream ripped you from your thoughts. Turning straight on your heel to see what had caused it, your instincts kicked in. Altruistically saving humans wasn’t high on your priority list, kicking Thanos’ monkeys’ arse, however, was. It felt good to ram your poisoned dagger into their hearts… and it least gave you some satisfaction.

You frowned when you reached the dimly lit alley, scanning the area to analyse the situation. Somebody had beaten you to it. Clenching your fists, you recognised both Tony Stark and Captain America along with a raven-haired man with a sharp jawline and the most stunning blue eyes you had ever seen—Loki, God of Mischief.

Thanos’ lackeys were nowhere in sight. Instead, what part of the Avengers… and Loki put up with was a dirty burglar who seemed to have tried to rob a young woman who was currently shaking on the cold ground like autumn leaves in the wind.

“Are you alright, Miss?” You heard Steve Rogers ask her humbly, all the while the burglar—terrified for his life—scrambled to his feet, abandoning the knife he had held. Loki rolled his eyes. With but one effortless movement, he kicked him in the stomach the moment he attempted to run and proceeded to grab his collar to lift him off the ground.

“Please, please… please don’t kill me!” The burglar whimpered. You suppressed a chuckle.

“Let him go, Reindeer Games.”

“Let him go? What did we intervene for? Mercy? I disagree…”

“Nope. FRIDAY has already saved his fingerprints and appearance. The police will get him soon enough. Now let him go. I think he peed his pants.”

Loki’s face distorted when he spotted the wet spot between the burglar’s legs. Disgusted, he did as he was told and threw him back to the ground. He swallowed thickly before hurrying away clumsily. Then, he looked up—and his blue eyes locked with yours.

Paralysed, he captured you in his both scrutinising and fascinated gaze. Your lips parted when you realised that he could see your wings. Dark, shimmering and as soft as a crow’s feather dress they framed your form—petite compared to his—and complimented both your (Y/H/C) hair and (Y/E/C) eyes. You were beautiful.

Neither of you paid attention to the young woman who had stood again by now, approaching Loki timidly. Her ‘thank you’ went unnoticed even when Steve called his name.

“Who are you?” You blinked, reluctantly tearing your eyes away from Loki’s to face Tony Stark.

“(Y/N)… my name is (Y/N). I am what other beings would refer to as… a black angel.”

Tony snorted. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

One heated discussion after your confession led to another and Captain America and Iron Man—for Loki had remained completely silent—decided to take you back to the compound to speak to Thor. You did not take kindly in spilling your secret to strangers. Hundreds of years ago, humans, Asgardians and other species had hunted you down for amusement, using poison to make your wings visible and cutting them off to sell them on the black market—an ironic name, really.

But this… was different. Loki—the Loki, God of Mischief and Lies, Trickster… son of Laufey and Farbauti and Prince of Asgard—he could see your wings. Legends had been told about connections alike. They said that every living black angel in this universe served a purpose, was meant to follow a path and fulfil its destiny—and to be with one person who loved them dearly for the rest of their existence. Only those that fate chose to be a black angel’s partner would be able to see their wings—to see all of them—in their full glory and true beauty. Loki’s blue eyes were practically glued on you; and if you were not mistaken, there was a hint of panic glistening in his irises too.

Did he feel the connection, perhaps? That you seemed to have found the man your heart would likely belong to for the rest of your life? Strangely enough, you felt… oddly exposed. Only other black angels had ever been able to see your gift, unwillingly sharing it with someone you had but heard of and never met made you vulnerable… and it made you self-conscious.

“How exactly did you end up here on Earth?” Thor leaned forward, crossing his arms on the vast glass table in the middle of the conference room. Around him, the remaining Avengers which you had not officially met yet, squinted suspiciously in a desperate attempt to spot your wings as well. One of them—you believed he was called Rhodey—had even examined your back but found nothing.

“I was… banished. My own people abandoned me because I refused to join the new force.”

“Does that force answer to the name of Thanos by any chance?” Tony tossed in. You nodded.

“You have heard of him. He means to wipe out half of the universe. We have to stop him whatever it takes.”

You could feel Loki’s presence behind you. He was still silent, pacing up and down the room like a cunning predator waiting to strike.

“How do we know we can trust you?”

“You don’t. I am merely warning you. I don’t have the powers to stop him but you might. And I certainly did not ask to be invited to your humble home.” You snapped. They were hostile towards you, you could tell. Something about you unsettled them. If only you knew what it was.

Be that as it may, the Avengers decided to let you stay for a while. They hadn’t locked you in a room but if you were to try and leave without anyone accompanying you… then the Norns beware.

You sighed. You should have never mentioned you were a black angel, pretended to be human instead… pretended that Loki was hallucinating. His eyes had made you forget all reason. The invisible force pulling you to him was destructive. You wanted to be close to him, be with him, be there for him… lay your life, soul and heart in his hands… all the while he seemed to painstakingly ignore you.

You barely knew but you could sense that Loki was everything you could ever wish for. An intelligent, powerful, cunning and charming man, tall, blue-eyed and so outrageously handsome he even outshone his brother Thor. You had never spoken to him personally and yet, you felt like you would die for him. Now what if he never reciprocated those feelings? Tragic stories were told about black angels who found love and yet had to live without it.

At the very least, so you figured, you had access to a fully furnished kitchen tonight. It was your first warm supper in two weeks and bit more nourishing than a mere apple or a handful of nuts. It was almost midnight now and hunger had gotten the better of you… or maybe it was the prosperity of food being available to you at any time without you having to steal hard-earned money for it first.

Passing through the hallway, your tread entirely mute, you stopped dead in your tracks when you heard two familiar voices talking in the living room.

“Big… imposing… no, I did not imagine it, Thor. They were there. A pair of shimmering black wings…” Loki sounded worried, yet you could tell he was trying hard not to let it show. He had already seemed to have panicked a little when he first laid his eyes upon you.

“So what do we do?”

“I don’t know.”

“How much time do you have left?”

“I don’t know, Thor.”

“Don’t you… worry, brother… I’m sure everything’s gonna work out fine.”

There was a moment of awfully painful silence. Then, somebody left.

Frowning, you knocked. You were unsure of what they had been talking about. Loki’s expression darkened when he spotted you entering the room shyly, his eyes focused on the wings on your back.

“You… seem to be avoiding me, Loki. Have I… done something?”

Loki smirked—it was bitter. Now that he had told Thor, by tomorrow… they would all know he was going to die soon.

“You have not, dear. It is not something you did. It is your purpose.” Your heart skipped a beat. You had not expected such an honest answer.

“My purpose? I don’t have a purpose here on Midgard.” His eyes were ice cold when he looked up to meet your gaze.

“You are an omen of death.”

Your lips parted. “I am… I am not.”

“No man who sees a black angel’s wings survives. I can see yours.”

“B-but… but that… you’re not going to die.”

His bitter smile returned. “We are facing Thanos. If I was doubtful about my fate before, I am no longer now.”

“Loki, that’s not what it means…” It felt like your heart was shattering, to a million tiny little pieces. He thought you were his death… no wonder he felt uneasy around you. Where had that stupid superstition come from? Why would you be an omen of death?

You longed to tell him what it really meant. Only right now, in this very moment, it did not feel right. Would he even believe you? Probably not.

“Good night, Loki.”

When you returned to your room, you sent your pillow flying through the air all the while suppressing a scream of anger.

The following days were equally frustrating. Loki seemed to be avoiding you at all cost and even Thor and the others only spoke to you when it was absolutely necessary. They were scared. All of them. Dreading that at some point, they might see your wings too. You had already given up attempting to explain it to them. There were much more important things to take care of.

Figuring out your own feelings, for example. It was impossible to love someone you had just met, even for black angels… right? The invisible force linking you to Loki’s body and mind was so strong it almost physically ached to not be near him. You were worried. Loki thought he was going to die. It was obvious he had a past with Thanos, one that was about to catch up with him.

You had your dagger—it was the least you could fight with to protect his life. After all, that one superstition was indeed true. Yet when you stood in front of him, the purple titan who had stolen away your people, and the black angels you had thought of as friends and family… you were terrified.

All of them were ready to fight. Man against man, woman against woman and you… somewhere in between. You had never agreed to destroy him, had never promised to help. It was not in your nature to intervene in such things; even though you would not exactly call yourself a pacifist, wars held a bitter connotation. All you cared about was Loki—even if he did not care about you.

Proudly and arrogantly, he lifted his chin in pure defiance. You could feel he was anxious. His heart was beating so fast your own almost stopped. Thanos wanted the Tesseract—and Loki was denying he was in its possession.

The whole Avengers compound had become a bloody battlefield. There was debris, there were screams and the sounds of metal clashing. Clutching your dagger tighter, you watched how Thor was hurled through the air and landed on the hard ground.

“We don’t have the Tesseract! It was destroyed on Asgard!” He growled, spitting a mouthful of blood into the grass before two of Thanos’ lackeys managed to restrain him.

Loki briefly closed his eyes, guiltily. One single moment of negligence—and enough for Thanos to grab his head forcefully and throw him on the ground before Ebony Maw’s feet.

Loki gasped in pain but the ugly sorcerer did not hesitate. He raised his hands, fingers crooked… only to send shockwaves of agony through his blood. As a Frost Giant… the heat pumping through his veins was pure torture.

“The Tesseract…” Thanos remarked, seemingly unimpressed. Your eyes widened. Loki really had it. Of course he had it.

“Please, stop…” You heard yourself whisper, the pain he felt cursing through your own body. Only yours wasn’t physical. “Stop it! The Tesseract is not here. Let him live. Whatever he has done in the past, he did it to survive, wouldn’t you do the same?”

“He disappointed me,” the titan argued. “He failed.”

“We all do. It was not his fault. Look around you. Look at your forces fighting against a bunch of mortals. If they are having difficulties defeating them now, then how would you expect Loki to do it all on his own?”

Loki’s stunning blue eyes widened upon hearing your words. He kept grunting, growling and panting as Maw intensified the spell, making you panic slightly.

“I am not merciful, little one. If I were, I wouldn’t be where I am standing now.”

“You… don’t have to be.” You swallowed. “His life in exchange for mine. I shall serve you if you let him live.”

“Why would I want your allegiance?”

“I am an angel, too.”

Thanos raised his eyebrows.

“You would give your freedom to save him? Him?”

“Yes.” Blinking frantically to scare away the tears in your eyes, you watched the titan nod slowly. With a start, Ebony Maw stopped, earning him another pant from Loki. In his ugly hands… he held the Tesseract.

“You have a good heart, little one. Unfortunately… I don’t like being lied to.”

*It happened fast, almost too fast for you to comprehend. Thanos’ sword slashed through the cold air and Loki’s neck, blood spurting from the freshly cut wound and staining his skin and armour. His blue eyes closed, the downright repulsive sounds of him choking on his own blood filling your ears.

Then, he stopped moving, the red liquid still pouring from his neck.*

You screamed, both in pain and indescribable grief when Loki’s heart stopped beating. He had been right. You had been his very personal omen of death.

You didn’t sleep. You didn’t eat. You didn’t speak. Thanos was gone, two Infinity stones along with him. And while the Avengers were busy figuring out a plan to stop him once and for all, you spent your time sulking away in your room, your eyes red and swollen from the many tears you shed for the man you had never had a chance to love.

You had meant to save him. Loki had trusted you to seal his fate and when you had attempted to lay down your own life so he would survive, you had caused the exact opposite. It wasn’t your fault, not really and yet… it felt like it.

It felt like your heart had been ripped in pieces, like Thor had driven his beloved hammer into your chest repeatedly and shattered all of your ribs.

Dead. You had found the one man your poor existence as a god damn black angel had made sense for, the one man who could have made you happy. And now he was dead.

You were ready to do anything to get him back. And so you were plotting.

Whether Thor was grieving, you did not know. But you had heard of Ragnarok, the destruction of his home world, of Asgard, the realm of the gods. Hela had wreaked havoc and claimed the throne. Hela, the goddess of death… Hela, who could resurrect the dead and bring them back to life.

“Tony.” Your voice carried only feinted politeness. You simply did not care how worn out he was, noodling around in his lab. Neither did you care that Thor did not even look up when you entered.

“Can I speak to Thor, please? In private?”

He was his brother. If anyone was going to help you bring Loki back, it was him. Thor had complained about having lost Loki before. That he had thought him dead before. Whether he could not accept he was truly gone this time or had simply moved on, you could not tell. But you sincerely hoped Loki was important enough for him, worthy of saving.

The God of Thunder looked up, his brows raised in surprise. Nodding mutely, he stood and left the room, allowing you to close the door to Tony’s lab behind you.

“There is a way to bring Loki back alive.” You stated straight away, swallowing thickly. Thor crossed his arms before his chest, a defensive posture.

“What do you mean?”

“Loki is not in Valhalla, his soul did not… ascend. He should have been… he would not give Thanos the Tesseract to Thanos, he was enduring torture, he… wanted to save you. All of you, stop the titan himself. That… that means…” Again, you swallowed, forcing back the tears forming in your eyes. “It means he is in Hel. I’ve been there before, black angels… we are immune to… well, it doesn’t matter. But… the goddess of death. Hela, she could…”

“No.”

“What?”

“No.” Thor repeated sternly. “Hela is my sister. She caused the destruction of Asgard, she killed my friends and hundreds of innocent Asgardians.”

“I have heard the stories… but Thor, Loki is your brother.”

“Do you truly think she will resurrect him without asking for something in return? We barely managed to banish her again, I will not risk the subjugation of the nine… the eight realms.”

Angrily, you narrowed your eyes at him, your heart pounding in your chest.

“If Thanos gets a hold of the remaining Infinity Stones, say goodbye to the entire universe. He will be ten times worse than Hela. If anyone can help you defeat him, it’s your brother. Your brother, Thor.”

Why did he hesitate? As a black angel, you had never had brothers or sisters but if you did… if you did you would love and cherish them dearly. Did Thor not love Loki? Did he not love him as much as Loki loved Thor? You could see it in his eyes. Loki had a good heart, vulnerable and tainted but good.

“Why would you want to bring him back? You don’t know him. Loki’s been dead before, if it’s true this time… it is what it is.” Thor mumbled. “Look, (Y/N)… Loki is dead because of you. Your appearance… it was the sign… there is no way around that.”

“That’s bullshit, Thor,” you snapped. All of a sudden, the truth spilled from your lips uncontrollably. “I’m not an omen of death, who came up with this? Loki was the only one who can see my wings because he was meant to be my soul mate. I… I fell in love with him the moment I first looked him in the eye. I was going to sacrifice my life to save him, those were not empty words, you heard them!”

Thor paused. “That’s… impossible. All my life… I grew up believing black angels were deadly.”

“We can be. My blades of my daggers are drowned in poison but we do not promise death to those we show our wings to. It wasn’t my decision, Thor. Please… help me bring your brother back.” This time, you were unable to hold back your tears. Sobbing quietly, they ran over your reddened cheeks.

The God of Thunder took a deep breath.

“I can take you to the portal. The rest is up to you. But if you endanger this realm by setting Hela free, you will live with the consequences because we will kill you. I have to protect these people, (Y/N).”

Determined, you nodded. “I will make this right, Thor. I promise.”

The portal was a church. At least, it looked like a church. Home of the angels… you snorted. If only you could live in a richly decorated church. The more you approached, the more of the dead energy did you feel. Helheim was near.

You had a plan, of course. It was risky and bold and perhaps a bit reckless… but at least, it was a plan. Thor had held his promise and he made sure to stay until you returned—with or without Loki.

Then, with one final deep breath—for there was no reason to breathe in Helheim—you stepped over the threshold of Durham Cathedral and disappeared into nowhere, an invisible force sucking you into another realm.

The stench of death filled your nose before you had even opened your eyes again, corpses, skeletons and bloody soil staining the dark landscape. Like you had expected, your presence in the realm of the dead as a living being did not go unnoticed.

“I’ve met black angels before. But they were dead.” Hela’s voice echoed through the minging air, her blue eyes, complimented by dark coal, boring into yours.

“I came to warn you.”

“Warn me? Child… Look around you… this place is dead. What do I have to fear?”

“Thanos. He means to wipe out half of the universe. Killing half of every single living being.”

Hela raised her eyebrows, seemingly unimpressed.

“Where do you think will most of these souls go? Half the universe… crammed in one realm. Your realm.”

“The Gauntlet. He has it then.”

“And he is collecting the stones. There is a force on Midgard… across the universe to stop him. They need all the help they can get.”

It was then the goddess of death began to smile cruelly. “Who is it you want me to resurrect?”

“How familiar are you with the powers of black angels?”

Hela shrugged. “They are meant to find their soul mates, the only beings they unwillingly reveal their true nature to.” As the goddess of death, she knew a lot more than the rest of the Asgardians then.

You nodded. “My powers were taken from me when I was cast out. They will return once I am reunited with mine.” That was a lie. But if Hela was Thor’s sister, you could imagine she did not exactly take a liking into Loki. “I need you to return Loki to the living. We stop Thanos, we stop this realm from destruction. And we both know that even Helheim could not take the masses of murderers and villains once the titan snaps his fingers.”

Snarling, she turned her scrutinising gaze away from you. “Loki?” She snorted. “You know what? Take him. Take that little cockroach and leave. Hel will be better off without his smug remarks.”

You were almost surprised by how calm you managed to speak with her. The prosperity of seeing Loki again filled your broken heart with joy and love, even if the God of Mischief himself, so you imagined, would hardly feel the same.

Hela narrowed her eyes. With but a flick of his wrist, she summoned Loki like a demon. Your heart skipped a beat when you spotted him. He did not look harmed, the atrocious wound on his neck luckily gone completely.

“I was trying to sleep. Forewarn me before you—“ Loki stopped his mocking complaint mid-sentence. His lips parted when he saw you—that’s when you had already thrown yourself into his arms and buried your face in his neck, inhaling his wonderful scent and enjoying the touch of his body, beginning to heal you instantly.

“Husband…” You murmured, knowing that Hela was still watching you intently.

Loki froze. “What?”

“Just play along. Please… I’m gonna get you out of here.” You whispered mutely. Then, you timidly pressed your lips against his, triggering an explosion of chemistry between you. You almost flinched… and apparently, Loki felt the same.

Hela rolled her eyes in a disgusted manner. Clearly, she was convinced. “Leave. Make sure not to return.” She flicked her wrists once more, almost as if taking a spell on Loki—whatever had been necessary to allow him to travel through the portal and back to the living.

Confidently, you reached for his hand, a touched smile spreading on your lips when he accepted it and followed you back to Midgard and into Durham Cathedral.

“Husband?” He repeated, ignoring Thor who received him with his mouth wide open.

“There is a lot of explaining I need to do, I’m afraid.” You began apologetically.

“Indeed.” He was still holding your hand, not pulling away. It filled your chest with a cosy warmth which you had never felt before.

“You… only you can see my wings.”

“I still do.”

“You… you can because… because I am your soul mate. I never was an omen of death, Loki. I.. love you.”

The God of Mischief’s face fell.

“What you said to Thanos… you did attempt to…” You nodded quickly.

“I… I had to try. Contacting Hela, convincing her to resurrect you…”

“Thank you.” He interrupted, looking you deep in the eye. It was surprise which you found sparkling in those blue irises. Surely… never had anyone done this for him. Surely, nobody else would have done this for him. Thor still went ignored.

“I… I can understand if you… if you don’t want me to stay. I can leave. Being my soul mate, it doesn’t… it doesn’t link you to me if you don’t want to.”

Your heart jumped when Loki began to smirk mischievously... but genuinely.

“Oh no, my dear. I think I am going to keep you.”

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate so much if you supported me on KoFi! kofi.com/sserpente

1K notes · View notes

chroniclackofselfpreservation · 3 years

Text

Creatures of the Night

Chapter 23 - the world of shut doors and countless walls

Back to the Beginning < Previous chapter / Next chapter >

AO3

Masterlist

(TW: graphic depictions of violence (stabbing), blood, mild panic)

(The title of the chapter comes from "The Ruins of Bam" by Garous Abdolmalekian.)

Roman sliced and buttered Dorian a piece of bread from the loaf Patton had baked just before their whole word had flipped around, pretending not to notice Virgil stand with his back pressed against the pantry door, right where he could see both Dorian and Remus.

The demon sat innocently on one of the kitchen stools, waiting for his food. Roman glanced over at the hobgoblin, who was nonchalantly blowing snot bubbles to entertain himself. Remus didn’t seem all that concerned for his own safety. Either he didn’t care about his own well being, or was confident Virgil would petition for his survival.

Roman handed the bread to Dorian, who accepted it graciously. He leaned back against the counter, enjoying his own toasted bread. Roman was fairly certain that the demon didn’t need to eat.

It had probably been a long time since he’d eaten anything substantial.

Roman’s bread turned sour on his tongue as a dark thought entered his mind. Had it been his mother?

He felt nauseous and wasn’t sure he could swallow what he’d bitten off.

“So,” Dorian said, happily munching on the bread, “did Ursula end up killing the sibyl and the boring one?”

Roman choked on his toast.

Virgil’s folded arms tightened against his chest. “She Displaced them.”

“Oh? Where to?”

Roman recovered, swallowing painfully. “You know, for not wanting to help at all, you seem awfully interested.”

He leaned back in his chair, defiant. “Intrigued, more like.”

“She sent them to Kulong,” Virgil said, glancing over at Roman. Concern flashed across his features, and Roman, leaning casually against the counter, shoulders relaxed as he desperately tried to stop thinking about how his mother died, wondered how Virgil could tell something was wrong.

The demon’s eyebrows shot up, an unabashed laugh pealing out of him. “The prison island? Ha! That’s too perfect.”

“You really tiptoed around our feelings, huh?” Roman snorted, looking down to hide the pain lancing through his eyes.

Dorian shrugged, continuing around the bread in his mouth, “You need to get that sibyl back if you’re going to have any chance of defeating Ursula. There hasn’t been an oracle born for nearly half a millennium. You’d be fools to waste such talent.”

