#my whole party was down and i kept doing war cry to get a shield and jusy. dodged like hell | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lovelyirony · 4 years

Note

pls 33.) “He said oh my god you’re piecing it together/You are just a shadow of me/oh my lord you’ve never left the mirror/You were never ever free” Mirror Master with Peggy and Sharon parallels and some Steve/Sharon mayhaps? OR 12.) “It’s on pretty lady/born to be angry/grip of the vice/click on the trigger, girl/sip wine on ice” It’s About Time with rivals to lovers Nat/Maria

Sharon loved visiting her Aunt Peggy. From investigating the various nooks and crannies around the house to the “don’t tell your father I told you this story...” tidbits, it was her favorite place. Her house always smelled of tea and linen, and sometimes Aunt Peggy allowed her to try on some red lipstick.

“With red, you’ll be unstoppable,” Peggy says teasingly. “And who knows what will happen when you’re unstoppable...”

Being a kid means you don’t see a lot of the things that go on behind the scenes, so to speak. Sharon doesn’t know why her mother never likes that it’s Peggy who watches her when she can, doesn’t understand why her father doesn’t want Peggy to tell her what her job is.

She doesn’t know why her mom steers her away from any talk of “being just Peggy!”

“You want to do something else,” her mother says worriedly. “Didn’t you want to be a ballerina?”

“Peggy said they can’t work as a ballerina for very long because of repetition,” Sharon says, frowning.

“Then you can be a doctor. Or a lawyer!”

“Lawyers are boring,” Sharon says, rolling her eyes. “Why can’t I be like Aunt Peggy?”

“Because...just don’t ask,” her mother tells her. She’s irritated, voice getting sharp. Sharon knows that her mom is never a fun person when she’s mad. So Sharon doesn’t say anything, not until her mother is lying down for the night and she sneaks out to her dad’s office.

“Mom doesn’t want me to be like Aunt Peggy. Why?” She whispers, crawling into his lap. He smells like printer ink and the woodsy smell of his cologne.

“Peggy...she’s chosen a dangerous career. It gets her in a bit of trouble sometimes. Your mother doesn’t want that for you.”

“She wants me to be a boring lawyer,” Sharon whines. “I don’t wanna be a lawyer.”

“You don’t have to be,” her dad whispers. “You can be what you want. But with Aunt Peggy’s job...there’s more of a chance that you don’t get to see family as often. She’s lucky that she doesn’t have to move to England or Paris again.”

“She lived in England?” Sharon asks, eyes bugging out.

“Yes, for a bit. You know that we were raised there. She wasn’t there to visit anyone. She had to work the whole time.”

“That doesn’t sound like fun,” Sharon says, frowning.

“No, no it isn’t. But I think saving lives as a doctor could be fun, yeah?”

“Maybe.”

Sharon doesn’t stop wanting to be like Aunt Peggy. Peggy is fierce and Peggy is liked by a lot of people and holds influence.

Peggy Carter probably doesn’t sit alone at lunch because girls called her weird and guys say she’s too much like them.

Peggy Carter has loads of friends, like Aunt Angie and Mr. Jarvis.

If Sharon was more like Peggy, then maybe things would be different and her mom would quit asking her if she wants to invite Mackenzie to her birthday party.

Sharon is very similar to Peggy. Scarily so. She has the same intensity to her gaze, the same drive to help others in her own way. She doesn’t suffer fools easily, and Peggy knows that if she’s not careful, Sharon will end up like her.

And that is one thing that she is terrified of. Peggy knows a lot of the things that have led her to survive are either lucky or questionable. She’s done lots of things she’s not proud of. She doesn’t always check in on her kids as much as she should, doesn’t miss the drifting commentary of not being something/somewhere/someone “again.”

Again. What a damning word, to be something/someone/somewhere “again.”

So when Sharon asks her if she can start training--after all, she was already thirteen and needed to get a headstart if she really wanted to be like her aunt--and Peggy looks at her.

“No.”

“What? Why not?” Sharon asks, sipping the rest of her tea. “Is it still too early?”

“My job is not easy,” Peggy says. “It is not a game.”

“You think...what?” Sharon asks.

“You wouldn’t take it seriously,” Peggy says. “This isn’t some adventure of Betty Carver, this isn’t a Captain America adventure. No.”