Virgil stilled. “Wait, an oracle? Patton’s not an oracle. There’s no way.”

Dorian stared at him. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m pretty sure I would have noticed if I was living with an oracle.”

“You’ve spent too much time with these mortals,” the demon sighed, giving up.

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Virgil muttered, averting his eyes.

“Please,” he sneered, gesturing at Virgil’s human form. “You’re a familiar for Witch Queen’s sake, yet you pretend like this. It’s shameful.”

“You don’t know a thing about me,” he hissed. Virgil gripped his talisman inside his pocket so hard Roman worried he might shatter it.

“That’s enough, Dorian,” Roman said, voice low and warning. The demon looked anything but placated, an eager grin playing at his semi-scaled face. Roman’s mind registered the shift in tension, and he found his eyes scouting the kitchen.

“I doubt you could tell a kelpie from a red cap anymore.”

“Shut up.”

Roman pushed off the counter, grabbing the loaf of bread and walking over to the knife block, his posture the epitome of calm.

“Oh?” Dorian growled, his voice inhumanly low. “Say it again, familiar. I dare you.” The stool scraped against the tile as he rose to his feet. Roman could practically smell the barely contained fear radiating from Virgil. He casually grabbed two steak knives.

Dorian’s lip curled and his hand shot out.

Roman reacted almost in tandem with the demon, whirling around and impaling Dorian’s hand onto the counter before his arm had even fully extended. Not a moment later, the second knife thudded between the demon’s ribs.

Virgil recoiled so violently he slammed into the pantry door, disappearing into a streak of black dashing up the stairs.

Dorian grimaced. “You insufferable child,” he spat, the black blood filling his mouth spattering across Roman’s face.

Roman didn’t even flinch.

“You are a guest in my house, snake,” he snarled. “I suggest you treat my friends with respect.”

“You can’t—”

Roman twisted the knife. “No. You can’t. You can’t kill me, and unless you want me making your new freedom as miserable as possible, you’ll leave Virgil alone.”

“You’ll only waste what little time you have.”

Roman pulled the knives out with a squelch and walked over to the sink. “If you aren’t going to help us, leave us alone.” He pumped soap into a sponge and scrubbed the black liquid off the utensils.

“I just want to make sure you kill her. That’s it.” Dorian muttered, his wounds sparking with magic as they healed.

“Aw, Dory, you’re worried about me.”

“I most certainly am not.”

Roman wagged one of the newly clean knives in his direction, smiling as if he hadn’t just stabbed him twice. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Dorian bristled. “You are well aware I’m incapable of the function.”

Roman winked.

* * * * * * * * * *

Logan supposed he should have been more interested in Patton’s studies with Daveigh. However, he couldn’t “read” any of the prophetic text that they apparently could, and he was too rife with worry over Patton’s well being to properly investigate it.

After a night to for Patton to recover, Daveigh apologized profusely and promised never to do anything remotely similar to what she’d done yesterday without asking permission first. Patton had forgiven her almost immediately. Logan, however, was slower to trust.

After a surprisingly plentiful breakfast of various roots and fruits, everyone had gone about their business.

That is, expect Logan. He didn’t exactly have much in the way of “business” at the moment.

He sat only a few feet from Patton, leaning back against a tree trunk and trying not to seem too distracted as they went on and on about their abilities and the history of oracles.

Mikhail milled about camp completing various chores. Jorryn had disappeared at the rise of the sun and hadn’t been seen since.

The air was humid, but not as hot as yesterday. A cacophony of bird calls echoed around the valley, filling the air with a sort of white noise for Logan to lose himself in.

He thought about Killian.

Eudora had called him a master arcanist, and there had been something in him that intrigued Logan. He looked as if he’d once been well respected. A teacher of some kind? Perhaps it was that commonality that drew him to the man?

Be wary of conjecture, his father’s words echoed in his mind. You don’t know he’s anything yet. List what you know. Go from there.

A sad smile played at Logan’s lips. If anyone would have known how to handle their current situation, it would have been him.

List what I know, he told himself. They were on an island—most likely in the Pacific given the climate. He and Patton were alive and uninjured. Reminded of his injuries, Logan ran his tongue across the tooth that had cracked when he’d fallen into the ocean.

It was fine. As if nothing had happened.

He remembered what Patton had said about Eudora healing them that night, ridding them of their need for glasses. Patton no longer sported the scars Remus had clawed into his cheek either. Logan was grateful, even if the idea of being grateful to the ill-mannered witch made him grimace.

What else? A relatively hostile green man, two oracles, a mentally scarred arcanist, and Mikhail. He’d called himself a magicless witch earlier, which made Logan wonder as to his reason for being imprisoned.

Logan could ascribe his own capture to accident. Mikhail, on the other hand, seemed like a powerful leader. An ambassador, perhaps? Still, Logan had no clue what the title “master arcanist” meant. How was that different from being a witch? As for Jorryn, Logan was even more in the dark on his abilities. The Fey hadn’t exactly been a topic of study for him until very recently.

What do I do? he pleaded at the canopied sky.

The answer came without resistance. Logan knew exactly what his father would have replied.

Gather more data. The answer’s here, but you can’t connect dots you can’t see.

“Lo?” Patton inquired gently, placing a hand on Logan’s knee. He blinked, returning to the present.

“Where’s Daveigh?” he asked, looking around.

“She had to, er, use the restroom,” Patton said as gracefully as possible. “How are you? You look bored—and you’re never bored.”

Logan sat up off the tree and ran a hand through his hair. “How could I be bored? We’re stuck on a mysterious, magical island,” he said with more contempt than he’d meant. Sighing, Logan supplemented, “Sorry, Patton. I did not mean to be snappish.”

Patton stuck him with a meaningful look, pulling his crossed ankles closer to himself. “Come on. Something’s distracting you. What’s on your mind?”

Logan opened his mouth to reply, but found a trickle of guilt running down the back of his throat. “It… It’s nothing important. I’m more concerned with making sure you’re okay.”

Patton’s smile became a bit more deliberate. “I’m just fine, Logan. I promise.” Before Logan could point out yesterday’s incident, he continued, “Yes, I’m glad you were here to help me out yesterday, but we figured out why it happened for the most part, and it won’t happen again.”

“For the most part?” Logan echoed dubiously.

“Tell me what you were thinking,” Patton insisted, and Logan reluctantly capitulated the change in subject, though he fully intended on coming back to the issue.

“I want to go see Killian.”

Patton’s brow furrowed, as if that wasn’t what he’d been expecting at all. “Why?”

Logan shrugged. “I’ve got a feeling. There’s something I need to learn from him.”

“Why not go now?”

Logan desperately tried not to stare at Patton like he was a complete idiot. “I’m not leaving you alone here.”

He smiled innocently. “I’ll be perfectly fine, Lo.”

“We’ve known these people for all of eighteen hours. I doubt that qualifies them for unmitigated trust,” Logan hissed, leaning forward and shooting a glance at Mikhail, who stood several feet away chopping wood with a stone axe.

Patton’s smile grew exasperated, and he looked down at his feet, chuckling.

“I’m sorry, did I say something amusing?” Logan asked, genuinely confused.

“No, sweetheart,” he replied, placing a hand on Logan’s cheek. “It’s just that there are very few people in this world I trust.” He gave his cheek a gentle pat and retracted his hand. “None of our new friends have made that list just yet. You don’t have to worry.”

Logan’s mind reeled as he desperately tried to recall what Patton had just said. His brain had metaphorically shorted out when Patton had touched him.

“Um,” he said, blinking and lifting his own hand to his cheek. Logan met Patton’s eye. “This is unusual.”

Patton looked jittery, but in a good way. Like he’d just jumped off the highest platform at Wakeby Rec Center pool, his face flush and eyes bright. “What is?”

“You.”

He laughed. “Thank you?”

Logan tried again for words—coherent ones this time. “You seem different.”

Patton stood, brushing off his pants and stretching. Logan felt his face heat.

“I guess I’m just feeling a bit more myself these days.”

#lol guess who decided to start updating this again #creatures of the night #graphic violence #graphic depictions of violence #violence #tw graphic #stabbing #tw graphic depictions of violence #tw stabbing #tw knives #knives

1 note · View note

docfuture · 4 years

Text

Princess, part 8

[This story is a prequel, set several years before The Fall of Doc Future, when Flicker is 16. Links to some of my other work are here. Updates are theoretically biweekly–going to try to get the next one out by mid-March.]

Previous: Part 7

Journeyman ran his fingers through his hair and sighed as he looked at the picture Flicker sent to his handcomp. "Yep, that's her," he said. "Dr. Reinhart has a rep of knowing a lot about how minds are put together--and how to take them apart. She seems to be effectively immune to mental influence and hostile probability manipulation--no, I don't know how she manages that--and I've heard enough complaints to believe that she can mess up Diviners and Seers just by being near what they're trying to see. Not sure about Oracles. Also, she's hard to kill. If she's willing to help you, I doubt she'd be a weak point." "That sounds good. Except that the Database says her specialty is mind control. But I guess she concentrates on defense? That part wasn't clear." "A lot about her isn't clear," said Journeyman. "She is very good at using fear, though. General opinions I hear about her are mixed. I have connections, and while I keep them private, the general idea isn't a secret--I swap gossip, assistance, and so forth, move things around, and link people with what they need, all fairly quietly. Dr. Reinhart clearly has connections, but nobody knows how they work. She can show up somewhere, have coffee with a few folks, and sometimes everything stays quiet, and sometimes all hell breaks loose. Odd accidents, fits of madness, sudden unexplained deaths from no obvious cause, and occasionally 'Blood--blood everywhere!' And afterwards the details of what happened don't always add up. Except usually some grim entrenched problem has disappeared. That part is acknowledged, but she still really puts people on edge. Oh, and there are rumors that she's seriously annoyed several intelligence agencies, but they're still trying to hire or co-opt her. Jumping Spider would know more about that than me." "Well, I needed to talk to Jumping Spider anyway." Flicker frowned. "Anything else?" "I don't doubt Dr Reinhart's competence to advise you about social interaction." Journeyman looked down. "Motivation, methods, side effects? That's over my head, but I would expect some warnings from your AI." "Why? Just her reputation?" "Well... I know Doc is twitchy about mind control, and Dr. Reinhart apparently has issues with his methods. And the spy stuff." "She has a negative threat index--that means she's helping. Doc is pragmatic about that." "Up to a point." Journeyman spread his hands. "Anyway, that's what I can tell you. Hope it helps." "Yes." Flicker sped up to virtual type a response to Dr. Reinhart, then slowed back down again. "There. She's traveling, and pretty inflexible about privacy, so it will be at least a few days before I can meet her, regardless." She stood up from the high speed interface station and glided over to stop in front of Journeyman where he sat on the couch. He watched her warily. "Thank you," she said, and paused. "I'm willing to at least consider rescheduling Speedtest, but I don't want to argue about it right now. You don't feel safe here and you probably need sleep. How much did you get last night?" He shrugged. "A few hours before you woke me up. None since." "Then get sleep, consult your Diviners or whatever, and we can talk more tomorrow." "Might take a while to find anybody. If I even can. Tracking down Diviners is rarely easy." He looked away. "And Flicker? I don't want to argue about it at all. I'll send what I find to the Database. Argue with Doc, or Jumping Spider, or Jetgirl, or whoever you need to. Not me." "I don't..." Flicker stopped and swallowed. "Argue isn't the right word. It's just the one that sounded human to me. And my anger isn't really at you, that's just where I attach it. I think there's something wrong with my human emulation." Journeyman shook his head. "No. Humans make mistakes, and they get angry, and no one should expect anything different. Least of all me. This isn't something we can solve. Sometimes you can't get from where you are to where you want to be." "And what I want is the problem." He waved his arms. "No! I'm the problem. I thought I could still finesse a way through, despite everything stacked against it, and I. Was. Wrong. And that's why I have to go." "Partner..." She stopped again. "Damn. Having an emotional reaction to that word." "...Yeah." He blinked then raised his hand. "I'm sorry I don't have any magic words for you. Primum non nocere is all I've got left." Flicker pulled off her glove and reached out to complete their fingertip touch. "Take care," he said. She couldn't find anything to say. So she just nodded. Journeyman took a deep breath and teleported out. A faint whirl of disturbed air, then nothing. Flicker looked around the room. It felt far emptier than was reasonable. ***** Evening back home, pre-dawn in Kenya. Flicker didn't want to wake up Jonathan or his family, but Chaser was awake and running to greet her as soon as she slowed down. Flying tackle and friend bites and his ridiculously tiny meow, and they played chase dance and dangle the fuzzy toy the way he liked. Then he flopped down on her feet and purred as she held him. Chaser wasn't her cat. He wasn't anyone's cat. He was his own cheetah. But Flicker had rescued him as a kitten, taken him far away from the lions that had killed his siblings. It wasn't clear what had killed their mother, but life was full of perils for cheetahs, especially when they had to share shrinking habitat with lions. He stayed with the family of a park ranger, on land Flicker had purchased next to a wildlife reserve. Extravagant? Maybe, but it wasn't hard to figure out why she'd identified so hard with an orphan who had social problems with other cheetahs. Time zones made visits awkward, and they still hoped to reintroduce him back to the wild someday, but in the meantime she could hold him close, and whisper that he was a good cat. He purred and didn't mind her tears from trying to accept a present that had crumbled unexpectedly, and a hoped for future that had been a mirage. He didn't judge, didn't care whether she was human or not; she was just his fast friend. An hour under a slowly brightening sky made the world a slightly better place. Still not good, but better. ***** Later evening. Ghosting through the darkness at 500 kilometers per second. Flicker was moving fast enough to be effectively invisible, but slow enough to leave no traces behind her. It fit her mood--she didn't particularly want to be anywhere. But there was someone she needed to talk to at Doc's. Superhuman speed implied a superhuman ability to interrupt. So Flicker and Doc had worked out a protocol that allowed for degrees of urgency and desire to avoid disruption. 'Open door' had a particular implication because of Flicker's dislike of them. It was a way for Doc to indicate that she could join a meeting in progress, but it would be polite to wait and listen quietly until an appropriate pause, absent an emergency. At Doc's. Flicker entered the recovery room next to one of the med labs, sat in one of the chairs, and slowed down. She didn't say anything. Jumping Spider was sitting up with her left leg extended. Something complicated covered the knee--it looked like one of Doc's support and monitoring minibots. Doc was frowning at a large display showing... Not her leg. Her left jump boot. Which wasn't in the room, though her spare pair was. A quick Database check showed her main boots were down in one of the big fabbers in Doc's workshop being repaired. "...crash cushioning cells seem to have handled the landing fine," Doc was saying, "and at least blunted the impact. Still..." "They did the job," said Jumping Spider. "Sometimes a gust of wind hits you at just the wrong time, and one did, right after I'd hopped off the roof." "The fourth story roof. Over icy concrete. In a blizzard." "Yeah, it was Tuesday. Wednesdays are overpasses. Hi Flicker." "Hello. What happened?" "Nothing major. I banged up my knee a little yesterday and used the crash guards on my left boot. Doc's going to give the boots a checkup, recalibrate the jump jets, and--" She turned her head to look at Doc. "Not stay up all night making minor improvements. Right?" Doc raised an eyebrow. "I am most definitely going to run unit tests after the tuneup and the data updates." "That will only take an hour or two. And Flicker wants to talk to me anyway." Flicker didn't understand how Doc's relationship with Jumping Spider worked, except that it did. It was close, but they usually saw each other only a few times a month. Jetgirl described it as 'co-conspirators with benefits.' There had to be more than that after almost two decades, but Flicker didn't get how most more typical relationships functioned either. "All right," said Doc. He nodded to Flicker. "I'll give the two of you privacy, then." "Thank you," said Flicker. Doc must have read her expression--or more likely her 'No personal small talk currently welcome' Database flag--and left the room without further comment. Jumping Spider pulled the swivel arm table with a Database interface over so she could use it. "We're secure--privacy locked," she said. "Yes, from Doc too. Check." DASI was insistent on leaving up the warning flag on Flicker's visor about limiting Doc's access in his own HQ, but she confirmed the privacy lock. "Verified," said Flicker. "Now we can talk," said Jumping Spider. "My knee isn't much worse than usual. But I heard you are. Doc says you seem determined to push a hazardous test series on short notice and you don't look happy. Did Journeyman just turn you down or did you manage something stupider?" Jumping Spider could be tactful. She usually chose to be blunt with Flicker. They weren't friends, but Flicker tried to listen to her advice, because she was right far too often to ignore. "Both," said Flicker. "I don't think I have a partner anymore." "You don't think? Want to tell me what happened?" "No. But I should. I'd been pushing patrols for a while and was off duty yesterday when I got an alert that Hermes was back..." Flicker summarized the mess of the last two days, with a pause while Jumping Spider watched the vid of the handover of Hermes at the Box. It was even less pleasant to explain than she'd expected. She had to bounce up to speed mind several times to maintain her composure while staying on track. Jumping Spider said she would save any questions for later, which was just as well. "...and after he ported out," Flicker finished, "I did memory assimilation work, then visited with Chaser until the Database told me you were available. It's been a long day." "It sure has," said Jumping Spider. "The Database security AI called me for help. It needed a human other than Doc with the right clearance level bad. You ignored warnings, bypassed the blocks, and managed to set off a cross-domain priority conflict and a legacy conflict this afternoon. Why settle for one crisis at a time when you can have more?" "Um. Those were for something that actually helped." "A book that flaunts that it's full of traps in the dedication and you're sure it helped?" "Well... I'm running sims." "Yeah. You do that." Jumping Spider smiled sardonically. "Why was the cross-domain priority conflict so bad, anyway?" "Because the AI was forbidden from telling Doc about something in one domain, and required to tell him in another--and he's normally the one that resolves those conflicts. And you were no help, because you were causing it. So it had to call me, because I was the next person in line with clearance. I figured I'd better drop what I was doing to deal with what you stirred up. Doc was already on the way to get me when you sent your message about Dr. Reinhart--his flying car does come in handy sometimes. And I have heard of her. But I need to do some Database poking before I'm willing to make a judgement, so are you up for doing some tedious but necessary work to help me fill in a few holes? It would make up for what I had to drop, and let me test something." "Depends. What kind of work?" "Spying. Under the direction of someone who knows what she's doing. That's why most of it will be boring. But it will also involve a lot of purposeful running around, which I'm guessing you could use. You've amply demonstrated how fast you go stir-crazy. I want to double check some clues to whatever was wrong at the Box that they didn't want you to see, and have you take a quick look in some other places. I expect a lot of verification of negatives, or whatever is in the Database, but I have a nasty suspicious mind and suspiciously nasty things have been happening." "...Yeah. Okay. It'll be slower in the dark, though." "Oh, some parts will be in daylight." Flicker waited a moment, and the Database projected the outline of a list that was far too long to fit on her visor display. It started with a survey of just who was staking out the home of the magician she'd talked to at the Box, and included whole sets of vehicles and buildings associated with spy agencies and less identifiable groups. "All right," she said, and headed out. ***** Flicker settled into a rhythm. Slow down, take action, verify, speed up, move on. And consider her life, while she moved. Human--for some value of human that was possible for her--was part of what she wanted to be. Speed and motion were a much bigger part of who and what she already was. Human was an illusion, an emulation. A load bearing one. Maybe even a necessary one, in the long term. But she wasn't good enough yet. If the last few days had proved anything, it was this. She'd read various versions of a joke about how many people stopped growing up and just started faking it after about age fourteen. Even humans sometimes had to fake being adult humans. And that went to the essence of what she thought Journeyman had been trying to say. For her to connect, to feel, to be the person she wanted to be, meant being socially human. But to relate as an equal, as a full partner, as... well there weren't proper words, but to connect fully with him meant being a responsible adult. And Flicker couldn't manage both at the same time. Not yet. She could fake it for a while, but push too hard? Add the stress that came with being who she was in the world she lived in? Her emulation broke down. Humans used age as a proxy for responsibility, and she'd been fixated on the unfairness of that. But all the advice, the common wisdom, assumed you were human. And social support was centered on 'normal' human, for an extensive and arbitrary set of dimensions of normal. But if she gave up on human, if she fully accepted that there was no one like her, that she was alien to this world of odd bipeds, she risked finding the breaking point of the fragile thread of empathy that connected her to that world. Because they could be so foolish, so cruel to one another, so ignorant, so blind. Doc had always been very clear about the danger in that. And the Volunteer had spent a whole day talking her down from the edge, after her big fight with Doc, when she'd wanted to act, to treat the world like a dysfunctional terrarium that cried out for intervention to stop the evil, the oppression, the war, the starvation and brutality and shortsightedness and indifference, all the so very unnecessary pain, outside the narrow range of actions allowed for a superhero. The most frightening part of that day had been seeing the edges of some of the Volunteer's load-bearing illusions. The ideals that let him help the things he could, as an alien in a world of humans. But those illusions couldn't be hers. Because she was more alien? She didn't know. She did know they'd broken others who had tried. She needed to find her own way. While she could still care. Because if she stopped caring, it would be way too easy for her to go over any one of several edges. Maybe Dr. Reinhart could help Flicker find better ways to connect to humans. But she also needed to learn more about who, and what, she already was. The limits and idiosyncrasies of her power and being. Doc hadn't stopped her experiments because they'd reached any firm conclusions. He'd stopped them because they'd become too dangerous to continue on Earth. How fast was she, really? What new realms of sense and ability were beyond the limits she needed to maintain on Earth? The aim of Speedtest was to find out. It was the only thing she looked forward to now that was truly hers. It was past time. ***** More than an hour and numerous additions to the list later, Flicker was finally done. She'd spent a lot of the extra time following up discrepancies in Italy. There was a messy but still relatively quiet political crisis going on there, triggered by some combination of Hermes' rampage in Rome, the identity and contacts of the now dead magician who had summoned him, recriminations over the botched response that had resulted in his death, and a long-simmering conflict over the reasons that Italy didn't currently have any resident superheroes. She'd taken a brief moment to ghost over to the shop in Florence where she'd gotten takeout gelato with Journeyman to celebrate first becoming partners. It was still closed in the first hint of dawn light. Sentimental human indulgence. Was there a point? Maybe there would be again, someday, a time when it would mean more than something she'd thought she'd lost, but never really had. But for now, it was closure. Acceptance. She headed back to Doc's HQ and decided against speeding up. Speedtest would be soon enough, and there was no point in leaving a bright plasma trail that could set off alarms for satellite watchers who might wonder why she was hurrying across the Atlantic at night. ***** "I recommend that you agree to Dr. Reinhart's conditions," said Jumping Spider. She sipped from her coffee cup and eyed the Database display in front of her with mild disapproval. "She's right about the amount of inconvenience adjusting her work around advising you will be." "You think she's safe?" asked Flicker. "Heh. No. I think she's followed consistent goals, and she's functional, competent, as expert as you're going to get, skilled at error recovery, and very smart. Smart enough to understand just how vital and risky giving you psych advice will be. But don't try spying on her. She didn't think much of your failure to consider the consequences of stalking Journeyman." Flicker frowned. "How do you know that?" "I talked to her while you were gone." Jumping Spider paused, waiting to see if Flicker would ask a question. She sped up. Her human emotion emulator indicated her nominal reaction would be anger or irritation. Human emotions weren't serving her very well lately, so she ignored it. It would be a drop in the bucket compared to everything else, anyway. DASI? Anything security relevant that I need to know about Jumping Spider contacting Dr. Reinhart? No. Well, that was unambiguous. She'd asked Jumping Spider for her professional assessment as an intelligence expert, and it was clear she was testing Flicker's self-control, too. She slowed back down. "Go on." "It was an illuminating conversation. She referenced some of my more subtle tradecraft tricks like an academic being careful about citation footnotes. If you focus on her advice rather than trying to emulate her, respect boundaries, and maintain a healthy level of skepticism about untested theory, I think her aid will help you. Once she's ready to meet--it will be at least a week." "Good to know. Thank you. Was the information I verified for you helpful?" "I don't know yet for most of it. But your performance was technically adequate while under direct supervision." Jumping Spider had no qualms about hammering at a point or reminder until she was sure it got through--in this case that Flicker was still bad at the judgement part of spying, however technically skilled she might be. Flicker nodded. "Any other suggestions or comments?" "Do you want my assessment of what happened to Journeyman? It's speculative, and you may find it upsetting." "I don't ask for your opinions because I think I'll like them." A snorted laugh. "Okay. I think Hermes' arrival was part of an op, and was deliberately timed to coincide with whatever Journeyman did just before exfiltrating. I also think we're unlikely to ever get enough evidence to prove that. From an operations viewpoint, I think Journeyman got entangled and dragooned into something far more dangerous than he'd ever voluntarily agree to, but all sides--and I definitely think there were more than two--in the conflict that might have wanted him dead knew he had your backup, and that's why he lived. Tell me. If demons had killed him in some dimension you could get to, what would have been your first impulse?" "Burn it to the ground, then burn the ground," said Flicker. "That's the sort of thing Oracles and Seers pick up on. But since he came back alive, you're much less inclined to do anything disproportionate, right? Because attribution is much tougher, even if an attack is aimed at you or Doc. And there will be probably be completely uninvolved people living in the same place even if you do know who is responsible." "...Yes." "That's also the sort of thing Oracles and Seers pick up on. I also think that whoever Journeyman believes is your mother is part of one of the sides, and that an opposition tactic that he fears is a framing attempt to deflect any retaliation onto her. And he got dragged deep into the wilderness of mirrors, no longer fully trusts his own judgement, and didn't want to drag you there, too. I'll give him credit for that." Flicker sped up to consult the Database. 'Wilderness of mirrors' was an intelligence term for living in a state of perpetual uncertainty about a messy mix of hard to attribute hostile action and coincidence. Just the sort of thing she hated. "Great. So, was he being deceptive about--No. There's no point it getting angry about any of it again until I can talk to Dr. Reinhart." "You're learning. And you stopped Hermes without killing him or anyone else, Journeyman got back alive, you didn't lose it when he disengaged--which was inevitable--and it's much harder to attack someone who's in a different dimension. And you know who is at home in the wilderness of mirrors?" "You?" "Dr. Reinhart. I do all right, but I suspect you'll get along better with her." "Okay. Thank you for your assessment. Do you think I should delay Speedtest because of Journeyman's warning?" "Because of his warning? Are willing to put it off indefinitely?" "No." "Then no, because he didn't tell you anything actionable. But whether it's a good idea at all is not my call. Talk to Doc." "I will," said Flicker. "Jumping Spider?" "Yes?" "This was... less unpleasant than talking to you usually is." She smiled. "Don't worry. I'll make it up to you next time." Flicker shook her head, but felt her mouth want to twitch in response. Human wasn't something you could just turn on and off... She headed out to find Doc.