Sharon blinks back tears. She can’t cry in front of Aunt Peggy, not here. Not now. She wants to prove she’s not some fucking little kid who thinks this is her thinking it’ll be like Betty Carver, the stupid nurse from the old radio show about Captain America.

“I-I’ll go home now,” Sharon says, voice brimming with tears. She can’t hide it. Doesn’t have the training for it, obviously. “See you later.”

Peggy knows it hurts Sharon. She knows it does, knows that she will never look at Sharon like she usually does. But she needs Sharon to be nothing like her.

Because if she’s everything like her...oh god.

Her mother is relieved. There’s a lighter air to her demeanor when Sharon says she’ll just walk home from school anymore.

“I don’t wanna bother Aunt Peggy,” she says lightly. They can’t know what was said. She can barely think of it without tears coming back up. “Do you think I can sign up for anatomy in high school?”

A doctor. That’s what she’ll be. That’s what she tells herself.

But then there comes a night when she’s home alone. Her parents are on a date night, playfully telling her to not do anything dangerous. She knows they mean have anyone over, light the house on fire.

They don’t think she’ll reconsider her career path.

Aunt Peggy doesn’t think she can do it. She thinks that Sharon is just some kid who thinks this whole thing is some stupidly fun mission and she’ll tell stories by the campfire when she’s old.

Sharon’s not stupid. She still may be a kid, but she doesn’t know why the hell anyone thinks kids are stupid.

She can still pretend like she’s gonna be a doctor. She’ll just need to add some necessary lies. Like saying she needs to study foreign languages to a.) make sure she knows her patients, and b.) get scholarships. Saying she needs self-defense because she wants to work in DC.

“To work on politicians, huh?” her dad asks with a grin. “Don’t pull the plug, they’ll throw you in jail.”

“I won’t get caught,” Sharon jokes.

“Don’t,” her mother warns. “You’ll get us all in trouble one day, I swear. What made you decide to focus more on all this, hm?”

“Future’s important,” Sharon says. “Isn’t that what you always say, mom?”

“So you can listen to that but not me telling you to put away your laundry seven times?”

“Mom!”

Her mother chuckles.

“I’m proud of you, honey. Just think, our next doctor! How fun...”

She prattles on about her insanely-boring Uncle Jimmy, who could make paint beg to dry quicker.

Sharon starts studying, and studying hard. She memorizes languages, at least enough to get by. She starts going to the gym and kickboxing. And she remembers that she wants to do this in spite of Aunt Peggy, because she wants to be there to help people.

She remembers Peggy’s stories of Steve, which always varied with Captain America’s. Steve was a sweetheart who liked to draw and had a surprisingly vicious sense of humor.

“You and him would have gotten along like a house on fire,” Peggy would say, chuckling. “Of course, he owed me a dance...I’m not sure if I would have taken him up on that.”

She would gaze fondly over at Uncle Daniel, who smiles in response and kisses her on the forehead and tells her what’s for dinner.

Steve always did stuff for the right reason. Didn’t matter that he was as skinny as a telephone pole, didn’t matter that he could get around New York by categorizing which streets he got beat up on. He kept going. He kept trying to be the best person he could under the circumstances.

That’s what Sharon likes about Steve Rogers. Of course Captain America most likely ended World War II on a much quicker pace and gave hope to millions, but it was Steve who at the end of the day promised a dance and had smiles on his face that were endearingly familiar to her.

When she goes to college, she goes on scholarship and moves into a dorm. Her mother tries to convince her in vain to join a sorority.

“Don’t you want built-in friends?” Her mother asks. “After all, you know that I still talk to Roberta and Missy from mine--”

“And they’re such a delight,” dad mutters, ignoring the dirty look his wife gives him. “Sharon, do what you want. You wanna join a sorority? Fine. You don’t? Cool.”

“They’re beneficial, Sharon. Who knows how many connections you could get for jobs?”

That makes Sharon pause.

She joins a sorority. Not her favorite thing, but some of these girls have mothers and fathers and family members that sway decisions. And if she wants a favor later, she’ll have to see Lindsey puke out three margaritas in a shitty bar to do it.

Class, of course, is difficult. She plays the part well of studying to be a doctor and finding out it just isn’t for her.

“Oh that’s okay,” her father says. “I wanted to be an archaeologist at some point. Can you imagine how ridiculous that would be? I misplace my socks half the time, I don’t know what I’d do with dinosaur bones...”

Sharon giggles. Says she’s thinking about switching to be a communications major.