Next: Part 9

#FallofDocFuture #FallMisc

9 notes · View notes

not-close-to-straight · 5 years

Text

Shadowed Hearts/Winter Souls (Five)

We meet the rest of Natalia’s family in this chapter-- Ronin and Samuel, Wanda and Pietro and her terrifying mysterious brother, James Buchanan Barnes comes home for a visit.

Generic TW for slight mentions of past child abuse and descriptions of war.

(As always, I use google translate for the Russian and if it’s terrible, I fully apologize to anyone who speaks Russian and has to deal with any mangled translations.!)

MASTERLIST HERE

*********************

The Sokovian revolution was a war fought in the shadows, a war of ambushes and raids, of spies and double agents, a war that tore families and friends apart as it stretched from one never ending decade through another. Occasionally things would calm down and an unofficial but mutually agreed upon ceasefire would exist for a few months, soldiers and peasants living together in a tightly wound unease, noblemen on either side of the differing politics sitting down for mostly civil meetings.

But inevitably something would go wrong, tempers would flare and the unrest would boil over into actions and no matter how long the peace had lasted, the killing always started again, the murder, the chaos, the loss always started again. Another generation of young men and young soldiers were drawn into a battle they didn’t quite understand, choosing sides in a war that had been sparked long before they were born, and would continue on after they gave their lives to the futility of the fight.

James Buchanan Barnes was a solder that had been fighting his entire life.

He fought in the schoolyard with the other boys, defending his mama’s reputation even though everyone knew the truth. Everyone knew James was named for the American ambassador that had visited one summer nearly thirty five years past, the one his mother had befriended when her marriage to the Lord Romanov was barely a year old and already practically over.

James was obviously- very obviously- the ambassador’s son, but anyone who dared say so got a punch in the stomach for their efforts. As James got older, the fighting got worse as he sought to protect his mouthy half sister Natalia from those who teased her for having bright red hair and when Natalia grew from child to young woman, the fighting got worse again when the boys started to make other comments about her. James bloodied more than a few faces and broke a few arms before the boys in their town learned to avoid the gorgeous redhead and her surly brother. When their ma passed, James took his grief and went across the sea to the continent. He told Natalia he left to try and find his real father, but he had such inclination, no care to connect with a man that didn’t even know he existed.

No, James went to the continent because he didn’t want to be home with Natalia’s Da and the angry disapproval that seeped from the man, the constant resentment that erupted to shouting matches and sometimes into violence. Ivan never forgave his wife for her affair and he took his hostility out on the boy till the day James was big enough to be sure no one ever raised a hand towards him again.

James left so he didn’t have to walk past his Ma’s empty bedroom anymore, so he didn’t have to think about the months it had taken the indomitable woman to lose against the sickness in her bones, the way she’d been so weak in the end, the way her hand had trembled in his as he held it over her heart.

Now that Winnie was gone, there was no love left in the house, no softness to counter Ivan’s anger, and James took the chance to escape, packing his bags and leaving Sokovia and a tearful Natalia behind.

He found a fight in the former British colonies, the North and South tearing themselves apart in a civil war that was bloodier than James could have ever imagined, worse than the Sokovian revolution had ever been. Family against family and brother against brother, states and politics and greed clashing and exploding and costing thousands and thousands of lives in the process.

There James honed his skills, turning from a brawler into a soldier and growing from a soldier into a killer. He discovered an affinity for long range rifles, a finesse with knives that was almost terrifying, and somehow between the skirmishes and the marching and the senseless slaughter that turned fields into bloodbaths--

--James discovered brotherhood, discovered family that had nothing to do with bloodlines and loyalty among friends that didn’t waver in the face of the horrors they faced together.

The war changed James, and when he returned to Russia five years later, It was he came home older and angrier, lethal with his fists and brutal with his blows, armed to the teeth and ready and willing to use anything he needed to accomplish his goal. He was accompanied by the men he called brothers, a former slave named Samuel and an archer named Ronin and the night the three men crossed the border to Sokovia was a night talked about for years after. A platoon of the Tsar’s men were in the roadside tavern, too many drinks and too much confidence making for an unfortunately loud conversation about the folly of Sokovian independence, about how the resistance was all but over as soon as they rounded up the last few cowards hiding in the shadows. James had listened in silence, then tossed back the rest of his drink and broke the thick glass over one soldier’s head. Samuel beat the life out of another while Ronin finished his drink in peace, then unhooked the crossbow from his back and put a bolt through one soldier's heart and halfway into another's chest. It had been the trios first kill for the Sokovian revolution, but far from their last and James stood on top of a table with his two American friends and announced, “The revolution is far from over, in fact it is just starting anew and we the rebels have claimed first blood. Tell the others the Winter Soldier has come back home to avenge their families.” The Winter Soldier James had many names these days. He was Его Сиятельство Маркиз Romanov to those who cared about his title, His Serenity the Marquis since the Lord Romanov was dead and gone and his title had been passed down. To Natalia he was simply James or brother, though after all this time she was more apt to curse at him and throw a book at his head than she was to claim him as family. To Samuel and Ronin and the other friends he had made during his time in America, he was simply Bucky, a nickname pulled from the middle name Buchanan one night after a lot of drink and a lot of laughter, announced as his forever name by a big blonde with laughing blue eyes and a smile that haunted James in a secret part of his hardened heart. James had many names these days, but to those those who stood in the way of the revolution, those who dared to go up against he and his fighters, James was known as the Winter Soldier-- cold and calculating, murderous and merciless, a man with frost in his eyes and ice in his heart, one who lived in the shadows and only emerged to take a life. James was a soldier who fought the war with his own set of rules and for years there wasn’t a man in Sokovia that didn’t fear him or his wrath. It was understandable then, when a night watchman about jumped out of his skin when a match struck no more than two feet to his left, blazing into light in the dark and barely illuminating the features of the man who had crept up to his post unnoticed. “Bozhe moy, you scared me.” the watchman muttered, wanting to put a hand to his heart to calm himself down, but not wanting to appear weak in front of the Soldier. “They didn’t tell me you were coming round tonight. Last we heard you were towards the borders and maybe even towards Kiev.” “Hm.” James made a non-committal noise, taking a drag at his cigarette and letting a plume of smoke fill the air between them. “I heard about the ambush.” the watchman lowered his voice. “Story has it the soldiers knew Ronin and Samuel weren’t with you and that’s the only reason they dared--” “Those who listen to scary stories will find themselves visited by horrors.” the Soldier interrupted and the watchman’s mouth clicked shut. “And who ever told the Tsar’s men we were coming already has a bounty on his head. And I do mean on his head.” James took another drag at the cigarette. “I have a hundred coins for whoever brings me the slags scalp, I don’t care about the rest of his body.” “...oh.” the watchman swallowed hard. “The casualties were high, then?” “My highest.” James confirmed bitterly. “But there’s no use in talking about the dead. Tell me news of my home, has Rumlow reported in yet?” “Yes sir.” A nervous sort of nod and James narrowed pale eyes in his direction. “That is to say, we received a communique from Rumlow saying that all is well at the manor estate. But um--” “But?” “But the Lady Romanova, your sister-- well, the stories say she has-- it would seem she has--” “Finish a sentence!” the Soldier thundered and the watchman stumbled over the rest of words to blurt-- “The Lady Romanova has taken another husband!” Silence in the dark, thick and heavy and ominous and the watchman had never been so aware of the words 'shooting the messenger' before in his life. “You’re sure?” James finally asked. “And think carefully before you answer, because I will not ask again.” “I--I’m sure.” The guard wet his lips anxiously. They might be brothers in arms as far as the revolyutsiya was concerned, but every man in camp knew to avoid making James angry, that the man known as the Winter Soldier would kill simply to make a point. He had killed simply to make a point, to shut someone up that was annoying him, or just to put an end to a conversation he didn’t want to have. James was not a man to trifle with and the watchman had not wanted to be the one to deliver this particular bit of news. “The Lady Romanova left by train to Italy and returned with a husband." He said quickly, seeing as how he was too far into the story to retreat now. "She was only gone ten days, but by the time word reached our camp she had gone and returned and as of Rumlow’s last message, she has been home at the manor in Sokovia for almost a week now.” “Natalia left the country without me knowing?” the Soldier’s voice went very quiet and very dangerous. “How did this happen, exactly? Rumlow was on strict orders to not let her out of Sokovia." “I-- I don’t know? I just heard she left and was back again before word reached us that she was gone. That’s all I know, I swear.” The Soldier’s curse was foul enough to make the watchman back up a few steps. “Get me a horse.” “...sir?” “A horse.” He repeated. “It would seem a trip home is long over due. Get me a horse now.” ***************** Tony had had every intention of leaving Sokovia, he honestly did. He wanted to go home and he wanted to see his parents and he wanted to be surrounded by his things and finish healing his heart among familiar belongings.

And yet, he'd been at the manor house for almost two weeks now, and had no inclination to leave.

Every sensible thought told Tony to pack up and go, to get away from the secrets that filled the halls and the indecipherable looks and murmured conversations taking place during the meals. It would have been practical and smart to sent a post to his Mama and tell her he would be returning, to perhaps pen a note to his professor and ask about returning to a class at the university.

But something entirely unsensible and perhaps even a little lonely told Tony to stay.

It was nice after all, to wake up and know he had someone to take breakfast with. Natalia was always downstairs before he was, greeting him with a still hesitant smile and a prepared cup of coffee, offering him any of the food that was ready for the morning meal.

Most mornings Samuel and Ronin were there as well, and even though the first few meetings had been awkward, Samuel had eventually relaxed enough to at least nod in Tony's direction and offer polite conversation. Ronin never said a word to Tony, but he had stopped glaring distrustfully and Tony considered that a step in the right direction.

The twins were the other full time residents of the manor house, and Tony had met them just a few days prior. He had been struck nearly speechless by Wanda’s beauty and found himself completely unprepared for Pietro’s particular brand of morbid humour and despite the twins being entirely different physically and personality wise, Tony found himself thoroughly charmed and almost unbearably curious.

“We are Ronin’s children.” Wanda explained as she sipped at her tea one morning, dressed in an outfit more leather than cloth, her delicate features highlighted by brilliant red hair and hands covered in ever present elbow length gloves. “He saved my brother and I years ago, when the revolution sparked a fight and burned our village down. He brought us here to Talia and this has been our home ever since.” “Your home was destroyed in an uprising.” Tony's eyes flickered in sympathy. "And your parents--” “Gone.” Wanda finished flatly. “And we grieved, of course we did, but growing up in this country…” one shoulder lifted and fell in a half hearted shrug. “...loss and grief is a certainty not a possibility, an eventuality even for children and we were luckier than most. We had our parents for much longer than others." “I can’t imagine losing my parents.” Tony muttered, reaching for one of the scones on the platter. “I don’t know what I’d do with out them.” “Apparently run away to Russia with a temptress, hm?” Wanda raised a knowing eyebrow and Tony blinked at her a few times. “Talia has not told us everything about your story, Antonio, but she told us enough to prove you belong here.” “I belong here?” Tony repeated. “And what does that mean exactly?” “It means Talia has an unnerving habit of finding the people that need refuge.” Pietro spoke up from the easy chair he was sprawled across, flipping the pages of a book without really reading. “But it's not your fault, you know. She probably would have brought you home whether you wanted to be here or not. Talia’s pretty impossible to refuse.” “I suppose I was looking for refuge of some sort.” Tony allowed, eyeing the young man curiously, the shock of shaggy blonde hair and the eyes that almost looked silver in the sunlight. “Though this wasn’t quite what I was expecting.” “Very rarely does what we need line up perfectly with what we want and almost never does it line up with what we expect.” Wanda answers primly. “Wouldn’t you say so, brother?” “I’d say you should stop reading those books of wise sayings and practice your swordsmanship or Ronin will never let you out of the manor to help the fight.” Pietro countered. “You may sound important but you’re all but worthless on the field.” “I’m better with a sword than you are.” Wanda sniffed and when Pietro made an outraged sort of noise, she flipped aside the skirt of her morning dress to show an astonishing amount of leg and the blade strapped to her thigh. “Are you as prepared as I, brother?” “It’s breakfast!” Pietro said loudly. “I shouldn’t have to carry a sword!” “And that is why Ronin insists you stay home, my love.” Natalia swept through the kitchen in her dressing robe, bending to kiss both twins on the cheek. “That and because I refuse to let this revolution take another member of my family. Otherwise I’m sure he and Samuel would have you on one of the stallions laying traps and ambushes right alongside them.” “Are you giving away our secrets, Talia?” Samuel still had grime on his knuckles from an early morning spar as he crossed the room to kiss her good morning. “Telling Antonio about our traps and ambushes?” “I’d never give secrets away, Samuel.” Natalia said reproachfully, and the big man folded her into a careful hug, keeping his split knuckles away from her robe. “What kind of woman do you take me for?” “You shouldn’t ask those questions.” Ronin interrupted and Natalia turned to him with a smile, ignoring his bloody lip to press their mouths together. “You know damn well you won't like the answer.” “Ronin.” Pietro waited until he and Natalia had parted before circling round to face Ronin, his hands moving just as fast as his mouth as he said, “I want to go train with you today.” Ronin didn’t answer, only inclined his head towards the door and Pietro grinned and took off for his rooms to get dressed. “Um--” Tony cocked his head in question over the signing and Wanda explained, “Pietro and my accent is so strong that Ronin cannot hardly understand us, even if we are speaking his American English. Since we pronounce words differently than Natalia, he has a hard time reading our lips as well. It’s probably the same with you, you know. He doesn’t speak to you because he cannot understand your accent and as you form the words, he can’t read your lips.” “Sorry?” Tony narrowed his eyes. “He has a hard time reading my lips? Why is he reading my lips?" “His injury?” Wanda made a motion down the side of her face and sent him a disbelieving look. “Ronin is entirely deaf on that side. Don’t tell me you’ve lived here for weeks now and didn’t know? How could you not know that?" “I--” Tony shook his head. “I’ve seen him listen when Natalia talks, I’ve seen him respond to conversation--” “Talia is always directly in front of him, or speaking to his left side, as is Samuel and the other soldiers.” Wanda informed him. “Talia’s accent isn’t as heavy as ours due to her spy work, so he can usually understand her but Pietro and I have learned to sign so we can speak with him as needed.” “Natalia and he are in love even though he can’t always understand what she is saying? How is that possible?” Tony asked dubiously. “And for that matter, how is he an effective soldier if he can't hear?" Wanda narrowed her eyes at him for a long moment. “Antonio, love is a language that requires no translation. You do not need a mouth to speak it, nor ears to hear it. Why would Ronin’s injury have any bearing on their relationship?” “Well I--” “And he was an elite soldier before his injury.” She continued. “If anything, he is more dangerous now, especially with Samuel at his side.” “Um--” “It makes me sad for you that you’ve never found a love that crosses borders and languages and withstands life changes.” Wanda finished her tea and set her cup aside, either not noticing or not caring that Tony was staring at her in a stunned sort of horror. “Natalia told me you loved and lost in Italy, but I don’t believe it was love at all, if you cannot understand a relationship that has trials for the partners to overcome together.” “I loved him.” Tony stammered a few times. “I-- I did. It was love. I loved him." “Did you?” Wanda took Tony’s empty cup to the wash tub. “Or did you know it wasn’t love at all, and that’s why you ran away?” Tony didn't know what to say to the young woman then and Wanda didn't wait for him to reply, sweeping out of the room and taking Natalia along with her to get dressed for the day and then it was only Tony left by himself to stare out the window and think about what she had said. He’d loved Ty, right? That’s why the betrayal had hurt so much, why he’d been so angry. There was a thin line between love and hate and Tony had crossed it so quickly, it had to have been love between them, right? Right? Tony pushed the thought away because he wasn’t ready to think he’d nearly ruined his life for lust and a love that wouldn’t have lasted. He wasn’t ready to think about that at all.

“Antonio--” Sam nearly ran into Tony as he came back into the room. “Natalia said that you--” “It’s just Tony.” He interrupted and Sam paused, looking confused. “It’s just Tony. Natalia and the twins call me Antonio, but even back home, everyone called me Tony. My-- my friends and acquaintances call me Tony." “Tony, then.” Sam started again with a half smile. “Natalia said that you might want to see how we train. Her exact words were ‘he broods too much, my love. Do something with him’, so do you want to come along? Ronin is taking Pietro out on the horses, do you ride?" Tony was more than a little surprised by the offer, but nodded anyway. “I don’t have anything else to do today. And um-- I do ride. Thank you." “Come on then.” Samuel motioned for him to follow out the back doors and towards the small stables. "We should still be able to catch them if we hurry." “Tell me, Samuel.” Tony had to jog to keep up with the other man’s strides. “How does an American end up in Sokovia fighting a revolution and in love with a woman like Natalia?” “Her brother Bucky.” Sam answered and when Tony frowned, he amended, “James. Everyone back home calls him Bucky, but I suppose here he is James. He came to America looking for his pa, ended up fighting a war that wasn’t his. Lucky for me and Ronin and the rest of the boys, he wanted to fight for our side.” “Ronin is American too?” “Yep.” Samuel reached over to pet the nose of one of the geldings when it nickered at him. “He used to have another name, but he was Ronin by the time I met him. Spoke with a weird accent back then, like he picked up a piece of culture every where he’d been in his life and now that we’re here in Russia, it's changed again.” “Is it-- since he’s deaf?” Tony made a motion over his ear. “Has that affected his speech?” “Probably.” Samuel shrugged. “But he’s been hurt like that for as long as I’ve known him, so I couldn’t say for sure.”

“So Natalia’s brother fought with you, and both of you just came back to Russia with him?” “Tony.” Samuel shook his head. “I don’t know what it’s like in Italy for people who look like me, but back home it wasn’t real good. Wasn’t real good for people like Ronin either, with his family and history and moving around and all that. But Bucky didn’t care about any of it. He didn't care that Ronin's people were looked down on and he made sure I never felt a whip on my back again so the two of us-- yeah. We followed him to Sokovia. We’ll follow him anywhere, even to hell and back.”

“Some days--” he looked around the yard, towards the mountains in the distance and sighed. “--some days that’s exactly what it feels like.” *************** “Did you enjoy your time with Samuel and the others?” Natalia barely looked up from her embroidery when Tony came down to the parlor looking for his book that night. “I think this is the most you’ve been out of your room since we arrived, it must have been a busy day." “It was a busy day, and I enjoyed it more than I thought I would.” Tony turned the book over a few times as he thought about what he wanted to say next. “Natalia, are you happy living your life like this?” “Elaborate.” Natalia cut her thread and tied it off before reaching for another color.

“Here, like this.” Tony motioned around them. “Playing mother to the twins even though they are grown, spending your day reading and your nights sewing? This doesn't seem like something a woman like you would want.” “A woman like me. You mean because I am a spy.” Natalia went back to her project. “Because when we met, I seemed fully at ease in that ridiculous dress and mask and because I faced down the soldiers without wavering.” Tony was quiet and she sent him a sharp look. “Or do you mean because I am a woman who has killed many men and lied to dozens more to get what I want? Is that what you mean?” Tony’s jaw clenched and Natalia tsked at him. “Antonio, this is all I ever wanted with my life. To come home to loved ones and have a quiet dinner. To spend my evenings doing frivolous tasks like embroidery. To linger over coffee before taking my time getting dressed for the day. This was a life I never thought I'd have."

"Elaborate.” Tony threw Natalia’s own word back at her and she pursed her lips in disapproval over the strident tone but didn’t argue.

"I was raised a spy." she clarified, as if Tony hadn’t already heard this part of her story. "I lived my formative years training to be a femme fatale, to use my body and my beauty as a tool to further the cause. All I wanted was to be normal, to be able to play and grow and love like every other girl out there and I never got the chance. The few times I thought I had a chance to be normal, it was false. Taken away before I was able to enjoy it. Eventually I started to think this sort of thing didn’t exist at all, that I was doomed to live the life my father had set out before me.”

“...and now?” “And now I get to have my drink by the fire and embroider the hem of these gloves for Wanda.” Natalia held up her sewing so Tony could see it. “In a few minutes, both my loves will come through that door and take me to bed and in the morning, I’ll have breakfast with my family. I might take a walk when it warms up, perhaps I’ll dig about in the garden for a while and see if I can coax a few roses to bloom. I might take my horse out for a run or practice archery with Ronin or spend some time with Samuel cleaning out the armory. It doesn’t matter what I do, because I’m happy it’s real.” Natalia’s smile was sad when she added, “Sometimes, it's a relief to simply exist, Antonio. It's a relief to be allowed to be.” “Hm.” “And you?” Natalia pressed when Tony didn’t answer. “Are you finding it a relief to simply exist after the trouble in Brescia? Or is there something about that life you miss?” “Good night, Lady Romanova.” was all Tony said and disappeared back upstairs. Natalia watched him go, feeling the ever present twinge of guilt over how she had tricked him into this life. These last few days the guilt had been accompanied by a spark of hope though, now that Antonio had started reaching out to the twins and getting drawn into conversation with Samuel.

A brief glance into his rooms had shown Natalia that he had unpacked his bags entirely and only once in the two weeks since arriving had Antonio mentioned wanting to return to Italy, saying it in passing over breakfast that very first morning, and never saying it again.

There was hope that Natalia hadn't completely ruined things and that made her smile a little, so she went back to her embroidery, humming quietly as she finished up her drink and glanced up at the clock to check the time, anxious for her loves to come in from the night patrol and come to bed. A few hurried, stolen moments and the occasional lingering kiss was all she and the man had managed to have together since she’d come home with Antonio and this morning Ronin had been nearly desperate as he held her close, his kisses hungry and sharp and fingers digging into her waist to keep her tight against his body. “Ronin...” She’d moaned and he’d only let go when Sam had reached for her too, lifting Natalia off her toes to crush their mouths together for a long minute and whisper something ragged about needing … Natalia shifted on her chair with another little smile, clenching her thighs together and wetting her lips as she thought about her men, losing count of her stitches entirely imagining exactly how the night would go. How long had it been since they’d both been inside her? Since Ronin had used his tongue to take her apart and since Samuel had--- A noise. Natalia froze, abruptly yanked from her day dream by a sudden noise that was too soft to be accidental, too loud to be ignored. It wasn’t the noise of the house settling or shifting in the wind, it wasn’t the scritch of branches against the window, not even the skitter that was the occasional mouse searching for crumbs in the pantry. It was the noise of a person trying to be quiet and yet making sure Natalia was well aware of their presence and as she retrieved both her pistol from the basket of threads and the knife from her boot, Natalia’s mind cycled quickly through who could have broken into her house unseen and now was creeping about her kitchen. In nothing more than slippered feet, her breath carefully measured and movements precise, Natalia stepped towards the kitchen, hugging the wall so she could see around the corner before anyone could see her, peering through the shadows to see-- A match, flaring bright in the dark and then the cherry red glow of a cigarette. “Natalia.” A voice, deep and familiar. “Are you still playing spy in stockinged feet?” “That depends.” Natalia tucked her pistol into her belt and resheathed her knife, folding her arms to lean against the door jam as if her heart weren't pounding in her chest. “Are you still sneaking through the corners of your own home?” “This is not my home.” A lantern lit and Natalie blinked at the sudden brightness, head tilting as she studied the man sitting in front of her. “I’ve been hearing things about you, little sister. Rumours and whispers and I am not happy about them." “You can hardly believe the rumours you hear about me, brother.” She said casually, eyes sharp as James stood to his feet, looming over her. “What did Da always say?” “To never believe rumours about our family, because the truth is so much worse.” James said flatly and Natalia bared her teeth in a smile. “You left Russia without my permission, you left Sokovia without my permission." “Oh, I don’t need your permission to go anywhere, James.” She made a show of studying her finger nails. “Not to the gardens, not to the city, not to a different country but I suppose you've forgotten that, seeing as how this is the first time I've seen you in years. How did you find out about my little journey anyhow?” “You are naive to think I don’t have people watching you.” James sounded frustrated already, and Natalia shouldn't have been surprised. They fought every time they talked, which was probably why they never talked anymore. “You have Rumlow watching me." Natalia stated and muttered a curse when James only nodded. “Well I suppose him following me about because he’s spying for you is better than him following me about to try and get under my skirts. You could have just asked me, you know. Sent a letter or message or maybe even come home for once." “This is not my home.” James repeated, angrier now. “Rumlow says you brought a husband back. What in the hell are you thinking, Talia? Was the one husband not enough? You had to bring a second about to further the tales and whispers? Do you know what they call you now?"

"The Black Widow." Natalia's voice rose when his did. "A nickname I'd have no use for if you came around to protect like you are supposed to! That's why I married again, don't you know? I needed another man to protect the house since it's only ever myself and the twins here!"

James snorted, “Proklyat'ye Talia. That is bullshit and you know it. You don’t need a man to protect yourself or the twins. Rumlow told me how you are training Wanda to be just as lethal as you are, and that Pietro is nearly the marksman Ronin is. Why would you bring a stranger into our lives? Do you realize how this could disrupt our plans? Tell me the truth!" “I don’t owe you the truth.” Natalia said coolly. “And if you were here instead of off playing skirmish with the other boys, you’d know exactly how much danger I’ve been in and why my foray to Italy was necessary.” “Well I’m here now.” James said stubbornly. “And you will tell me now, or I will drag your new husband out of your bed and ask him myself.” Natalia lifted her chin defiantly, and James squinted at her. “He doesn’t know, does he? Bozhe, Talia. Did you trick a man into marriage and not tell him why you needed him? Was he so blinded by your charms and the way you wear your dresses that he followed you without question? “James!” Always irritated when her brother threw her tactics in her face, Natalia followed James out of the kitchen, snatching at his sleeve to slow him down. "Don't you dare wake him!”

“Does he have any idea what you did to the last man who had the nerve to call you wife?” James shook her off easily, heading for the stairs. “Is having my two best soldiers fawning over you not enough? You needed someone naive and controllable as well?! Tell me, how does he feel about having to share you with two other men, or have you shut him from your bed?" “Damn it!” Natalia crashed a vase off a pedestal and cursed out loud. “You will not bring him into this before you and I have had our say. You're being ridiculous and cruel for no reason except you are angry I disobeyed you!" “The hell I am!” James spat, whirling around and pointing a finger at her. “I have been working for years for this, Natalia. For the revolution, for our safety, for your safety. You could ruin everything bringing some unknown man into it! Are you trying to prove a point? Trying to get my attention? Because it worked! What were you thinking being so reckless and stupid?"

“Stop yelling at me for a single moment and I’ll tell you!” Natalia shouted back. “I haven’t heard from you in months, haven’t seen you in years and the first thing you do is walk in and start screaming at me!” “If you had listened for once in your life and just stayed put, I wouldn’t have to be here at all!” James yelled. “I have a mission, Natalia! Men’s lives are on the line and I had to leave it all to come baby sit my petulant, bratty little--” “You will watch your tone around the lady.” A new voice interrupted their fight, a smooth Italian accent curving the words lyrical but dangerous. “Or you and I will have a disagreement of our own right here on the stairs. If that happens, I promise you sir, you will not come out of the moment fully intact." “Antonio." Natalia's heart soared at the sudden appearance of Tony, quietly loving that he was coming to her rescue yet again. "Antonio, izvineniya, go back to bed, this is nothing to worry about. A disagreement with my brother no worse than several others I've had." “Yes, Antonio, go back to bed.” James’s gaze was furious as he dragged it from Natalia and towards the stairs. “No matter that I have several things I'd like to say to you. It seems as if what Natalia says is law whether its correct or not so why don’t you just--”

He stopped mid sentence, mid word in fact, his jaw falling open when he actually saw Tony. "Oh. I--Bozhe moy-- I--"

Tony wore nothing more than linen sleep pants, the waist low about his hips and too thin to disguise much of anything, a long barreled pistol held easily in one hand, his finger ready on the trigger. His hair was a disaster, rumpled and curly around his ears and even though he looked sleepy, Tony’s dark eyes glittered with anger and as they shifted towards Natalia-- protectiveness.

He was gorgeous. “What seems to be the problem here?” Tony asked slowly, pointedly, haughty as only a noble could be, glancing at Natalia for a split second before shifting back to James, the anger in his eyes fading to something... warmer... the longer James held his gaze. “Speak quickly, because you woke me up and I am not happy about it.” Natalia looked between them curiously, from the growing interest in Tony’s expression to the way James was staring with something akin to awe, seemingly at a loss for words and unable to look away. My oh my. “This is my husband Lord Antonio Carbonell Stark, nobile dei marchesi di Brescia.” Natalia broke the sudden silence to make introductions, sweeping a hand towards Tony. “And Antonio, darling. This is James Buchanan Barnes, His Serenity the Marquis of the house Romanov...and my older brother.” “Your brother.” Tony's aggressive stance eased, his finger leaving the trigger and eyes widening a little as they swept over James, the arrogance easing from his voice. “My apologies, I assumed it was an intruder.” “Not quite an intruder, since I lived most of my life here.” James had yet to look away from Tony, making no attempt to disguise his interest as he looked Tony over again. “Natalia, this is your husband?” “So the story goes.” Tony wasn't sure if he was flattered or intimidated by James’s blatant perusal and Natalia pressed her fingers to her mouth so she wouldn’t laugh at either of them. “You’ll forgive the weaponry, I was under the impression that you hadn’t been home for years and had no reason to think you'd be home tonight.” “This isn’t my home.” The words were immediate, automatic and Tony saw the way Natalia cringed from the corner of his eye. “But I will be spending time here again, yes. Apparently many things have changed that I need to be...aware of.” “A pleasure then.” Tony made at least an attempt to be appropriate, giving a short bow in light of meeting another member of nobility. “Until tomorrow.” “Until tomorrow.” James repeated, and his voice only had a fraction of his earlier ire when he told Natalia, “You and I will finish this discussion in the morning.” “Oh, I look forward to it, brother.” She retorted and with one last, lingering look towards Tony, James turned on his heel and strode away. Once the huge manor door had slammed shut, Tony frowned, “I thought you weren’t expecting him back. Why is he here?” “I think that’s rather obvious.” Natalia's lips curled in a smirk. “He came all the way here to meet you, Antonio. News of our marriage has spread and dear old brother decided to come and see if it were true.” “He seemed more interested in yelling at you.” He answered slowly. “Do you two always fight like that?" “Always." She confirmed. "And as grateful as I am for you coming to my rescue, you don’t have worry Antonio. This argument is nothing compared to others we’ve had and even though James sounds scary, I was doing my own share of yelling. He will calm down tonight and we will have a civil conversation in the morning. This happens every time we go too long without seeing each other.”

Natalia waited a beat and added, “By the way, I think he approves of you, darling.” “Why do you say that?” “I don't think I've seen my brother stare so hungrily at anything that wasn’t cake.”

****************

SAY SOMETHING ABOUT THE CHAPTER!

****************

@bethy-sue @babypinkbunny @lilwitchybee @shipeveryonetogether @shadowrayven @hausoffro @thereaderandwriterwithin @zerokrox-blog @zuretha-metal @tstilcr @larissaloki @blackhearted @itsallyd @megahuffledor @tabziecat @ceealaina @cwar1864 @pidgist @yukina64 @multishippinglife @susana0 @paranormalmoonlight5 @girlnic @vgurl18 @sw3etpotat0 @jade-taillia @glitternotgold73

#ncts fics #winteriron #historical au #james bucky barnes #tony stark #natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff #pietro maximoff #sam wilson #pietro

76 notes · View notes

nova-flashpan · 5 years

Text

Nightshift at Bunker

It was unseasonably cold in Kings canyon that night. The chilled air bristled past, sweeping through the island with a mournful whistling wind that mingled with the rhythmic chorus of the syndicate grunts at work. Large flood lights pierced the darkness, casting strange, ominous shadows.

Bunker seemed to loom over Duger as he worked. He felt as though the structure and its mountain surroundings were peeking over his shoulder, silently judging his progress. His nerves began to manifest in his hands with a tremble that made his welding go off track, leaving a nasty scorch mark in the concrete. Doing a quick survey, he decided it was okay to calm himself the only way he knew how. He took one of the cigars from his pouch and lit it with the welding torch still ablaze.

“C’mon Duger, if you’re going to smoke that crap you could at least do it somewhere I don’t have to smell it.” Alex growled, smacking Duger upside the head.

Duger flinched and rubbed the back of his helmet on instinct, as if he had actually felt the impact. “I can’t help it man, I smoke when I’m nervous. This place gives me the Heebie-jeebies.”

Alex took a stack of energy ammo from his pack and began to restock the supply bin. He gave a mean chuckle. “You’re nervous, huh? Scared of the canyon at night? You should be, with the wildlife on the loose now you’re not on top of the food chain anymore. Some of those things would make a quick dinner out of a little pissant like you.” Alex punctuated his sentence by sealing the supply bin with a pneumatic hiss.

Duger felt bile rise in the back of his throat. I’m not cut out for this, he thought. He steadied himself against the rail and ignored Alex’s torment as much as he could, forcing himself to focus on the welding.

“Alex, quit your jabbering and go help them put in the doors up the hill. Duger, don’t screw up that weld, you know they like to have things put back into place carefully.” Clowa called from the cargo truck.

Alex gave a dutiful nod and hurried up the hill. Duger liked watching how fast he broke to authority. He might be a sadist, but he’s a sadist who can take orders. Duger finished his work quickly on that thought. better to work while the cats busy. As he stood up, he tried his best to rub the scorch mark out of the concrete with his boot.

“I know I just warned you to be careful, but you don’t have to be that anal about it. When we’re finished cleanup’s gonna come for the dried blood and stuff, they’ll buff it out for you.” Clowa said.

“Oh, uh thanks commander.” Duger said.

She rolled her eyes. “Loosen up kid, you’re on the night shift. Its supposed to be easy if you do it right.”

Duger gave a dutiful nod like Alex had done and moved to the next set of railing. Their work continued uninterrupted except for the occasional screech of a flyer or the ring of far off gunfire. Duger found it oddly comforting. Each pop was like a reminder to his fearful core that there wasn’t anything to worry about. They weren’t the prey in the canyon, they where the hunters.

“That’s the problem with the “work hard, play hard” Motto. Everyone gets on board with the play hard part, but when it comes to the work they flake out. Then the people who really work hard are stuck picking up all the slack.” Will said speaking in between mouthfuls of orange dusted chips.

He sat on the balcony’s edge dangling his legs over and swinging them like a child in the breeze. Garth squatted near him patching up a whole in the shack’s wall.

“Uh huh that’s a real shame.” Garth said.

“It’s more than a shame! It’s a Damned travesty is what it is. Hell, we would probably get done with our work in half the time if the slackers would pick up their feet a little.” Will said crumpling the bag and tossing it into the water below.

Duger walked over and plucked the bag from the water without thinking.

Garth turned. “You don’t have to do that Dug. Will’s a big boy and he should learn to pick up his own shit.” He said punching Will in the arm.

“It’s ok I don’t mind that much.” Duger said turning back embarrassed.

“Yeah see he don’t mind. He doesn’t complain he just gets the job done.” Will said with a shit eating grin.

“Willie you’re a prick, you Know that.” Garth said.

Their banter was cut short as a series of pops range behind the mountain. The workers stopped, they all noted how long the gunfire had gone on. It wasn’t unusual to hear a shot or two in quick succession, but this was continuing fire. Then came the long rips of fully automatic fire and the steady thumping of light machine guns. Duger jumped at the sound of a much bigger bang, the distinctive blast of a grenade.

Clowa growled and grabbed her radio. “What’s with the fireworks people? Is appropriate force a term you all forgot about?”

The radio was silent. She went down the bands switching from one to the next in quick succession. Each had a distinctive static click as it connected, but there was silence. No matter what she threatened the other end did not reply back. Half way through the list she paused as the radio connected right away. The little speaker projected the vrooming fire of a devotion on full blast and the screaming of a man on his last leg.

“This is commander Clowa report in! What’s the situation?” She yelled into the receiver, a sliver of fear leaking into her tone.

The devotion fire stopped as the magazine spent its last breath. There was a scream and the sound of crunching armor and bone. Then a static hiss as the signal was lost. Clowa stared at the radio wondering if she had really just heard the end of a whole platoon. Her thoughts were interrupted as another signal connected and the panicked voice of Alex picked up.

“The lights are going out! Somethings coming!”

Clowa turned to see it with her own eyes. The lights of artillery flickered and then where snuffed. The dark flood spread, and containment was swallowed into the inky blackness as well. The light glow that had appeared around the mountain went out with a mechanical clank as the floodlights on the other side went out.

The grunts moved quickly without orders, it was clear that the shit had hit the fan, and no one was going to sit around and wait to be told to gear up. Will made a beeline for the closed container ditching his issued rifle for the devotion that sat inside. Duger followed suit picking up a peacekeeper and adding attachments that he could find in the restocking stash. The momentum of the work stopped the terror from fully sinking in, so he rode it like a wave.

Clowa worked through their ranks checking their weapons and dolling out attachments and grenades. They were scared but she couldn’t allow chaos to go unchecked. Better to act as if she still had everything in hand, give them a foundation to work from. She held her face plain and hoped they couldn’t see the nervous twitch in her eye. She had them form around the bunker’s entrance, creating a fallback if things escalated.

“Alex do you have confirmation on the enemy? What are we fighting here?” Clowa asked in a hushed tone into the radio.

“No, we’ve had limited visual contact. I can’t Identify who, but they’re individuals in Black armor. They’re blending into the dark, using the shadows to hide. I think they might be special ops or something.” Alex said.

Clowa’s brow furrowed. She had thought it was wildlife at first, an invasion of the more aggressive outland species. That bone crunching, she had heard made more sense for animals. She shivered at the thought of the kind of person who would do that.

“Hold your position and give me any updates on their movement. I’m gonna call the Calvary in for this.” She said.

Clowa entered the syndicate main line and tried to connect. She only heard static. She could feel the eyes of the grunts on her, their hope resting on her like the weight of a sinking ship. I need to keep control, need to keep everyone together, she thought. She sent an outbound signal.

“This is commander Clowa of the 19th restocking crew requesting immediate evac. We have hostiles surrounding us. Over.”

There was static and then a different sound, not quite breathing, but the idle fidgeting of another presence. She knew someone or something had heard her. She pressed the button to speak again when a growling metallic “No” pierced through the static.

Clowa did a double take. did I really just here that? She thought. No, surely it was a trick of the static. Her mind finding a voice amongst the white noise. It felt real though. She tried to resend the signal only to find that the radio was no longer working. That “No” had meant it.

The grunts turned to hill as screams and gunfire sang from the top. Duggar felt his intestines pretzel themselves in his gut as he recognized one of the voices of agony. In his lower moments he had wondered what it would be like to hear Alex scream in pain. He knew now and wished he never had.

“Fall back Fall back!” Clowa screamed the last of nerves giving way.

The soldiers flooded into the narrow passageways of bunker. Clowa waited at the entrance for a moment, hoping to see a few of her men escape from the hilltop. She was instead met with a wave of dark armored soldiers running and leaping with inhuman speed. Clowa was able to close the doors just in time as the wave crashed into bunker.