They okay it, she’s set. She also has more time to train, practice languages, and get a minor in Spanish.

She keeps a lookout for SHIELD. Listens carefully to what her dad says about Aunt Peggy.

He knows something happened. Neither party will tell him, but something is off in the way Sharon makes too sharp a remark and Peggy hasn’t the faintest idea what Sharon’s actually up to.

“I worry about both of them,” Harrison tells his wife.

“People grow apart some times,” Amanda answers sleepily. “And it’s good that Sharon grew out of that phase where she wanted to be Margaret. Of all things...”

He supposes his wife is right. He sets down his newspaper, takes off his reading glasses, and heads to bed.

Meanwhile, Sharon has ditched her sorority’s party night to interview at SHIELD. She’s submitted her applications under Agent Thirteen, waiting for a response. When she gets an email from someone named “Phil Coulson” to meet at seven o’clock for an interview, she dresses in business casual and waits at a cafe for him.

He blinks.

“Does...does Director Carter know you’re here?”

“No, and I would prefer it if she didn’t,” Sharon says. “Especially since she’s retired and SHIELD is no longer under her eyes.”

Coulson clears his throat.

“Of..of course. May I ask why?”

“Family connections are dangerous things to have in this business,” Sharon tells him, taking a swig of coffee. “I would prefer to avoid it.”

She gets a trial run. She’s put in a course with the other new recruits. Calls her parents and says it’s a boot camp for leadership. (She’s not wrong...technically.) She tightens her ponytail and listens as the senior agents tell them all it isn’t a walk in the park.

“This isn’t some ‘save-the-day’ routine that you get to brag about once it’s done,” Agent Coulson says in that infuriatingly even, boring voice he has. “You’ll have nightmares. You will have to lie to everyone you love about everything. And people will leave you and you cannot blame them for it, you cannot tell them the real reason. Are you ready for that? Do you think you can handle that?”

Recruits nod. Sharon says “yes.” Because verbalizing it? That means you have a dedication. Simply nodding never means what it is. It means you cannot dedicate yourself to a problem, but you think you can.

It is that night when she sleeps on an uncomfortable cot that she understands Aunt Peggy a little bit more. She understands why she couldn’t always be there, why her own kids didn’t like visiting, or so mom had said.

(Maybe why she told you to stay away, her brain whispers. But she remembers her throat burning, remembering that her aunt had told her that she couldn’t train someone like her.)

Sharon keeps that thought away. Better not to have personal connections.

Of course, everyone wants to know why she’s Agent Thirteen.

“You like numbers or something?” One girl asks. “Come on, you can tell me. We’re friends, right?”

They are not friends. Lily seems to think they are because she wants Sharon to let her guard down enough so she can beat her time on the obstacle course.

“Nope,” Thirteen says. “Just call me Thirteen like everybody else. You’re not gonna know it.”

“Fine, be that way,” Lily says. “I’m still gonna kick your ass on the obstacle course, Thirteen.”

Sharon grins.

“Do your worst, Lily.”

(Lily’s worst is...well it’s worse than most everyone’s. She’s rejected from the field academy and doesn’t let anyone see her cry. But everyone can hear it over the steady thrum of the shower.)

“So, why the number Thirteen?” Agent Barton asks. He’s different from most recruits. For one, he’s from Iowa. That in itself is...something. Secondly, he was recruited from an honest-to-god circus where he wore purple sequins.

“Thirteen is my favorite number,” she responds, rewrapping her hands for the sparring session. “Why purple sequins?”

“They were out of hot pink,” Clint says, and she laughs. “Come on, I think if we hurry to the cafeteria we can get a meal that is only questionable and not highly questionable.”

Thirteen scores well on tests involving body language. She reads people like a book. Her aim could use work, but it’s proficient enough to impress. She can turn on the charm, turn on the lies like she’s meant to do it.

(And she’s spent so long lying to everyone around her, is it any wonder?)

When she gets officially inducted, Fury asks her if her aunt knows.

“No, and I would rather she didn’t,” Sharon said tersely.

She understands Peggy now. She understands her in the way that agents are lost and people get frustrated and drop the training because they have a spouse that they love more than life itself. God knows how Peggy balanced it.

She thinks that maybe Aunt Peggy was scared that Sharon would disappear and never return, become like so many others on the wall of remembrance.