The men leapt back as the swarm continued to batter against the door. Sending body after body crashing against the plated steel. The slamming slowed and finally stopped as the swarm realized it could not push into the structure. The mass of soldiers stood still now, as if they, or it, were thinking.

“Alex?” Duger whispered as he peered through the bullet proof glass.

Alex was there at the forefront his armor and skin turned an ashen black. His eyes gave an eerie glow and he wore a wide snarling smile that was anything but friendly. He noticed that they were all Grunts, all fellow soldiers. He recognized many of them. They had been his colleges, some had even been his friends.

The swarm took a collective step back and two separated from its ranks and stepped forward. They grabbed both halves off the door and began to push opposite directions. At first there was nothing. Then another pair joined and then another. And the door began to make a creaking sound as the lock began to break.

“Hold the door!” Clowa yelled as she braced one of the sides trying to stop its movement.

The other men rushed in and pushed along side her. Duger stood there being and feeling completely helpless. The eyes of the shadow men outside seemed to lock on his every time he looked.

“Duger God dammit help us!” Will shouted.

Duger snapped out of it and grabbed his welding torch. He set the torch to its highest setting praying that it was hot enough for the reinforced material. The weld was sloppy, but it held fusing the two halves of the door together.

Will clapped him on the shoulder as they stepped back. “I knew yah had it in you little guy.”

The others joined in whooping and cheering, taking the little victory in stride. Clowa didn’t join them, she stood at the door still wrestling with a feeling that there was something else off. As she scanned the now still swarm it came to her.

“Weren’t there more of them?” She asked.

Her question was answered by a shrieking crash from further in the facility. Hearts sank and stomachs dropped as they remembered the other entrance. It may have been locked, but that wasn’t enough anymore.

They were overtaken in moments. The narrow hallways gave them a slight advantage, but there was no beating their sheer numbers. As the fighting went on the lights where knocked out and the canyon sat in complete darkness.

Duger was the last man standing. He had torn the devotion from Will’s cold dead hands and was now blasting away. The lasers where the only source of light. The Blue blots of plasma seemed almost holy to him and he could not help but chuckle, wondering if that’s why it had been given that name.

Then the clip ran dry and he was in the godless dark. He shrank back into the corner slipping in someone else’s blood. He should have died as soon as the clip ran out, but instead he was left with the cruel fate of waiting for death hopelessly. He wept there in the dark, wishing they would just do it. He knew they were still there, he could hear them ripping apart armor and breaking bones.

Then just before madness fully grasped him, he felt a cold metal hand grab his face in the darkness. Suddenly he feared death again, for some reason he felt that death by this hand would be worse somehow. He began to sputter pleading for his life between racking sobs.

There was a deep metallic voice that spoke calmly and coolly, though he felt an immeasurable anger deep in its tones.

“Why do you cry little meat sack? Are you afraid I’m going to hurt you? I could never, not too something as pitiful as you. No. no. There’s no sport in that.”

Duger’s crying slowed. Maybe he had been wrong about the dark. It was ok. He was going to be ok. The voice wouldn’t hurt him, and everything would be alright. The metal hand left his face.

“I certainly wouldn’t hurt you.” The voice reassured, then it gave a sinister chuckle. “However, I can’t speak for them.”

They swarmed him now Striking and tearing. The last thing he heard as he left the mortal coil was the clank of metal feet. The metal hands picked through the remains of Clowa in the dark and wrapped around a control key card.

“Now the reel fun can begin.”

(This was written as a sort of prelude to the new apex legends Halloween event. I’m sure there will be an in game explanation for how the game mode happens, but I thought it would be fun to do something on the spookier side.)

#apex legends #apex art #apex lore #apex fanart #scifi #short story #spooktober #mild violence #spookie

19 notes · View notes

mairights · 5 years

Text

– 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧; 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨 –

pairing: peter parker x supernatural oc

words: 5.6k

summary: bria’s offered refuge and perhaps a friend, but what does it mean, really?

warnings: mentions of creepy men and harassment/abuse

a/n: this chapter is more insight into bria’s character and givin’ ya a foundation of her connection with peter, plus another character added into the mix <3 still on a bit of the basics since it’s early, but i hope you enjoy!!

⟵ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 | 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 ⟶

“Come on, up. Get up.”

Bria pants heavily, her fingers curling into the ground. Dirt cakes underneath her fingernails and she relishes in the feeling. She relishes in feeling something besides death against her hands.

“I can’t,” she groans. “I’m too.. Too tired. I…”

“Tired?”

She spits at her. A heavy foot stomps impatiently next to Bria’s hand.

“I said ‘up.’ It wasn’t a suggestion.”

Every bit of blood feels like lead in her veins; muscle bites back against bone every time she tries to stand. Her energy is spent.

“You’re weak,” she hisses again. “And stupid. I work on you every day until the sun sets. I neglect the others for you. And this is how you repay me? By giving up because you’re tired? Pathetic.”

“I don’t want to give up, I just can’t… can’t keep going. Everything hurts.”

“It always will if you don’t work harder.”

A kick to her side sends her sprawling. It’s not even a hard kick, but her body is so exhausted that it collapses. The dirt, damp and cool, makes her shiver. She’s already so cold. She tastes blood.

“Please, I’ll start first thing tomorrow… I need a break. That’s all.” Bria’s voice is muffled, her cheek unmoving from the ground. She hears a laugh, mirthless and venomous. The bird-like, angled features just barely creep into her peripheral vision, but she reads her face all the same.

“You don’t have a choice in the matter. Now, get up, and you might get to eat before sundown.”

Her limbs shake violently, a soft grunt puncturing the tense air. She feels herself being watched intently by the hawk before her.

The more weight she puts on her joints, the more her body trembles. Everything aches with her attempt to stand. The more she tries, the more energy she saps. If she does end up standing, she’s sure that she’ll accomplish nothing more than that.

She manages to prop herself up on one knee; that effort alone leaves her panting.

“Is that all you can do?” the hawk asks. “Are you that weak?”

Her tone is cloying and sickeningly sweet. It makes Bria’s teeth ache. She shakes her head.

The hawk laughs, placing her hands on her hips. Abruptly, the sarcasm in her voice drops.

“One day, you’re going to be all alone, with no one to save you, and you will regret this. You’ll regret not trying harder. Not even your powers will save you, you hear me? I am the reason you are anything. I am all you have.”

With that, she turns on her heel and stomps into the house. As soon as the heavy wooden door slams behind her, Bria collapses into the dirt again— it is her only friend for the moment.

When Bria comes to, it isn’t dirt against her cheek, but cool, sticky leather. Her head aches, feeling as if it’s full of cotton, or perhaps something less soft. Her vision is still spotty when she opens her eyes, but it’s less like she’s passing out and more like waking up from a long nap. Whatever room she’s in is much warmer than the outside. Lots of grays and neutral tones adorn it from what she can see.

It takes a few moments for her vision to clear. Once it does, she takes a look around the room; sleek, modern furniture so different from what she’s used to, and more of it. Three large couches sit around a glass coffee table plus the one she’s situated on. A kitchen is connected to the room (more of what she’s used to), but it’s separated by a half-wall and a slightly different level. It’s all extremely foreign and has her hair standing on end. Even worse, she’s alone in this strange place. But she does hear something.

Presumably in the next room over comes muffled voices, at least two. Bria sits up slowly so her left ear is no longer pressed against the couch. After that, she can hear a little better. , but the action tells her that her bones are aching from her last encounter.

“Mr. Stark, c’mon-” begins one voice, young and familiar. Fuzzy as her brain is, she faintly traces it back to her rendezvous on the street. That, and Stark. The name sounds familiar.

The words that come next are spoken much more maturely, with more vibrato.

“You cannot just bring someone like that to me at, god, what time is it? Two? Two in the damn morning, Peter.”

“She was alone.”

“And for good reason, apparently! With what you described.”

“She was so scared. Scared and really weak. Couldn’t even move, just laying there on the sidewalk.”

“Kid, I get it, but I have a daughter now. You saw what she, the… the girl did. I have a responsibility to keep Morgan safe and I feel like that’s threatened when you drop by with-”

“Mr. Stark, please. I-I… I couldn’t leave her. She needed help.”

For just a moment, the conversation lulls. Bria’s stomach tightens and stirs with each passing second.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” the younger voice finally says. It trembles and wavers.

The men (?) pause after that, as if they’re contemplating (probably are). Blood rushes to Bria’s cheeks in the silence; they’re talking about her, how dangerous she is. Her stomach sinks like a stone when she calls back the older voice’s words: “I have a daughter.” She’s dangerous to kids. It’s that fact that makes her skin crawl with an urge to bolt. Guilt creeps up her spine at just the thought.

But where to go?

The room seems made of windows; every wall directly across from, behind, and to her left is glass. With how modern and expensive everything else looks, though, she’s willing to bet those windows are some kind of supremely durable glass. Not only that, but she’s definitely too far aboveground to jump; she can she the tops of skyscrapers from this floor. The only logical way out is the door, and that’s just about a hundred feet from where she sits. Easy break.

It takes a notable effort to stand but she does it. Quavering, fawn-like steps are taken toward the exit. To her, it feels eerily like tiptoeing through the house for a cup of water, knowing she’s not supposed to have any more. She swallows hard at the memory.

She’s nearly home-free, her hand on the knob, when a lilting feminine voice startles her out of her daze.

“Unknown presence detected. Please enter exit code.”

Bria flinches like she’s been burned and stumbles back from the door. The doorknob recedes and is replaced by a holographic number pad, prompting her to enter said exit code. Whatever that freaky shit is, she suddenly wants no part of it, and her escape is certainly foiled now. Even more so when a door opens and it isn’t the one before her.

She jumps again at the sound, whirling around to the source. Two male figures exit a room just a hallway down from the one she stands in. One stands taller and definitely older than the other, with graying hair and a stiff gait. He’s clad in plaid pajama pants and an old gray t-shirt, but the boy is in a red and blue suit, covering everything except his neck and head. He has his lips pursed and eyes cast downward, probably in shame.

“Going somewhere?” The older one asks. His tone isn’t hostile but it definitely suggests that she isn’t being granted the luxury of a getaway. She shakes her head.

“Okay. Then sit.”

She darts back over to her original seat on one of the big sofas. Her knees press against her chest and her arms wrap around then: a nervous reflex from childhood. Every nerve in her body lights up with panic and she wants so badly to leave. But to where? Back to the sidewalk, where she was just rescued from?

She pushes the thought from her mind.

The older man situates himself on the same couch, but he keeps a respectable distance between the two of them. It’s one thing Bria’s grateful for. The younger boy, however, sits on the couch directly to her left, clasping his hands anxiously.

“So,” the graying man begins again, “Let’s start with this: what’s your name?”

He sure doesn’t waste any time.

She hesitates; she’s never really introduced herself to anyone. She’s hardly left home, never quite met anyone new. It seems funny to tell someone her name.

“Bria,” she finally says. It tastes odd on her tongue and she wonders if she’s ever even said her name. Ownership hasn’t been granted to her for anything. Not her life, not her choices, and certainly not her name.

“Bria. Okay.” He nods once, dragging a hand down the side of his face. He then holds out the same hand to her.

“Tony,” he says.

Cautiously, Bria takes Tony’s hand. His grip is firm but not suffocating, his palms calloused from hard work. What work, she can’t tell. As she studies his face, though, she recognizes his face more and more. Not to the point that she knows who he is, but enough to know she’s seen him before.

Tony must notice her staring because he smiles amiably. The expression he wears is still cautious, though the warmth he attempts somewhat puts her at ease. Tony releases her hand and clears his throat. Bria hugs her arm back to her legs.

“So,” Tony begins again. “I need to know… I need to know why you were on the street tonight.”

Bria bites her lip, swallows her. She adjusts her grip.

“I don’t really see how that’s… your concern.”

Instantly, she knows she’s said the wrong thing. God, she doesn’t even know how that came out of her mouth. Tony’s eyebrows raise and then furrow, his body inclining toward her. He looks as if it takes him effort to understand what she just said and why. His tone drops threateningly, but he doesn’t yell.

Stupid. Stupid. Supposed to follow orders, aren’t you? What are you doing?

“You show up on my doorstep in the middle of the goddamned night with some freaky-deaky death shit attached to you, no name, no story, and you really wanna tell me it’s not my concern what the hell you were doing out there?”

Suddenly, she’s shaking. It would almost be better if he yelled; his tone is imposing with barely restrained anger, lips curling into an angry frown. The worst part is that she can’t refute anything he just said. He’s right, but she can’t say it. Her words die on her tongue. It’s not the jab at her ability that stings, it’s the reality sinking in.

“It is my concern. The concern is all damn mine, you hear?”

He raises a brow again, daring her to argue. She tries to speak only to fall silent once more. She’s back in the garden: helpless and pathetic, so dissociated that she flinches when the younger boy speaks.

“Mr. Stark, please don’t be angry with her,” he pleads softly. It’s a bad time for it to happen, but Bria then puts two and two together. It’s unclear to her why she didn’t before, but then, she’s never paid much attention to him. With what she knows, and the name, the high-tech, the domineering attitude, she can tell one thing: She’s sitting in front of Tony Stark, formerly Iron Man. Vigilante at times, tech giant all others. The implications of the title further her apprehension. It also makes her wonder; he has power at his fingertips, and with that, the will to boot her at any time. So why doesn’t he?

He’s still game to argue, though.

Tony scowls. “Peter, this isn’t your-”

“No, please,” Peter meets his eyes, “I-I brought her here. She didn’t really… have another option. Or a say. It’s my fault she’s here. Don’t yell at her.”

For a bit, they just look at each other, Tony’s face slowly softening (not by much, but enough). He finally sighs and looks back to Bria.

“Fine,” he concedes. “Fine. But I still need to know why you were there. What happened, all of that.”

Bria nods. There was really no sense to arguing it in the first place because he’s right. It is his concern. She’s supposed to be obedient, anyway. The real matter is how she can go about telling him why she ended up in a New York City alleyway, death pouring from her fingertips, with no name, story, or winter coat.

Tony and Peter are patient while she thinks, Peter especially. Tony’s face is expecting and inquiring, whereas Peter’s is soft and comforting. Something about his gaze, the way he looks at her like he already trusts her, puts her at ease, makes her feel inclined to trust him. Even though it’s foolish, she looks at him. She dares to smile, if only a fraction of one.

“You’re the one that found me?” She asks him. He returns her smile, although his is much wider, and nods.

“Yeah.”

She nods back. Everything she’s heard him speak is soft and tentative, even when he was arguing just minutes ago. Peter speaks like he recognizes the power behind his words. He speaks in a way that says “hey, I get it.” Bria barely knows him, but she wants to.

Maybe. It still unsettles her that he isn’t afraid, not even a little bit. Tony reacted as she would expect: angry, frightened for his daughter, and cautious. Peter, however? Almost too welcoming, too trusting. She doesn’t know how to handle that

She bites her lip, drops the smile, and looks down. Her arms still hug her knees to her torso.

“I… left home,” she begins slowly. Her head still feels full and strange. It makes talking odd.

“Left home?”

“Mhm.” “Do you mean you left for a little weekend getaway or you ran away?”

Oh. Damn. She hasn’t thought about it as “running away” yet. More like… leaving for good? “Running away” sounds like she’s a melodramatic teenager in an adventure novel. Is that all she is?

She shrugs. “I guess.”

Tony looks intrigued.

“And why’d you do that?”

An interesting question with, realistically, a very long and emotional answer. She doesn’t even realize how complicated the answer is until she tries to say it. Home life was hell, or what her personal equivalent would be. She remembers night spent outside in the rain because she refused to drain deer or rabbits. She remembers not eating for days on end if she didn’t try hard enough. She remembers being forced to hurt people and worse and…

Bria blinks hard.

“I couldn’t… couldn't stay there. Couldn’t keep doing what I was doing.”

Even saying that feels like an admission too personal for these two general strangers. Although she can’t see Peter’s reaction, Tony’s face lessens in intensity. She thinks that maybe he gets it― the little ‘it’ she’s offered up, anyway.

Tony breathes out audibly. He adjusts so he sits with one leg on the couch and one hanging off, his arm propped up against his knee.

“Okay. Okay, yeah, makes sense.” He scratches the side of his neck. “So, bad mom? Dad?”

Well, she didn’t call anybody “mom” back home.

“Mom, I guess.”

“Ah. Well, I had dad issues, so maybe there’s some… common ground there.”

She almost scoffs― almost― at the thought. Even her limited social interaction and public outings have allowed her to deduce that whatever she’s experienced is not a shared one. But she doesn’t say that; saying it makes it real and means that she has to talk about it. She shrugs instead.

“Alright, well… I need to ask you about the actual incident tonight. Okay? Can we work with that?”

Bria’s surprised he even asks before he prompts her to talk about it.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I can. I guess,” she clears her throat and rocks back onto her tailbone, “what do you wanna know?”

“What happened? How’d it happen?”

She tries to recall as much as she can. It only happened a short time ago, that much she knows, but it was a large outburst. She’s not used to releasing so much energy at once and neither is her brain. So, her answer is slow.

“I remember walking into a bar. No, no, sorry… It was a-a pub, or whatever it’s called.”

Tony nods, gesturing for her to go on. She does.

“And some guy, he followed me out. Kept saying things. Trying to touch me.” She genuinely shudders at the thought of him, the leering man with the bourbon breath.

“He cornered me against some building. I dunno what it was.”

“Delmar’s,” Peter interjects. “It was, uh, Delmar’s. The sandwich shop.”

Tony looks like he understands, so Bria trusts his judgement; it doesn’t matter much anyway, where he pinned her down. She shivers a little.

“And then, uh… he tried to kiss me, I think. Leaned in really close and I just… I panicked.”

Tony and Peter pulls disgusted, angry faces. Peter especially looks like he wants to punch a wall. Tony audibly shudders.

“God. Creepy ass. What, uh… happened when you panicked?”

Bria struggles to find a way to explain it. To her, it’s second nature, the draining. Even if she hasn’t totally reigned it in, she’d know the feeling and how to draw it out anywhere, any time. Describing it to another person is a different story. It’s like describing how you breathe or why you crack your knuckles. It’s innate, muscle memory.

She huffs. “It was like… something burst in my chest and then it just shot out of my hands, like it was protecting me. But it is me, I guess. Then the guy started dying.”

Tony’s blinks; by his previous comments, Peter already somewhat described to him what she was performing, per say, but he still looks unsettled.

“Dying? You were killing him?”

“...yes. I-I didn’t mean to, not this time-”

“So this has happened before?”

The rapid-fire response leaves her needing a moment to think.

‘Yes. Nearly every day of my life for the past seventeen years,’ she wants to say. She purses her lips before speaking again, tongue darting out to nervously swipe across them.

“It happens sometimes.”

Explaining that the ability is something she’s been working to master since childhood feels wrong. It already feels dirty, feels invasive to be giving them so much of her already. She doesn’t know them, why is she telling them this? What does she owe them, really? She could leave. She could go and be fine.

If she really didn’t want to, though, she wouldn’t be telling them. She’s always been a survivalist, giving up or running to preserve herself. She wants to talk about this. Somewhere deep down she does.

But she can’t tell them everything. Not now.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” she continues, “but it’s there and I know I can do it. I try to control it but it doesn’t always work.”

“Clearly.”

Tony’s comment is crass, but she doesn’t find it rude. His facial expression doesn’t change so she doesn’t think he really means it, anyway.

It takes him a second to process all that she just told him. He keeps glancing at her hands, clutching her forearms. He doesn’t necessarily look scared, but he’s definitely calculating. Thinking.

Peter, although quiet for most of the conversation, pipes up from behind her.

“So you were just born with that?” He asks. When Bria looks to him, he’s sitting criss cross on the couch with his chin in his hands. She bites her lip.

“Yeah,” she says simply. “What about you?”

She doesn’t know why she asks. She’s not one to pry into other people’s backgrounds when she’s so private with her own. But she thinks back to him scooping her up from the ground, his voice hidden behind blurry red as he lifted her into the hair. She wonders how he did it because sitting as he is right now, curls messy and eyes tired, he doesn’t seem the same.

Her question brings another smile from him.

“No, I wasn’t born like this,” he chuckles. “It’s kinda- actually, I’ll… explain later. It’s weird.”

Explain later. So she’s staying here; that’s what that implies. She forces a small smile to hopefully hide her qualms, but her stomach twists with anxiety; she doesn’t know who lives here, how this house works. Hell, she had an encounter with some kind of sentient door not too long ago. Bria finds herself exhaling shakily, slowly unwinding her arms from around her legs. They’re stiff from sitting like that, so she lowers them gently until her feet hit the ground. He hands clasp and unclasp against the smooth leather of the couch. Tony Stark is looking at her with the same intense, calculating look. Her palms sweat.

“Later,” she repeats. “So there’s gonna be a later.”

“Well, not to offend you, or anything, but I can’t let you wander the streets alone. So, yeah, there’ll be a later. Here.”

She’s unsure of what to say after that. She left home because she felt trapped only to end up here, feeling the same way. The spacious living room feels nearly as encapsulating as splintering wooden walls did. But she doesn’t blame him or the boy, Peter. She knows it’s all her fault; if she hadn't freaked out, she wouldn’t be here answering questions to sate a nervous father. She wouldn’t have dragged a frustratingly sweet boy into her problems. Now, she’s stuck again. If she’d been able to control herself, she would’ve been fine. For a little while, at least.

Maybe she should’ve worked harder.

She’d rather be here than on the streets, though. Back where men like the one she nearly killed can follow and touch her. The people at home were controlling, spiteful, and knew how to get what they wanted from her. The people in New York City, from what she’s seen, are different; they don’t know how to get what they want and that makes them even more dangerous. They’ll do anything until she breaks.

She hopes that’s not what she’s walked into with Tony and Peter. Even if it’s better than the streets, she still wants to run.

Tony clasps his hands together and stands rather abruptly, exhaling loudly.

“I’ll be honest,” he starts, voice louder and all too casual, “I don’t trust you and I know you don’t trust me. I wouldn’t expect that right now. But like I said, I can’t let you wander the streets and have something like this happen again, hm?”

Bria bites her lips. She looks down at hear lap before nodding. He continues.

“You’re gonna stay here until we figure things out. You’ll sleep in a guest room and you’ll talk more in the morning. Okay?”

She nods again; there’s no option but to agree. But she does let another question dance past her lips.

“Where am I, though” She asks tentatively. “I don't know the city.”

“Avengers’ Tower, version number God knows what. Where I live, plus others sometimes.” He cocks his head at her. “If you’re worried about your safety, you’ll be fine here.”

Bria almost scoffs. She knows his concern isn’t with her safety; it’s with everybody else’s.

“Okay.”

“Alright. Good. Peter?”

Peter leaps from his seat so quickly that it looks as if he might trip. His brows shoot up in anticipation.

“Yeah?”

“Take her upstairs, find her a room. And you’ll stay here tonight, too. I’ll call your aunt.”

Peter nods, hands clasped before him; he tries to hide it with a mostly neutral face, but anyone can tell he’s eager to please. The curve of his lips and the gleam in his eyes pretty much gives it away. He glances over his shoulder at Bria.

“Ready?” He asks with a soft smile.

“Yeah, sure.”

With more bounce in his step than needed for past three in the morning, he heads towards the stairs with Bria in toe. She feels awkward walking behind him with her stiff steps and arms wrapped around her torso. Peter walks up the staircase like he’s done it countless times before, swinging his arms and gazing comfortably ahead. But Bria bristles and watches her feet carefully as she climbs upward. The glass walls surrounding her and clean steps beneath her make her seem more out of place.

She’s staring so intently down at her feet that she bumps right into Peter’s back at the top of the stairs. Surprised, she nearly topples downward until Peter turns and catches her wrist. Her breath catches when he softly laughs and helps her steady herself. His grip is hardly there, all soft touch and warm fingertips, but he helps her up the last step with ease. Maybe it’s how uneasy she is on her feet, but the casual strength he exudes paints a blush across her cheeks.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, hurrying to take her hand back and cradle it against her. But she misses the contact as soon as she lets go, loathe as she is to admit it. She thinks that it’s probably the first gentle touch she’s felt in a long time.

Peter smiles again, apologetic. God, does he ever stop smiling at her?

“S’okay, I get it. You’ve had a long night.”

That’s one way to put it.

Bria composes herself as best as she can before Peter leads her down a long, white hallway he stops at a door. He waves her in.

The room is as clean as the rest of the building with the same floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall, dark-toned wood, and a tall wardrobe. But the woods are warm and the bed is inviting with it’s fluffy comforter and what must be five or six pillows. Bria marvels quietly at it; it’s a lot bigger than what she’s used to having. Much more put together and soft.

Peter notes her staring with another laugh.

“Yeah, it’s nice. Lot nicer than my apartment.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm. I dunno where exactly you live, but this one’s nicer than most ones.”

“I guess.”

God, she wants to palm her face. Here she is with a person who actually wants to be nice to her and she’s repaying him with half-baked responses. The conversation dies as quickly as it was born.

“I’ll go get you some clothes.”

And Peter disappears out the door.

Bria sighs and looks around the room. It’s almost comical how she’s ending the night; less than a day ago, she was still in the garden, still sleeping on the floor. Now she’s in a millionaire’s penthouse, or whatever it is. Is he even a millionaire? Billionaire? Last she remembers learning anything about Tony Stark is whenever the television at home was last on. She can’t even recall when that was.

Peter probably watches a lot of television. Every person in this city probably does. Huh.

She’s back to feeling out of place.

Truth be told, she’d let herself forget why she was here for a moment. Dumb luck and opportunity didn’t lead her here: misfortune and danger did. Nearly killing someone did. She’s not on a field trip or vacation. What she is is stuck, a refugee, if anything. The only place she belongs is back at the old wooden house with her face under a boot.

She sits on the plush bed and draws her knees to her chest once again, trying to drive away the tight feeling in it. Her brain races with her heart and lungs toward some unforeseen finish line. Her hands go cold.

No.

Bria shoves her hands in between her thighs just as Peter enters the room again. In his hands is a small pile of clothing.

“There were some clothes in, uh, Nat’s room, but there… wasn’t much. I had pajamas though, if that’s okay?”

He offers her the clothing and she takes it hesitantly. A black shirt sits on top of the pile which, upon closer inspection, says “Particle physics gives me such a hadron” in white block letters. She doesn’t get it in the slightest, but the fabric is soft and smells clean. The other item beneath that is a pair of shorts, dark red with a white border around the edges. Each piece is much nicer than what she’s wearing, even though they’re meant for sleep. Her dirty jeans and torn shirt are embarrassing.

“Thank you,” she says, holding the offerings to her chest. Peter purses his lips and runs his hands up and down the tops of his thighs. Bria still finds the costume so odd; bright red and blue are separated by black borders with some kind of webbed pattern across all of it. Little metal contraptions adorn his wrists and she keeps catching him messing with them with his gloved fingers. The whole get-up enthralls and unsteadies her all at once.

He turns toward the door.

“Well…” he starts, “I-I should get to bed now.”

“Wait.”

He turns surprisingly fast, attentive when she doesn’t expect it. She bites her lip.

“Thank you,” she says again. Peter’s brow furrows.

“For… for the clothes?”

“No, I meant,” she breathes in and out deeply, “for helping me.”

For some reason, it feels funny to say that. She can’t tell why.

Peter’s face softens immediately at the words, not to mention how his cheeks redden. He idly plays with the hair that curls around his ears.

“Oh, well… You’re welcome, I guess. It’s nothing.”

He says that like it really is nothing. She wants to tell him it’s definitely not, but she swallows the words down. She wants to keep talking to him; she feels like she can. And she kicks herself for it.

“Why, though?” She blurts out. Peter’s back to looking confused.

“What do you mean ‘why?’ Why wouldn’t I?”

She doesn’t know what to say to that. She could talk about how when she’s on the ground she’s usually left there to recover on her own, but she doesn’t, won’t. Something about him is trustworthy but she doesn’t trust him like that. Yet.

Instead of speaking, she shrugs with a half-hearted smile, which Peter returns. His gaze lingers like he has something to say and she stiffens under it.

But he doesn’t speak. He shakes his head, sighs, and walks out, taking any feeling of comfort with him. And Bria’s all alone again when he shuts the door.

The room feels uncomfortably large, suffocating in contrast to its nature. The windows feel like large, glassy eyes, watching her watching them. There’s nowhere for her to hide from it.

She shivers and tries to change, but she keeps looking over her shoulders, waiting for a scolding, a presence, something. She strips of her shirt and dons the large black one as quickly as she can, not wanting to feel any more exposed. Changing pants feels even worse with how she nearly trips through all of the rips in hers. By the time she finally switches clothes, she’s shaking and her heart is beating out of her throat. The threat of ridicule lingers in her mind, a wound fresh and sore. But nothing comes. She scoots backwards on the bed until her shoulders hit firm pillows.

The door opens again. Peter’s head pokes through. Bria flinches.

“Hey, I- sorry, did I scare you?” His voice is tentative still, quiet as if not to disturb her. Bria doesn’t notice how hard she’s breathing until Peter’s gentle expressions reminds her she doesn’t need to be.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry. It’s fine. I’m fine.” She shakes her head and blinks hard one, twice, and then three times. Peter smiles tightly at her.

“I just figured I’d say goodnight.”

She blinks again. Her shoulders relax.

“Oh.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up or anything.”

Except she’s the furthest thing from tired. Her mind races still but she finds the composure to breathe out, lessen the tension in her body, and look at him.

“It’s okay,” she tells him, voice careful and controlled. “Goodnight.”

“Okay. Sleep well.”

Then his head ducks out and he shuts the door with a soft click. Bria lets out another breath.

She finds herself sinking back into the pillows and looking up at the ceiling. It’s a stark white compared to what she’s used to. The lack of familiarity both comforts and unsettles her. Try as she might, she can’t fully relax. She wanted to be far away and here she is, far away, but she doesn’t feel better. Different, maybe less terrible, but not quite better. Her head still pounds and her limbs feel heavy and clumsy just laying on the bed.

Bria turns on her side. Her eyes wander to her pile of dirty clothes in the corner of the room, crumpled and small. Uncomfortably familiar.

She rotates so she’s staring out at the city instead. It really is true, what they say; it never sleeps. Nearly every light remains on and cars chug along on the streets below. Even a few people, however small they seem from such a tall building, are walking along the sidewalk. Everything is as awake as she feels. Her body is tired, begging for rest, but her eyes simply won’t close. The day has felt so long and she wishes, even prays, for sleep to grace her. However, even with the sun just hours from rising, the night is still young in New York City. February thirteenth has crept up on Bria with an unwelcoming and unsure hand, and sleep is not yet on its agenda.

Bria curls in on herself, small as she can be on the large bed, and watches the skyscrapers blink at her until her eyes fall shut.

𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁: @poetrypeter @bravest-at-heart @xxtomxo @softcrybabyboy @dreamboatparker @cloudyyparker @cleopatera @parkeret @quitetommy @kashootthanos @melancholy-honey

73 notes · View notes

bookgirlfan · 5 years

Text

Ahsoka stepped straight up to Qui-Gon and punched him in the face.

“Ahsoka!” Anakin was too shocked to know what else to say. Qui-Gon was a hero to him, the man who had rescued him from slavery and believed in him when no one else had. How could Ahsoka possibly believe that punching him would be an acceptable thing to do?

He grabbed Ahsoka’s arm, pulling her away from Qui-Gon. “Do you even know who that is, Snips?”

Ahsoka stared at him defiantly. “Of course I do! That’s Master Jinn.”

Anakin started to continue, to ask her why, if she knew who he was, she punched him at all, when Ahsoka continued, “He’s the one who renounced Master Obi-Wan in front of the whole Council!”

The obvious outrage in her voice took Anakin aback. What was she talking about? Master Qui-Gon had renounced Obi-Wan? “When?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Every Initiate knows that story. The older kids used to tell it in the crèche to the babies to scare them. I mean, what could be worse than your master telling the whole council that he’s found a new Padawan, and he doesn’t want you anymore?”

With a slowly dawning sense of horror, Anakin realised he knew exactly when that had happened. He’d never thought about it like that before, but yes, Qui-Gon had thrown away his Padawan for a new one.

Ahsoka continued to explain, not noticing Anakin’s distress. “Not everyone knows that it was Master Jinn, but I looked it up, because I–“ She hesitated for a moment, then forged ahead. “I wanted to be sure I never ended up with that Master.”

“Ahsoka...”

She must have misinterpreted his tone, because she immediately leant forward, montrals twitching. “Don’t worry, Master, I never told anyone. I know Master Obi-Wan wouldn’t want anyone to know. I wouldn’t if it had happened to me. They might still be able to find it in the archives,” she gave him a mischievous smile, “but they’d have to look pretty hard. I sliced in and took it off the main server. Only someone who really wants to know can find it now.”

Anakin closed his mouth. There didn’t seem to be any point in saying he hadn’t even known about it until she’d mentioned it, and it had never occurred to him how Obi-Wan might have felt that day. Instead, he told her, “Good work, Snips.”

“Young Knight, if you’re done, would you be able to tell me where I am?” A gently amused voice came from behind him.

Anakin startled. Usually he was excellent at keeping his awareness up at all times, but the combination of Ahsoka’s surprise punch and the almost forgotten but still familiar sense of Qui-Gon’s Force presence had obviously caused his awareness to slip. “That might be a little difficult, Master Jinn. I don’t think this is somewhere you’re familiar with.”

Ignoring his mixed disappointment and pride that Qui-Gon hadn’t recognised him, he wondered what an accomplished Jedi Master like Qui-Gon might have managed to overhear from that conversation. If he’d heard anything about ‘Master Kenobi’, that would might even be enough to give away just how unfamiliar things had become.

Qui-Gon looked at him for a long moment, then suddenly chuckled. “Time travel?”

Anakin’s mouth dropped open. “How...?”

“The Living Force feels different here. Dark, in a way I’ve never felt before, like a sapling wilting under a cloud of ash.” Qui-Gon’s face took on a thoughtful expression. “It seems I was right about the Sith returning.”

“Yeah, and now they’re everywhere,” Ahsoka muttered bitterly. She was still glaring at Qui-Gon, even if she had looked momentarily impressed when he had figured out the time travel so quickly.

“How far in the future have I come?” Qui-Gon asked, apparently choosing not to comment on Ahsoka’s hostile demeanour. “You seem to know my name, so it must not have been too far.”

Anakin’s comm beeped.

Anakin turned aside to answer it, grateful for the delay. How did you tell a man that he was supposed to be dead? “Anakin here.”

“Anakin, we’ll be dropping on your position with reinforcements in just under thirty minutes,” Obi-Wan’s voice came smoothly through, the faint echo of the comm unable to hide his distinctive accent. From the corner of his eye, Anakin saw Qui-Gon frown. “Have your men ready to receive us.”

“Yes, O–“ Anakin hesitated. “Yes, we’ll be ready.”

“Anakin?” Obi-Wan’s voice lowered. “The Force is unusually unsettled in this area. It might be a sign of something dangerous. Be careful.”

“Yes, Master.” Anakin shut off the comm connection.

He turned to Ahsoka, ignoring Qui-Gon for the moment. “Tell Rex that reinforcements will be coming in thirty minutes, and to start preparing the injured for transport.”

“Yes, Master,” Ahsoka nodded and quickly disappearing amongst the lush trees.

Finally, he turned back to Qui-Gon. “You probably have questions, but they’ll have to wait. I need to organise my men.” Anakin began walking back towards the camp, hoping Qui-Gon would follow. Fortunately, the other Jedi did.

They walked together through the forest, leaves crunching under their feet. Anakin stayed silent, not knowing what to say. Qui-Gon had made such a huge impact in his life, but he didn’t know if Qui-Gon remembered him at all. Then again, Qui-Gon may have just not recognised him. For all that Qui-Gon still looked the same as he had twelve years ago, Anakin was far from the little boy he had been.

“The Galaxy has become much changed from my time,” Qui-Gon commented.

Anakin nodded tersely. “We’re at war. The entire galaxy is at war, and the Jedi are the only ones doing anything about it. We’re dying more and more every day, but the politicians can’t make up their minds to stop it.”

“I’ve lived through war before, though never one as widespread as this. One of my Padawans even left the Order to fight in one.” Qui-Gon’s face clouded over with what was obviously a troubling memory.

Anakin, contrastly, perked up. Obi-Wan had never told him much about his time as Qui-Gon’s Padawan, but he had said enough of Anakin to know that Obi-Wan was his third Padawan, and the one before him had left the Order under unpleasant circumstances. Maybe this was the perfect time to find out.

Striving to be casual, he said, “Sounds like something my Padawan might do, she’s reckless enough. That what yours was like?”

Qui-Gon chuckled, shaking his head slowly. “Reckless? Oh, yes. Also foolhardy, hot-tempered, and self-sacrificing to the point of ridiculousness. Before I even took him on as my Padawan, he tried to save my life and hundreds of others by blowing up the slave collar he was wearing.” He flicked a quick glance over at Anakin. “Hopefully slavery no longer exists by this time, but in my time, they use to fit slaves with collars to blow them up if they tried to escape. My Padawan was willing to give his life to save the others, and that was when he wasn’t even yet thirteen.”

Anakin swallowed down his instinctive angry retort to any mention of slavery, reminding himself that Qui-Gon didn’t know, that he should save his anger for where it would do more good. Instead, he focused on this Padawan, who was reckless and angry and had been a slave. A voice inside traitorously whispered that maybe that Padawan should have been his master instead.

“So how did he end up in a war?” Anakin asked loudly, trying to dismiss the unworthy thought. He was happy to have had Obi-Wan as his master, he really was. He just wondered sometimes what it would have been like to have someone who understood, instead of always being the perfect Jedi.

“The planet itself was at war, their two peoples fighting each other. There was a group trying to bring peace, reunite the planet. They called themselves the Young.” Qui-Gon looked terribly sad. “My Padawan believed in their cause, and their leader. He wanted the Jedi to help them.” He bowed his head. “I told him it was not our fight, and that we should go home. My dear friend had been injured and I let my worry for her cloud my better judgement. I told my Padawan to either come with me back to the Temple, or leave the Jedi.”

“So he left,” Anakin concluded. He had to admit to being slightly disappointed. If the worst thing this Padawan had done was leave the Order for love and the chance to fight for peace, why had Obi-Wan always refused to talk about him? What was so bad about love?

“He did,” Qui-Gon confirmed. “But then the leader of the Young was killed, and he saw it happen. After that, the only way for the planet to heal and the fighting to stop was for him to contact the Jedi for help. It was one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen him do, not that I saw it that way at the time.”

Anakin scowled, once again confused by this mysterious Padawan. If leaving the Order for love and to fight a war was not the reason Obi-Wan refused to talk about him, what was? Of course, it could just be Obi-Wan’s general unwillingness to discuss Qui-Gon at all, but Anakin wanted it to be more than that. He wanted to hear all the stories that Qui-Gon could tell him, everything Obi-Wan had never discussed, and wonder what it would have been like to have known this Padawan. Already, Anakin was starting to feel a connection to the Padawan and his adventures. He understood what it was like to be a slave, how it felt like to betray everything for someone you love. Obi-Wan could never understand that.

“I didn’t trust him for a long time after that.” Qui-Gon had continued his reminiscing, regardless of the wandering attention of his audience. Their wearing trudge through the forest continued on, showing no signs of reaching the camp soon. Even Anakin, who knew that their camp was less than thirty minutes away, still felt like they could keep walking forever and never reach it. “If he’d left the Order once, I didn’t trust that he wouldn’t do it again. I’d already had one Padawan leave the Order, and I refused to let another Fall.”

Anakin frowned slightly. He’d always remembered Obi-Wan saying that Qui-Gon had once had a Padawan who had left the Order, not that he’d had two. Of course, he could just be remembering it wrongly – it had been a long time since he and Obi-Wan had talked about Qui-Gon, and even longer since they had managed to do it without an argument.

Obi-Wan still didn’t know that Anakin knew that Obi-Wan hadn’t wanted to train him. It was only because it was Qui-Gon’s dying wish that he had ever agreed. Anakin wasn’t supposed to know that, but having once overheard it when eavesdropping on Obi-Wan talking with his friends a few years into his apprenticeship, he’d never forgotten it. At first he’d felt betrayed, then angry. That was when he’d started telling Obi-Wan that Qui-Gon would have been a better teacher, thinking to himself that Qui-Gon was the one who had actually chosen him, and Obi-Wan’s already infrequent mentions of Qui-Gon became vanishingly rare. Even though Anakin was now a Knight in his own right, with a Padawan of his own, it was still a sore spot between them.

Fleetingly, Anakin wondered if having the man himself appear from the dead would make that better, or draw the divide still deeper.

“Master!” Ahsoka bounced out of the trees with a eager smile, coming to a stop in front of them. She fixed Qui-Gon with a cool nod and an even cooler, “Master Jinn,” before turning to Anakin. “Master, the reinforcements have just deployed, and the injured are ready for transport. Rex wants to know what to tell Master O–“

“Tell Rex not to worry, I’ll tell my Master myself,” Anakin interrupted her. Qui-Gon didn’t need to know just yet exactly who his former Master was. Yes, Qui-Gon had been his hero when he was nine, but that was a very different time. This was war, and a word in the wrong ears could spell disaster.

Ahsoka was very obviously sceptical, but with another chilling look towards Qui-Gon, she did disappear back into the jungle to go tell Rex.

“Your Padawan is clearly holding a grudge,” Qui-Gon commented.

Anakin picked up on the implied question, but didn’t know how to explain without having to explain who he was, and that maybe it wasn’t as much past his time as Qui-Gon thought. Besides, the part of him that still saw Qui-Gon as the hero who had saved him and believed he could win even without any proof still wanted Qui-Gon to recognise him without being told. If he explained things now, that would never happen.

“When we get to camp I can introduce you to Rex,” Anakin said instead. “He’s my second in command, and you can stay with him while I talk to my Master.”

Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow, but did not comment.

Finally, they could hear the sounds of the camp up ahead. Without further talk, they pushed ahead, coming past the last layer of trees into the clear area of the campsite. Anakin saw Qui-Gon falter for a moment at the sheer scale of men, ships, and equipment, but it wasn’t until he reached Rex that he understood why Qui-Gon might have been unsettled. After nearly two years of war, Anakin was used to the uncanny similarities of the clones to the point that he didn’t even think about it. They all felt different in the Force, after all, and there were enough differences in styling and grooming choices that he never mixed them up. For Qui-Gon, though, who had never heard of the Clone Wars, it would have been a shock.

“Anakin!”

Anakin immediately winced. Whatever he had been hoping would happen next, this was the exact opposite. Obi-Wan had already arrived, and Ahsoka was bringing him straight towards them.

Obi-Wan came a few steps closer, then stopped, saying something quietly to Ahsoka before cautiously continuing forward.

“You seem to have brought an unusual friend with you, Anakin!” he called as soon as he was close enough.

Anakin barely stopped himself from facepalming. He knew that teasing tone in Obi-Wan’s voice, the one that always meant he was spoiling for a fight. No matter how well Obi-Wan hid it, Anakin knew that his old master loved a fight nearly as much as he did, and having found what he probably thought to be a Jedi imposter would be enough reason to start one.

“He’s not an imposter, Master.” He tried to think of an explanation, something that would convince Obi-Wan that this was the real Qui-Gon Jinn, but nothing seemed like enough. Anakin couldn’t even really explain why he believed it. Qui-Gon just felt right in the Force, exactly as he had over a decade ago on Tatooine. His voice, his stance, his Force presence, all of it matched what it was then, and Anakin couldn’t help but believe it. Still, he knew that wouldn’t be enough to convince Obi-Wan. He’d have to find something else to convince Obi-Wan that this was the real Qui-Gon Jinn.