Sharon touches Steve’s placard every time she passes it. It’s more tarnished than others, the first one on the wall. Her fingers trace the “S” and the “R” every time, and she smiles as she remembers the stories of him.

People see similarities. The higher-ups don’t spill any secrets to the lower agents, they can’t. But they know that she’s related to Peggy in the way her voice becomes clipped when she’s frustrated, in the ways her eyes flash in rage.

She’s too similar, she knows that.

The comparisons won’t stop. Because she knows she’s too similar. Dear god, sometimes she’s worried that she’ll look into a mirror and see her.

The older agents, the ones that have been in the field and now deal with all the boring paperwork and paper trails whisper to her that Peggy made a lot of the same decisions as she did, stayed behind to make sure the job was done.

“You’re just like her,” Agent Veering says, his spectacles slipping down his nose. “She would be proud of you, you know.”

No, no she wouldn’t. To have someone turn out exactly like you?

Well...you know your shortcomings. You know your failures. You know how you will die, nearly. And someone having that same pattern?

God, Peggy would die.

So she pushes that out of her mind. She focuses on the mission at hand and reads the various notecards on the fridge about “please don’t touch this meal or you will die.”

She’s one of their best. Of course she is, people say. Fury is reminded of Peggy’s legacy, of how Sharon acts. She puts herself out there first, luring people away with expectations. It’s...eerily similar.

Sharon gets a call from her parents. They think she has an office job dealing with communications in security fields. (Technically not a lie. Also not a complete truth.)

“You need to come visit Peggy,” dad says quietly. “Please.”

“What happened?”

“She’s been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.”

It’s a terrible thing. Because it can’t get better, it will only get worse until you have someone who doesn’t know a damn thing.

Peggy doesn’t like all the fuss.

“Don’t worry about me darling,” she tells Harrison. “I’m fine. Just a bit forgetful. I’ll be out of hospital in a week, tops. I’ll be back to work!”

She thinks she’s going back to work a lot.

They actually have to keep her in a special home, one monitored by SHIELD agents. She keeps revealing secrets, ones that people absolutely cannot know.

But on good days, Sharon visits. And on bad days.

“I cannot believe you joined SHIELD,” Peggy says sharply. “It’s exactly what I didn’t want you to do.”

“Should’ve told me to go for it and then told me about the recruit training,” Sharon says. “Would’ve turned me off completely.”

Peggy laughs. She holds Sharon hands.

“Promise me you’ll be careful. Don’t...don’t be like me.”

And it means more now. It’s unavoidable, what Peggy has. And yet there’s always the “what if.”

“Okay,” Sharon says, knowing she is lying. “Okay.”

Sharon cries in her car. For longer than ten minutes. Which is fine, she knows that.

But she gets a call from Hill.

“Thirteen?”

“What?”

“Okay over there?” Maria asks. Sharon can feel the eyebrow raise from here.

“Personal issues. I’ll be okay. What is it?”

“You’re gonna want to get here as quick as possible. I’m talking a hundred miles an hour.”

“What, did Fury finally wear white?”

“No, way better than that.”

They fucking found him. They found Steve Rogers. He’s in a block of ice and he’s alive.

Sharon’s horrified. Everyone else seems to be losing it, smiling and grinning because Cap is back.

They don’t know how badly he’s going to be out of time.

She goes straight to Fury.

“You can’t push him immediately,” she says. “You can’t.”

“And what, you know Cap better than us?” Fury asks.

“I know Steve better than you,” Sharon says, leveling with him. “And this is gonna suck and he’s going to need to learn how to be himself before Captain America is even an option. Trust me. Trust the psychologists who are gonna tell you the exact same thing.”

Fury looks at her for a moment.

“Tell me the difference.”

“Steve is going to run out of that room because you messed up,” Sharon says, gesturing to the woman they’re having going in. “You got the fashion wrong, you got the hair wrong. In the army, her hair would’ve been up and away. You’re also playing a baseball game that he was at. He knows that he won’t be.”

“We’re not sure the state of his memory.”

“He memorized strategies and sites of attack in one glance and could recall even the smallest detail about a stranger, he’ll remember,” Sharon argues.

Steve Rogers runs.

Sharon curses. She fucking knew they’d pull this, knew that SHIELD wanted Captain America back so badly they’d forget that he’s still just a guy.

He stares at Times Square with all of its people, all of the lights, and he looks lost.

“I...I had a dance.”

Fury ushers him back inside. Sharon says nothing.