“Padawan?” Qui-Gon breathed, sounding absolutely shocked.

Then again, maybe Qui-Gon could convince Obi-Wan himself. “Qui-Gon Jinn, this is my Master.“ Anakin smirked. “Master Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan’s brows drew together sharply. The teasing sparkle in his eyes had disappeared, replaced with an equally familiar look of reproof and hidden pain. “Anakin, I don’t know how you managed this, but this isn’t funny.”

“I told you, Master, this is the real Qui-Gon!” Anakin protested. His temper started to flare at Obi-Wan’s disbelief. Sure, it seemed impossible, but this was far from the first time they’d encountered seemingly impossible things! If Obi-Wan could just trust him for once, this would be much smoother.

“Have I not taught you, Obi-Wan, that all things are possible in the Force?” Qui-Gon unexpectedly added his support. “Search your feelings, my young apprentice.”

Obi-Wan closed his eyes for a moment, and Anakin could feel him pushing at Qui-Gon’s Force presence, testing it to see if he was who he said he was. Finally, Obi-Wan opened his eyes, letting his hand finally fall from the lightsaber at his belt. “Master,” he whispered, eyes soft.

Anakin’s discomfort at his former master’s obvious grief was enough to dissuade him from teasing Obi-Wan about being wrong. Time travel was hardly easy to believe, after all, even if it was barely less surprising than some other things they’d seen by this point.

“You’ve grown up, Padawan,” Qui-Gon said warmly. He sidestepped Anakin to move closer to Obi-Wan. “In my time, you’re still my Padawan, the little imp who will argue with me over everything.” He glanced back to Anakin. “Though I can see you’ve got an imp of your own now. And one remarkably good at secret-keeping, too – even when I was telling him all about your adventures, he never let on that he was your Padawan.”

Anakin blinked. When had Qui-Gon said anything about Obi-Wan? He’d only talked about his Padawan, one that had left the Order, fought in a war, fallen in love...

Anakin let the conversation pass him by, too dazed by the revelation that had just struck him to concentrate on anything else. That had been Obi-Wan?!

Surely not. The Padawan that Qui-Gon had described was reckless, brave, hot-tempered and stubborn. And even if Obi-Wan did fit a few of those, that Padawan had left the Order, and Obi-Wan would never do that! He loved being a Jedi too much to ever leave, especially not for something like love. Obi-Wan always said that Jedi had to release their emotions, and leaving the Order to fight a war was the exact opposite of that! It couldn’t be true.

“That wasn’t you, was it, Master?” Anakin asked, utterly ignoring whatever conversation Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon had been having. “You never left the Order, did you?”

He barely noticed Ahsoka’s gasp. She had arrived at some point while he wasn’t paying attention, but that didn’t matter right now. She wasn’t the one he needed answers from.

Obi-Wan flinched and looked down. “That was a long time ago,” he said lowly. “I felt sure it was the will of the Force at the time. In hindsight, though...”

Qui-Gon brushed his fingers against Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “Because of you, they had peace, Padawan.” He looked affectionately down at Obi-Wan.

Anakin’s gaze stayed focused in on Obi-Wan, the first flames of anger starting to ignite in his stomach. Anger always came to him faster than it should, but there was always so much to be angry about. How could Obi-Wan keep something like this from him? “And being a slave?” he spat. “Was that the will of the Force too? Was it the will of the Force that you not tell me anything?”

Obi-Wan’s gaze came up sharply. “Anakin!”

“You never told me you knew what it’s like to have your freedom in someone else’s hands! Or have an explosive tied to you, so that if you escape, you die,” he snarled, the heat of his anger flushing his cheeks. His fists clenched, keeping his power all bottled up inside. “At least yours was a collar, not implanted inside you!”

Obi-Wan’s mouth dropped slightly open.

Anakin was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the way Ahsoka and Qui-Gon were staring at him. He’d never really told Ahsoka about his childhood as a slave, and though he’d assumed she picked up some of it from Temple gossip, he’d never confirmed that assumption. And Qui-Gon, or at least this Qui-Gon, hadn’t known he’d been a slave at all.

“It wasn’t the same,” Obi-Wan finally said. ‘Yes, I was a slave, but only for a few weeks, and the whole time I knew where I had come from and what I could do. How could I try and compare that with having lived and grown up in slavery for years? My experience was so much less, to compare them would be to belittle everything you’d survived through.”

Anakin hadn’t considered that. He’d felt so betrayed at the idea that Obi-Wan had been hiding things from him, something so important as having been a slave, that he hadn’t stopped to consider why Obi-Wan might have been hiding it.

Obi-Wan must have seen the realisation in his face, and his voice softened as a result. “What would you have thought if I had tried to tell you that I understood what it was like to be a slave? If I had compared your lifetime of experience with my few weeks? Would you really have seen that as a connection, or just me trying to talk to you about something I couldn’t really understand?”

Anakin could admit to himself that in the long run, he probably would have resented Obi-Wan for it, trying to compare two very different experiences, but that didn’t mean Obi-Wan should have hidden it. “You still could have told me,” he protested, hearing the whine that crept into his tone but unable to stop it. “Even if it wasn’t the same, it would have been something.”

“It’s not something I like to talk about, Anakin. Especially then.” Obi-Wan didn’t glance over at Qui-Gon, but his meaning was still clear. In the wake of Qui-Gon’s death, any memories associated with him had been painful. Anakin had felt the same about his mother, and still did.

Ahsoka, who had been very quiet up to that point as she watched her Master and Grandmaster argue, finally spoke up. “Masters, the troops would have boarded the transports by now. Should I tell Captain Rex we’re ready to go?”

“Go for it, Snips.” Anakin gestured her off. “We’ll be right behind you.”

With a jaunty wave at them, and another cool glare for Qui-Gon, Ahsoka headed over to the troop transports. The other three followed more slowly, Anakin and Obi-Wan pulling ahead as they talked over what would need to happen next.

“Did something... happen, between Qui-Gon and Ahsoka?” Obi-Wan asked carefully. “She seems to have taken a distinct dislike to him.”

“Yeah.” Anakin had nearly managed to forget about that one, after everything else that he had learnt since then. Today had been a day of far too many revelations. “That one’s your fault, Master.”

“My fault?” Somehow Obi-Wan managed to sound both confused and offended, with a slight touch of ‘you obviously have no idea what you are talking about’. “I thought Qui-Gon was dead until about twenty minutes ago.”

Anakin brushed the dark humour aside. “Not something now, from back when Qui-Gon told the council he was going to train me. Ahsoka saw it as him renouncing you, and she wasn’t happy about it.” He tried for a smile, but didn’t think he really pulled it off. ”For some reason, she actually likes you, Obi-Wan.”

“Probably the novelty of having a Jedi Master who actually knows what they’re doing around,” Obi-Wan snarked in return, but he looked distracted. “Really, though, that was such a long time ago.”

Anakin desperately hoped that maybe Obi-Wan would just leave it at that. After all the revelations he’d had today, it would be so much easier if he could lay one of them quietly aside to think about later, or even better, never. Whatever Ahsoka had said, surely it wasn’t such a big deal? Nobody had mentioned it since. Maybe she’d just misinterpreted. It’s not like she’d been there.

In the next moment, Obi-Wan crushed those hopes. “I’m not sure Qui-Gon even noticed that’s what he was doing. He was so eager to start training you.”

Somehow, that didn’t quite mesh with Anakin’s memories of Qui-Gon. Even as a nine-year-old he’d noticed that Qui-Gon did reckless or ill-advised things not because he didn’t notice they were reckless or ill-advised, but that he knew exactly what they were and did them anyway. The few stories Obi-Wan or his friends had shared with him after Qui-Gon’s death only made that opinion more firm.

Anakin realised that Obi-Wan was looking at him with a measure of concern, and frantically thought back to what part of the conversation he must have just missed. There didn’t seem to be anything–

“I never blamed you, Anakin, really. I was angry, but not at you. You were a child who had been taken far from home, away from everyone you knew. It wasn’t your fault that Qui-Gon didn’t want to keep training me after he’d met you.”

Anakin’s mouth dropped open. He stopped walking.

“Anakin?” Obi-Wan’s expression of concern morphed into exasperation. “Really, there’s no need to be so dramatic. We do still have a war to be winning.”

Anakin hadn’t yet overcome enough of his shock to be able to move.

“I suppose I’ll just have to let Rex know that his General couldn’t come yet, he was too busy standing in the middle of a war-zone with his mouth gaping wide enough to fit a gundark. I’m sure he and Ahsoka will be very understanding.”

The subtle threat of merciless teasing at the hands of his Padawan and commander was enough to get Anakin moving again, though he still couldn’t quite manage actual words.

Finally he managed to splutter, “Why didn’t you tell me!”

Obi-Wan’s brow rose quizzically. “Tell you what?”

“Tell me that Qui-Gon renounced you? That he threw you aside so he could train me, the Chosen One?” Anakin spat the title bitterly, anger rising with each new word. Why wouldn’t Obi-Wan ever just tell him things? Palpatine would say it was almost like Obi-Wan wanted to keep him in the dark, and right now, Anakin agreed with that.

Obi-Wan turned quickly to look behind them, scowling at what he saw. “Anakin. This is not the time. We seem to have lost Qui-Gon somewhere, and a missing Jedi Master from the past is slightly more important right now.” He turned to hurry back to where Qui-Gon should have been, tossing over his shoulder, “And Anakin? I didn’t think I had to tell you about an event where you were present the entire time.”

Crossposted to AO3.

#star wars #stories #my writing #going through all my old stuff to procrastinate writing new stuff #I have a lot of feelings about obi-wan kenobi #Star Wars prequels #star wars: the clone wars

5 notes · View notes

demytasse · 5 years

Text

[Shizaya] Coping Mechanism — Ch 7

[Previous Chapters | Ao3] Without so much as a drumroll reveal, Shizuo looked at their shrouded meal with abject horror, as though he already knew the innards of the boxed food. Widened eyes, invisible sweat, he suffered from the bane of a psychic's foresight, somehow incapable of receiving the gift as a surprise. In actuality it was the scent of specific spices that he was experienced enough with to separate the smell from stale apartment air.

“She made curry.”

Experienced, because Shizuo seemed to have trauma attached to the dish, which the sight scrunched Izaya’s nose as he struggled to recall something. A shared memory, or that’s what he felt it might be, one that he should know like a favourite meal — because it was one of his —the meal— and he hadn’t eaten it for quite some time. Izaya struggled to peel the lid off the plasticware, simultaneously struggled to keep his focus on Shizuo’s expression as he did, his hope to gain insight play-by-play. Thoroughly to the end, it was identical horror that remained his reaction even when the prediction was confirmed.

“Well isn't that a treat.” When he peered down at box cradled in his hands he smiled partially. “Namie-san makes delicious traditional brown curry.”

“I know.”

Disgust poisoned his lips.

Oh boy...

“Hm? Why the resentful tone, Shizu-chan?”

“Don't play innocent!”

“I can’t play if it’s not an act. Consider that I don’t always have something up my sleeve.” He showed off a naked wrist, his cuff that was gathered at his elbow.

Shizuo regarded it as evidence that waived off criminal charges, but was disgruntled with the verdict. “Maybe I'm the only one who remembers 'cause I was the one who couldn't live up to your standards.”

Did Shizuo really remember something he didn’t, or was it that he pulled at his strings? Izaya studied the curry from vegetable chunk to protein, the rich cedar to the darkened ring around the edge; individual ingredients each acted a recollection of the last time he indulged — the sprig of garnish that he often discarded was the sinker of what line Shizuo cast to fish for.

“Ahh,” Izaya drew out grimly, “you made me curry once, didn't you?”

—

“Oh Shizu-chan, I think even the roux, rues the day it tasted this curry.” Izaya addressed the toasted flour mixture that separated itself from broth, dripped from the spoon to add gloss back from where it came.

“It's inspired; smokey, but only because it was burned. Spiced, but not well and probably a cover for your flubbed ratio.”

Fingers wrapped around the granite counter, flexed, but considered not to damage the surface as an unconscious favour. “What the hell!? I make you goddamn curry and all you can do is critique it?!” “I thought you’d want constructive feedback.”

“Feedback? That's constructive feedback? Sounds like you're needlessly harsh of my cooking, like you're protective of a lover and their shitty food,” Shizuo muted his tongue, temporarily numbed his ability to use it, “or something.”

Izaya dropped his spoon and fed a cackle to his laugh. “A lover? You think me and Namie-san…?”

“Yeah, okay,” Shizuo raked his bangs back, “maybe… Maybe I'm paranoid.”

“Just because we had a one night stand hardly means I’m primed to cheat, Shizu-chan.”

The glossed stone creaked out in mercy as Shizuo got bested by confirmation bias.“You two slept together?”

“Once.”

“When?”

“Jealous are we?”

“Fucking when!?” He slammed his hands down and rattled tabled utensils and troubled thoughts.

Izaya eased himself back for an escape. “Sometime between you wanting me hospitalised and you personally wanting to bury me six-feet under. No matter; about the time she gave me head, the only one you wanted was mine on a platter.”

“Fuck you.”

“Well, you didn't want to…” he wryly added.

“Why the hell didn't you tell me? Why the hell is she still your secretary?”

“One, it never came up. Two, she most assuredly pictured me as her brother, so what does that tell you? Three,” he added a thumb to his presented peace sign, “you never told me about your fling with that Vorona chick, but I never questioned your faithfulness.”

“...oh…” The evidence recoiled Shizuo, foiled his argument with a bullet of truth; taken to the chest and slumped him further into a leatherback barstool. He put more wear into the kitchen furniture than it would’ve procured in its lifetime.

Izaya held the rack of his trepidatious nerves while he searched for any sign of hostility he should be wary of; all he found was a hint of jealousy that dissolved into regret, swirled around his lip curled strong and circled his heavy eyes.

“So can we move on and go get take out? I'll treat you to whatever your heart desires.” Izaya forced himself to add soft consolation to his demand as he rolled his eyes and rose; he pushed his seat in prematurely, desperate to leave the offensive curry behind.

Shizuo was stone in his slump, “I'm not hungry.”

A click of his tongue and Izaya was already on his way out. “What a bother you can be.”

—

“I wanted to try my luck at the dish you loved so much. Make it just like she made it.”

“Well, I understand that now. Though you did unfairly accuse me. A tad bit overreacted.” Izaya rebutted poignantly.

“Because you were an asshole!”

Izaya flicked the tip of Shizuo’s nose, “because that’s reason to believe I cheated. Besides, was I more of an asshole than normal? You should expect that I’ll act that way.” He never had the blunt force that his partner did — rather his ex, but it snapped Shizuo out of his funk all the same, a chuckle just at the back of his throat.

“We kinda messed that up.”

“Shizu-chan, we messed a lot of things up, not even just this.” A flash of anxiety struck his features. “But that's our thing: we fight, we fuck, we fuck things up.”

“We do.” Shizuo nodded before he shook his head in dismay.

“But you know what's not fucked up?”

“Hm?”

Izaya preceded his response with the taste he tested off his finger, a healthy amount of a congealed glob he swiped from the container.

“This curry.”

“Oh, shut up! How good could a flea's taste buds be?”

A duplicate crinkle adorned their eyes as they loosened up to the idea that the other was their dinner date. They both decided with a silent nod: their food held no significance other than their current satiation. It was anti-climatic and easier than expected, so they grasped at the chance to move on, now with a check that marked off their progress on a laundry list of conflict.

—

Their knees were set two inches apart from being uncomfortable as they leaned into their conversation. Colourful and boisterous, they exchanged nothings and happenstances; expended their backlog of stories they'd kept fresh, in hopes that one day they could share them with the other — with Izaya's beautiful monologues for Shizuo, and Shizuo's stroll through vignettes for Izaya. Light and sweet, it threatened to run their wells dry before they could add more to prevent future boredom.

“...even Tom was pissed.” Shizuo favoured the right side of the ceiling to pluck details from his memory. “He pushed me back an’ yelled right in the bastard’s face.”

“That's cute, Shizu-chan. Oddly a relief,” Izaya held out a spoon before him, full up on rice and less curry.

“A relief, eh?” He edged forward to blow steam off the surface, his hand cupped below the gap of another.

“Seems I don't have to worry about my bodyguard now that he finally has his own bodyguard.”

Shizuo stole his offered bite just to hold the moment that they were connected by proxy; he let the curved metal shape his lips. Perhaps they noticed the slip-up Izaya made of ownership, like it was still his to claim — as if it never wasn't. They acted ignorant of the glitch in his program.

All the while, a particular glisten gathered at the corner of Shizuo's eye; a type of saline Izaya recognised as a product of relieved humour. It was subtle, the difference between what he himself willed back and what the other man let show, but the similarities made it an endearing shared reaction.

Suddenly aware of Shizuo's ridiculous position the two separated — a spoon protracted, the blond fully weighed his chair down, but words continued on after only a short pause.

“As if I needed one,” he smirked.

Izaya hummed for him to reconsider, “debt collecting is a dangerous job, what with those horny idiots who can't keep it in their pants, much more their wallet in their pockets.”

“That's true.”

“I often speak the truth.”

They brushed knees; the minor touch was warmer than what kneecaps should provide, rather it transposed emotion, wafted over their connection like Summer air. There was a spark that hadn’t shocked them months prior, even further days in the past. At their beginning it was frigid, but also a comfort to share their freezer space, with hands occasionally clutched as a sign that they were trying.

Now, though, it was hard to ignore the spill of kinetic energy that tickled their fingertips and resonated up to burn their cheeks.

“...I missed this.”

“What exactly?”

“Us chattin’,” Shizuo shrugged, careful not to wrench them apart, “your wit.”

“Oh~? I distinctly remember you making snide remarks about it on several occasions.” Izaya swallowed his own bite, barely able to breathe before Shizuo suggested his piled up cutlery like a comrade smoker that shared his lighter.

Politely, Izaya shook his head, held up a hand that asked for pause; hesitated when Shizuo pressed a little further — eventually gave in. Especially, he savoured the flavour.

“It wasn't that often.”

“I mean it was weekly, Shizuo. It was several times weekly.”

“Doesn't that mean you used witticisms too much?”

“Woah!” Izaya brightened. “That's my boy, upping his banter game!” He motioned to applaud, but a smashed potato to his mouth beat pride to the punch.

“God, you're an annoying pest.”

Izaya sputtered the spud; it sounded much like an intentional spit take. With the back of his hand he cleaned starchy specks from his mouth, “likewise, kettle-chan.”

Shizuo smudged the final fleck from Izaya's lip with his thumb. “Whatever, pot-kun.”

—

AN: Likes and comments are appreciated. I adore them and they’re always a boost to my mood. If you enjoyed this chapter, reblogs are an immense help as they get more eyes on my work. I say this shamelessly for myself and other fanfic writers — we have a hard time getting noticed and I ain’t too proud to beg for our lot. uwu ♡ ☆ Thank you so much for reading! ☆

[My other works]

16 notes · View notes

star-anise · 6 years

Text

So. I’m currently reading Arrows of the Queen, by Mercedes Lackey, since it was finally released on audiobook this year. Re-reading, in fact; reading these books as a 31-year-old therapist instead of a starry-eyed 13-year-old.

I ranted the other night about the book's depiction of Elspeth as "spoiled" instead of "abused", and @feathersescapism (as part of the post's excellent and thoughtful contributions) said this about Mercedes Lackey:

It’s so effing messy for me because like on the one hand she saved my life. She was the VERY first place I saw loving, validated, celebrated queer relationships and ironically Vanyel was the first time I saw an example of someone who was angry and hurt and messy and bad at people and bullied but not a passive victim be portrayed as fundamentally loveable. As in fact valuable enough, worthy enough to be PURSUED, even, to have someone make the effort to get past his hostile defense behaviors. That was priceless to me. Unfortunately it’s like….it was water when I was dying of thirst but it turns out it was water laced with heavy metals that then did a lot of long term damage.

Which is partly just a concentration thing; if you are drinking from many wells, having one be poisoned won't damage you as much overall. But if it's your only source of water, even trace amounts get dangerous. And, well, we were Eighties babies, mentally ill queer kids with access to small-town libraries who ducked guidance counsellors who pushed conformity as the path to happiness.

So I just found a scene that I think really shows that Lackey was writing from a specifically 80s understanding of psychology, before we knew almost anything about trauma; as considered today, it's bad practice on multiple levels, and can point to some of the underlying problems with the Valdemar worldview.

TW child abuse, child neglect

So in this part of the book, 13-year-old Talia, who was rescued from her awful abusive life among the Holderkin by a giant magical horse, is settling into her new life as a Herald-trainee. She attends classes during the day, and then sleeps in her own room in a dormitory wing of her fellow trainees. Her teachers know that she displays all the symptoms of an abused child, and that she's from an extremely insular and rigid culture.

Her teacher, Teren, asks her to stay after class, and she does, wary and panicked because she doesn't know what's going on. He explains that the Heralds sent a letter back to her family to explain that her disappearance was because of the magical horse choosing her as a future Herald, and they get half-taxes that year and she's going to be very important. Her family, however, replies to say only, "Sensholding has no daughter Talia." Because she ran away instead of staying and getting married, she is disobedient and bad, and therefore totally shunned by her entire community.