This does not explain why Steve Rogers gets moved in right next to her apartment.

“What the fuck,” Sharon seethes into her phone. “When I told you to get him help, I didn’t mean me!”

“You’re the one who has the closest connection to him. Seeing your aunt is gonna depress the living shit out of him,” Clint says.

(Yes, she told Clint. In her defense she was wine-drunk, had eaten the best burger to that point in her life, and Clint had made her laugh for ten minutes straight.)

“Is he seeing a therapist?”

“As soon as he agrees to one.”

Sharon knocks her head against the wall. And then goes over to see Steve looking forlornly at the space.

“What’s up?” she asks.

Steve turns, blinking at her.

“Who are you?”

“Sharon. Carter.”

“You’re...?”

“Related? Yes. But that’s not important right now. You need help unpacking your kitchen stuff.”

“I’m fine.”

“I don’t think you realize how bad new agents are at packing things,” Sharon says. “I’m helping.”

Steve is truly and really lost. It reminds him of when he went through the city for the first time by himself and got lost around a streetcar and he couldn’t find his way back until Bucky had happened to walk by with a cute girl on his arm.

He should really tell Bucky about all of this, he just needs to find--

Stamps. For a man who’s MIA. Or KIA. Most likely the latter.

Then he can’t breathe. And he sits on a chair that’s too modern and he stares at a carpet that looks weird, and Sharon is by him.

“Hey,” she says. “Breathe. You’re here in your apartment. I put away dishes. I’m making you get new coffee mugs because the ones you have are disgusting.”

“Where the fuck do I get those?” Steve asks. “Woolworth’s? Do they even have those?”

“Missed it by a decade or eight,” Sharon says. “No, there are other stores. Better designs, too. Or we can go and paint custom mugs. Ever wanted to see what it looks like to paint ‘fuck you’ on a mug?”

Sharon is pretty sure she’s fucking everything up.

But Steve laughs.

“You can....you can do that?”

“Of course you can,” Sharon says. “Let me show you some stuff...”

Steve is taught the worst and best of American pop culture. He hates rock music for now.

“I’m down the hall, the first room on your left,” Sharon says. “Don’t hesitate to knock for anything. I know you will need things, do not tell me you are fine. You’re not a good actor yet.”

He breaks a wall. A fucking wall. It’s the one leading into her room, and luckily her bed wasn’t against it. He’s covered in dust and wood and plaster, and he speaks a litany of apologies.

Sharon can’t help it.

She laughs.

“Only you would make sure we had a shared apartment,” she says.

“I can fix it I know it isn’t proper--”

“I don’t care about proper,” Sharon says. “At least now I can keep a closer eye on you. We’ll have SHIELD do some renovation work while I show you potentially the worst or best places you will ever go.”

Steve gets a tour of DC. He remembers when there were stories and pictures of President Woodrow Wilson’s sheep “mowing” the lawn. He’s surprised at all the security measures, and is not happy that there is more security on public transit.

“We can still break in if you want,” Sharon says. “But I’ll get you a pass.”

“It’s the future and it sucks,” Steve mutters.

Sharon laughs out loud at that.

“Well I’ll show you something that doesn’t suck, and that is a restaurant that I only take few people to, such as Agent Barton. You’ll meet him later, he’s a real disaster.”

Steve loves the burger place and all of its seedy decorations and kitschy photos of old celebrities visiting.

Sharon takes him grocery shopping. He’s overwhelmed.

“How are there more than one type of orange? How can you afford them?”

“We get good pay from SHIELD,” Sharon answers. “Tell me, have you ever had a strawberry margarita?”

“What?”

“Adding to cart,” Sharon answers. “You’re about to enjoy alcohol, finally.”

“Peggy tell you I hate it?”

“Just figured you would,” Sharon says. “She said the only time she saw you drink was when Bucky disappeared.”

It’s sad after that. Steve’s shoulders hunch in on themselves.

“You ever lost someone?” Steve asks.

“I am,” Sharon says quietly. “Do you want to make a pie?”

“What?”

“I’m going with no,” Sharon answers back. “We’ll make good brownies then.”

Steve’s frame is hilariously slim when you wrap an apron around it. Sharon can’t see she doesn’t admire it.

“This is amazing,” Steve says.

“Quit licking the batter,” Sharon says. “We have to eat these, you heathen.”

“Oh, like you’ll die from it,” Steve answers back sarcastically. “I was frozen for seventy years, I wanna lick batter.”