She didn't realize she was weeping until a single hot tear splashed on the paper, blurring the ink. She regained control of herself immediately, swallowing down the tears. [...] It was odd, but when she'd chosen to run away, their certain excommunication hadn't seemed so great a price to pay for freedom; but somehow now, after all her hopes for forgiveness had been raised only to be destroyed by this one note-- Never mind; once again she was on her own--and Herald Teren would hardly approve of her sniveling over the situation. "It's all right," she said, handing back the note to the Herald. "I should have expected it." She was proud that her voice only trembled a little, and that she was able to meet his eyes squarely. Teren was startled and slightly alarmed; not at her reaction to the note, but by her immediate iron-willed suppression of it. This was not a healthy response. She should have allowed herself the weakness of tears; any child her age should have. Instead, she was holding back, turning further into herself. He tried, tentatively, to call those tears back to the surface where they belonged. Such suppression of natural feelings could only mean deep emotional turmoil later--and would only serve as one more brick in the wall the child had placed between herself and the others around her. "I wish there was something I could do to help." Teren was exceedingly distressed and tried to show that he was as much distressed at the child's denial of her own grief as with the situation itself. "I can't understand why they should have replied like this." If he could just get her to at least admit that the situation made her unhappy, he would have an opening wedge in getting her to trust him. [...] "I'm going to be late--" Talia winced away from the outheld hand and ran, wishing Teren had been less sympathetic. He'd brought her tears perilously close to the surface again. She'd wanted, above all other things, to break down and cry on his shoulder. But--no. She didn't dare. When kith and kin could deny her so completely, what might not strangers do, especially if she exposed her weaknesses? And Heralds were supposed to be self-sufficient, self-reliant. She would not show that she was unworthy and weak.

What I took away from this book, at 13 and during most successive readings, was that the fault in this situation is Talia's unwillingness to trust Teren and break down. It is her inability to open up emotionally to her deep, vulnerable feelings that causes problems. I suspect that my reading is not terribly far off the narrative's own perception of the central problem. In the 1980s, psychology was very based around the individual, the dance of the id, ego, and superego. Talia's problem is that she has an overactive superego, which prevents her from expressing her natural feelings in a healthy way. She uses unhealthy coping mechanisms, which must be overcome to achieve health and full congruence with her feelings. This runs very much on the catharsis model, where emotions build up like a boil, and must be lanced; once someone "vents", they feel better.

Now, at 31, and trained to help vulnerable 13-year-olds, I can see a lot of differences in how I'd assess the problem now. The trauma field especially has come to understand that humans are essentially relational beings; our brains are born in relationships. We function best in relationships. We need, more than anything else, to feel connected and understood. And then, above that: we are beings in brains and bodies. Our consciousness is limited by the hardware it runs on. If our body is dedicating all its resources to fight-or-flight, we cannot be rational, logical thinkers. We need to understand how to regulate our own emotions, both by personal actions and through relationships with others, to achieve health. It takes repeated, patterned practice to master the skills of understanding and moderating those emotions. Coping mechanisms may be unhealthy, but as I was taught in grad school, "All psychopathology was adaptive once." If you're going to take away someone's unhealthy coping mechanism, you need to have first replaced it with something healthier.

So looking at this scene now, I can point out that Talia represses her emotions instantly because in her family of origin, she got beaten up for crying. Her teachers have already observed that she has the defensive and startle-reactions of an abused child. It should not be very hard for Teren to put two and two together and think: She has been systematically trained to view emotion as unsafe.

He could, at this point, make the rules of their current situation clear: "It's all right to cry. You don't have to put on a brave face for me." This would let Talia know that she won't lose support or status if she cries. But that assumes, frankly, that she can cry; that the experience of being vulnerable in front of another human being wouldn't be too overwhelming, perhaps terrifying, for her to bear. He could also validate that, and let Talia know he sees her and understands. "It'd be all right if you let that guard down, but it looks like you've got a lot of experience with dealing with hard knocks. If you ever do want to talk about it, I'm here."

It's important for him not to try to force her to show feeling the way he thinks she should. He doesn't actually know that it's safe, or that he's safe. Traumatized people need, more than almost anything else, to achieve a measure of control over their own emotions and bodies. They need to be able to make themselves calm when they need to be calm, and not to be ambushed with sadness or fear out of the blue. It should be, more than anything, Talia's decision of when and where to express her emotions. Is bottling it all up unhealthy for her? Oh, probably. She might get depression later this month, or heart disease in 40 years. But being forced to cry when she's not ready to can leave her feeling violated and retraumatized, right here, right now.

The thing that makes crying comforting for most people is that they have a very deep pattern etched on their brains: They cry, someone comforts them, their pain recedes, they feel calmer. It's the pattern of a thousand hungry wakeups as a baby where someone was gentle and kind and fed them. It's skinned knees kissed and broken toys mended. But Talia probably doesn't have that; her experience of crying has been that she's punished and abused for it, and as an infant whose mother died in childbirth, she probably wasn't adequately nurtured either to build those good associations in the first place. Crying just takes her into a deeper place of loneliness and self-hatred. So for her to soothe herself, she might need to be taught very basic ways of doing that--to take a break, to do something she loves, to get a hug from a friend. Her traditional reaction has been to mask her emotions, and to self-isolate and let those feelings of pain and alienation swamp her.

What he could even do, as I sometimes do as a therapist, is respect that repression as a way of coping and roll with it. If someone can only bear the most glancing reference to their trauma? Then glance. Use black humour or obvious irony to acknowledge the situation without engaging with its emotional depth. “So, you know, no big deal. I bet that’s what you’ve always wanted.” So long as it’s paired with other kinds of real caring--especially useful, immediate help and close emotional attunement--that’s not out of place.

One thing he seems to have assumed is that of course, if your family is awful and devastating, you get to take the morning off to cry. I can only assume that's why he's pushing her to cry at the end of class, when she has another one to go to right after. But she might not know that. Certainly her familyexpected that if they did something awful and devastating, Talia needed to get back to work as soon as possible. Teren doesn't discuss this, and I think it's important; Talia goes to something like four other classes, has lunch, and reads for an hour before she finally gets to do anything relevant to taking care of her emotions. Implicitly, the idea that schedule and routine supercede emotions, and that emotional work takes second place, gets reinforced by the system that thinks it's "saving" her.

The other thing traumatized people struggle with, next to control, is connection. Trauma is hugely isolating; it reroutes resources away from the parts of the brain that foster social connection, so people literally lose track of anyone who might be loving and supportive, and it's hard to make ordinary people understand what you're going through. This is part of why Teren showing Talia all his distress isn't really good for her; he's overloading her still further with natural empathy for his emotions, increasing the weight she has to carry mentally, but not reinforcing her connections. He doesn't remind her that other Heralds are her family now, nor does he give her help in how to reach out to anyone.

Who might Teren remind her of? As much as he's taking on the role of The Person She Can Be Emotional To, he's hardly ever in her life; this is the last day of their week-long class where he met her for one hour a morning. He could encourage her to talk to one of her regular teachers, including his twin Keren, who teaches her equitation, or the cook, in whose kitchen Talia is most confident and in her element. If her dormitory had older Heralds who lived there in a kind of supervisory or mentoring role, spending hours of unstructured free time with the trainees, he could direct her to one of them. He could even direct her to her age-peers, with whom she lives, who might not be the most emotionally attuned but certainly seem to be the group with whom the Heralds expect her to do most of her emotional bonding.

Or he could--now here's a thought--suggest she spend the rest of the morning with the magical psychic horse who can beam rays of love and devotion directly into her brain.

But he doesn't. It is only after Talia has attended classes on history, geography, mathematics, etiquette, and archery, eaten lunch, read for an hour, and cried in the back of the sewing room, that she finally sees her magic horse. And she does feel a bit better! But by then, her major adrenaline has worn off, and with it the ability to etch memories deeply into her brain; the first hours after her shock were spent ignoring her feelings and being disconnected from people who didn't notice she was in pain, thus reinforcing all her old traumatic impressions.

So the book sets up a recurring number of incidents where Talia's loneliness and isolation is reinforced by the world around her; where no one provides her the necessary scaffolding to help her build bridges with other people and develop the skills to be healthier; and then, as happens throughout the series, when something bad happens to her, she is blamed for being so isolated and repressed.

When I was 13, I had no framework to understand any of this. On the schoolyard, I'd been taught many of Talia's lessons about the dangers of showing weakness, and in the classroom, about the importance of repressing emotions; I used her as an emotional model. (Later in the books, Talia lbecomes an Empath and Mind-Healer, which hugely impacted my decision to become a therapist.) But then, when her loneliness turned into defencelessness and her lack of emotional control turned into instability, the narrative said it was her fault for not being healthier. And so I thought: Yes. It is completely reasonable to provide a young person with no emotional support at all, and then get mad at them for being fucked up.

And so there's lead in the water.

#staranise original #therapisting #valdemar revisited #child abuse tw #child neglect tw #trauma tw

197 notes · View notes

officerjennie · 5 years

Link

Chapters: 11/? Fandom: Naruto Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara Summary:

Tobirama had a lot of questions on how their lives could have gone differently: What if Izuna had survived the war? What if the Uchiha had been more receptive to peace? If Madara had never given in to his hate?

He never actually thought he'd get the answers.

Or: The time Tobirama tried to improve his hiraishin, and inadvertently crashed into a parallel universe.

Click the link or continue below the line to read. Ko-Fi link in blog header :)

Tobirama was losing his edge.

With the constant threat of war and defection no longer clinging to him, it had been easy to forget just what Madara was. In this setting, hair a mess, yukata slipping a bit over one shoulder, the scent of coffee in the air, he looked dangerously domestic. And his obvious soft spot for the cub laying next to him had only made him seem less threatening.

Maybe, considering the circumstances, he could be forgiven for forgetting he sat across the table from a literal war god. A man who had no equal, only surpassed in power and skill by Hashirama. Someone who had won whole battles by himself, reveled in the combat, bathing in fire and the blood of his enemies.

Tobirama was good, there was no denying that, and he excelled when underestimated by his opponents - something that happened all too frequently when facing the proud lineage of the Uchiha. But he stood no chance against this man in a fair fight. Let alone in the Uchiha’s territory - in his house - where any number of hidden weapons or wards could aid him.

And they had already made eye contact.

Keeping his breaths steady was proving difficult. Staying still and calm, no sudden movements, even more so. Maintaining said eye contact was giving him an outright stress-induced aneurysm.

He wasn’t entirely certain that last bit was the wisest decision, giving Madara even more of an advantage. But even if it pained him to admit so in the privacy of his own mind, that advantage ultimately meant nothing. If Madara wanted to fight him, he would, and he would win. With or without his dōjutsu. More concerning, then, was the potential of provoking him into an attack by taking that advantage from him, so he fought the instinct to look away.

Assuming he didn’t fluctuate it too noticeably, he was free to feel around with his chakra at least. Worse case scenario then, his hiraishin could save him - he’d thankfully taken time to place a few discrete anchors around Konoha during his new habitual wanderings, so he had several options if they became necessary.

But leaving without finding out what Madara knew was dangerous. There was no telling what he might spread, or to whom.

Or if he’d already spoken to someone on the matter.

Lying was an option. Without his sharingan active, Madara could very well be bluffing about being able to ‘sniff out liars.’ But what lie could he sell on such short notice if memory loss no longer cut it?

And would it truly benefit him to do so? To convince Madara he really was this world’s Tobirama?

His skin chilled just at the thought of his alternate self. A man who plotted to kill his own brother, plotted to kill Hashirama. Even at their worst moments, fighting as children after the incident at the river, Tobirama had not once given thought to hurting him. Even when arguing clan politics, or when he knew full well Hashirama was holding back against defeating Madara, extending the war by years, on the days he thought his brother as nothing more than a fool not fit to lead the Senju, he never would have betrayed him.

Did he really want to be known as that man? Were they even similar enough for him to pass as that Tobirama for much longer?

And what could have driven his alternate self to that level of madness anyway?

A question for later, perhaps. The more pressing issue was convincing Madara he was not a threat - and the longer he sat saying nothing, the harder that would be.

The trickiest part about telling Madara, he found, was skirting around certain details without being too obvious about it. Without bringing up those touchy topics - mainly those involving his own Madara and Izuna, for obvious reasons - it proved to be a relatively painless conversation, despite how shot his nerves were from the start. And since Madara hardly needed a long-winded speech concerning every aspect of his life, the whole explanation lasted only a few short minutes (though it certainly felt like hours, with his brain on overdrive, processing every breath and blink as life or death information). It helped that Madara didn’t once interrupt him, not even to point out or question the less believable portions of his story - like how he still had no idea how he’d ended up here beyond just ‘fucked up hiraishin trial.’

The whole not moving a muscle thing, despite the ease of the explanation, had his blood racing on the edge of fear. Even after he’d finished, the silence stretching between them, Madara didn’t so much as twitch. Birds chirping from the gutters cut through the heart beat pounding in his ears, the scuffles of Kyou batting at something from his cushion managing to keep his mind there, away from the battlefield edging in his mind and memories.

When Madara finally moved, attempting in vain to brush the hair back out of his face, the flood of relief hit so hard it left Tobirama near exhausted from the loss of tension.

“So, you would have me believe you’re from a- what did you call it?”

“Parallel universe.”

“Yes, that.” Madara drummed his fingers on the table, though Tobirama couldn’t tell if it was from impatience or if the Uchiha was just as antsy from sitting still for too long. At least he looked away, giving Tobirama a moment to blink away at the burning sensation in his eyes. “So there really are different worlds.”

“It would seem so, though I’m not sure how...” Tobirama hardly noticed he had trailed off, too focused on Madara’s odd phrasing. As if he’d given thought to the possibility before, or ran across the idea at the very least. Which was hardly likely, seeing how rare the study seemed.

But what else could he mean?

“The Hyuuga situation was different there, I take it?” The tap of a fingernail against a mug brought Tobirama back from his thinking - it seemed to be a tick of Madara’s, to tap his fingers when he himself was thinking on something.

“That’s one way to put it, I suppose, but what do you mean ‘there really are different worlds’?”

He didn’t really expect an explanation, at the very least not a satisfactory one. And for a minute he received none, just a calculating gaze, neither hostile nor warm, as if Madara hadn’t yet determined whether he was a threat or not. After a time he stood up abruptly, sending his guest a sharp look.

“Stay put.” With his eyes alone, he threatened a swift and painful punishment if disobeyed. Tobirama did his best not to roll his own eyes as the man left him. The threat was unnecessary, though the fact that he could convey so much with a single glance was actually impressive.

Then again, he did come from a clan that specialized in dōjutsu. And now that he thought on it, most all of the Uchiha he’d met were capable of being extremely expressive through their eyes alone. Perhaps dōjutsu enhanced one’s expressive capabilities as well? Where there other side-effects beyond the obvious abilities given by the sharingan and the byakugan while activated? More passive ones that users wouldn’t think of as abnormal?

In an ideal situation, he would be able to interview and test subjects from the corresponding clans, but Madara would never allow such a thing. Even his own Hikaku had been hesitant to answer any of his more basic questions, and he’d always found Hikaku to be one of the more agreeable Uchiha.

Though, this Madara had proven to be quite different from the paranoid deserter who had denied him access before. For all he knew, this one might actually use that brain between his ears and see the importance of studying such seemingly menial details. After all, the side-effects might not be all beneficial in nature.

By the time Madara stormed his way back into the kitchen, footsteps no doubt audible on purpose even though his guest was more than capable of sensing him, Tobirama was all but prepared to launch into a speech on why he should be allowed access to the Uchiha archives. He was stopped short when a book landed heavy on the table in front of him. A rather familiar book that had him paling at the sight of it, swallowing at the sudden lump in his throat.

“How’d you get this?” The book cover alone had him turning away. It was the very thing that had haunted him months earlier, and just looking at it was enough to bring back some of the initial pain of discovery.

Madara grabbed both of their mugs, dumping out his own cold coffee in the sink before refilling them both. “You’re not the only one with Nara connections.” He shrugged as he sat back down, the movement displacing his yukata even more down his shoulder.

It’s not exactly how Tobirama would’ve put it but he didn’t bother correcting him. Though the wording did suggest Madara knew he’d read the same book. Tobirama narrowed his eyes, studying the Uchiha over his fresh cup of coffee. Just how much snooping had he done?

“How was it different?” The vague question came out of no where, and Tobirama only raised a single unimpressed brow in response, sipping at his fresh coffee. Madara waved his hand in gesture as he clarified, “The Hyuuga situation. How was it different?”

Tobirama pinched the bridge of his nose, setting his mug down carefully. Discussing the Hyuuga any further was the last thing on his mind. He was sick of the topic already. All he honestly wanted to do was go home and relax, maybe treat himself to a scone from the local bakery he’d become fond of. But leaving abruptly now wouldn’t be prudent, no matter how much he wished to do so.

“They were one of the first clans to join my Konoha.” He slumped forward with a sigh, propping his chin up on one palm. “It hardly took much to convince them. For all I know, everything could be different.”

“You’ve had experience dealing with them then.”

The fact that it was phrased as a statement spoke to how obvious that observation was. Still, he managed not to roll his eyes at the expectant look he was getting, Madara clearly waiting for an answer anyway. “Yes. I’ve worked with several of the main branch members on various occasions.”

“Good. No doubt they’ll want to speak with you personally.” Madara jabbed a finger in his direction, his no nonsense scowl offset by how his hair had yet to have been tamed. “Not a word of this ‘other world’ shit to them either. Better to let them think they know you.”

It took all of his self-control not to comment on how bossy Madara was being, or how ridiculous he looked doing so while still so under-dressed. But no matter how annoying he was being, there was logic enough behind his statements. With the Hyuuga so clearly having a connection to this world’s Tobirama, it could only be in their favor to continue this ruse with them - and it could gain him insight into the man he was essentially replacing, no matter how it sickened him to think on the matter.

Though all of this did beg the question...

“What of Hashirama?” He surprised himself, asking Madara of all people for advice on the issue. But the only other person who knew was Madoka, who had an infuriating habit of talking in circles about any issue. For once, he supposed, it would be nice to receive a blunt answer instead of being lead to his own conclusion.

“What of him?”

Tobirama rubbed at one of his temples, hoping his stash of headache powder hadn’t run out. The Uchiha could be so dense. Intelligent idiots were always so much harder to deal with than full-blown imbeciles. “Do you think it would be better for him to know before we meet with the Hyuuga or not?”

The silence stretched on a little too long for comfort. Tobirama scratched at a scar on his left arm, doing his best not to noticeably fidget. At least Madara seemed to be giving it serious though, which was more than he’d honestly expected. Maybe a scoff, a dismissal of the inquiry entirely. Perhaps anger on Hashirama’s behalf since he still didn’t know of the impostor living under his roof.

Instead, Madara fiddled with his mug, frowning down at the coffee swirling at the bottom of it.

“I’m not so sure you should.”

He tried not to let his relief show, though he wasn’t sure how successful he was at it. “I suppose a week wouldn’t be time enough to process-”

“I don’t think you should tell him.”

Tobirama paused mid word, mouth still open as he tried to understand what he’d just heard. It couldn’t have meant what he thought it did, but he asked anyway. “...ever?”

“What good would it do?”

The question only took him aback more, shaking his head as he stared in disbelief at the man across the table from him. “Should he continue to think the man who planned a coup against him lives under his roof?”

“The idiot’s always been too trusting.” Madara waved the question away with a flick of his wrist. “He’ll sleep the same no matter who you are.”

“But what’s the point in keeping it from him? It would only make it worse when I leave to go-”

“Leave?” Madara’s dropped his mug back to the table, brows furrowed and voice raising slightly in volume. “And where, exactly, do you plan on going?”

“Back to my own Konoha?” Shouldn’t it be obvious he would be headed back there? Wasn’t that what he was supposed to do?

“You plan on leaving.”

Tobirama wasn’t sure if it was disbelief that colored his tone low, but it was his best guess. He averted his eyes once more, staring down at the book that had, in his mind, started this whole mess.

“I don’t belong here.”

“Don’t belong? You’re here already, what harm is there in staying?”

Tobirama pursed his lips, sipping at his coffee if only to avoid looking at his host. “I have a team back home, and my own brother to return to.”

“Would they have not already mourned you? You’d be dead to them by now.” His head snapped up at the harsh statement, but Madara wasn’t done, jaw set hard and chin raised high. “You have a team and brother here, and you would force them to do the same? To needlessly mourn your loss over something as idiotic as not feeling like you belong?”

It took a second to remember how to breathe, and when he finally did it was shakier than he’d hoped. “I’m not his brother...”

“You honestly think he’d see it that way? That it would matter to a single one of your students what world you were born in?”

He shook his head, not sure really how to respond, more grasping at straws as he answered. “You don’t care about how my team would take it.”

Madara crossed his arms in a huff, though there was not a hint of shame as he continued. “No, I don’t. The brats would get over themselves eventually. Nor do I care about whatever Konoha you came from or the people there. What I do care about are my own people - and this village would crumble without Hashirama.” He leaned forward then, eyes set hard, finger tapping on the table once more. “Do you know what Hashirama went through, losing his last brother? It broke him. And the only thing that kept him from following him to the afterlife was his desire to make this village work. He wouldn’t survive losing you as well.” Leaning back once more, Madara scratched at the back of his head, fingers snagging in the tangles there for a second as he did so. “And I have better things to do with my time than coddle him again.”

Silence fell around them once more, the only sound being the soft padding of Kyou’s paws as he made his way to curl up in Tobirama’s lap. After a time he gathered his cup up, standing with a polite thank you to Madara as he made his way to leave.

“Tobirama.” He paused in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder to find Madara leaning against the wall, his hair still an absolute mess and his yukata disheveled but every bit of him serious all the same. “It’s not my decision to make. Whatever you choose, just don’t be stupid about it.”

He gave a curt nod and left, holding his cub firmly against his chest as he wandered about the village in a thoughtful daze. When he came to, he was staring at the front door to Hashirama’s home, the massive earth energy pulsing a happy rhythm meters away in the living room.

Opening the door took effort, and the beaming smile sent his way made his heart ache. He slipped out of his shoes before moving to sit next to Hashirama, the man instantly dropping his novel to coo and pet the cub that had startled him to near death not long before.

“Have you decided to name him yet?”

Tobirama reached back to scratch at his cub’s ear, swallowing as he stared down at the floor. “Yes. His name is Hashi.”

The crushing hug and excited flailing at the name was a small price to pay to make Hashirama happy.

#madatobi #slow burn #fanfiction #mywriting #madara #tobirama #universe travel fic

19 notes · View notes