Sharon nods.

He doesn’t want to see a therapist. Insists he’s fine.

Sharon gestures to the wall that is now tastefully decorated with curtains.

“...fine. But if I don’t like it I’m leaving.”

“Would never force you to stay,” Sharon says. “Keep in mind one therapist is not your end-all solution. Sometimes you need to look around.”

“Do you...?”

“Yup,” Sharon says. “Can’t be as sexy as I am without a few issues that need working on.”

Eventually, Steve finds one.

He shows Sharon his world. He shows her records that he keeps buying off online sites, the player that he swears he can fix up.

“We could probably get you a functional gramophone if you wanted,” Sharon says. “Like yeah it’ll be expensive but we can do it.”

“I want one that’s well-loved,” Steve says. “One with character.”

Not for the first time does Sharon smile.

They sit together at dinner sometimes, and Steve tells her about what Brooklyn used to be, and she tells him stories of how she would climb trees until she couldn’t go any higher, and she used to memorize all of the cassettes and CDs that her parents had. She could still sing along to ABBA with no prompt.

She makes Steve watch Mamma Mia! after that, laughing as he stares wide-eyed.

“This is incredible.”

Steve looks at Sharon like she’s his world. And in some respects, she is. But he can’t get over how different she is from Peggy. And that’s the damning evidence, isn’t it? That she’s a connection, but she’s...she’s not.

She doesn’t wear red lipstick, doesn’t own any. Told him one day that she looked stupid in it. “I’m unstoppable without it, I don’t need it,” she says, and it feels like there’s something more there.

How she reacts in some ways like Peggy would, but how communicative she is with others. How she laughs and makes sure people are comfortable in the situation. Not that Peggy wasn’t any of that, but she was focused on getting to the end, to proving that it was a success. Sharon wanted the same thing, but what mattered was that people were okay.

He doesn’t stay with Sharon all the time. She encourages him to get out “into the big, bad, scary world.”

She meant interacting with college art students, which is quite scary. He agrees. He thinks it’s very cool that you can dye your hair now, and buys the shittiest dye ever.

He dyes his hair blue and accidentally smears some down his neck. He shivers as Sharon traces her hand down, laughing.

“Oh my god. Steve, what did you do?”

“Marcy in my class has pink hair, I wanted to dye my hair!” Steve says defensively. “You left me bored.”

Sharon smiles up at him.

(What would it be like to wrap his arms around her? To hold her and let the universe pass them by?)

He shakes his head out of the thought.

“Ooh, showing off the hair?” Sharon asks, grinning.

“Of course.”

“Nerd,” she teases. “Well come on, I got some ice cream from the store. Your favorite which is disgustingly basic, but here we are.”

“It’s basic for a reason, it’s good,” Steve teases right back. “Need to ask you about my new art project.”

“Shoot.”

“I need to draw someone. And you’re basically the only person I really, um, want to draw.”

“What, afraid that you can’t capture Coulson’s strong personality on paper?” Sharon asks wryly. Steve snorts.

“Oh yeah, his vivacity would fly off the page. Really and honestly, truly.”

“Well, what do I need to do?”

“It has to be a stylized portrait from any historical era,” Steve answers. “And I already have the materials and stuff, we just need to go shopping for some clothing and stuff. Maybe accessories.”

“Okay.”

Sharon thinks her heart is absolutely stupid for beating this fast. It’s been doing this more recently.

Natasha keeps making fun of her.

Steve wants to do a Baroque style, over-the-top goddess style. He has her dripping in drapery and gold chains, thin as can be. He delicately sets a crown that he weaved into her hair.

“You look gorgeous,” he says, blinking. “Just...wow.”

“All thanks to the cute artist,” Sharon flirts back, winking. “Tell me how you want me.”

Silence after that.

But Steve positions her reclining, and she can’t stop herself from raising an eyebrow at him.

“I feel ridiculous, just so you know.”

“You look great, if that’s any connotation.”

“It could be.”

She smiles at him, and that’s the winning expression. “Hold please.”

Sharon tries her best, stilling. Benefit of SHIELD training. She can stay still for hours. Her smile, however, moves.

This is fine. Steve smiles back.

“Break time,” he announces a couple of hours later. Sharon sags on the couch, swinging her legs over.

She overestimates her abilities and the fabric, as one foot gets caught and she falls forward.

Steve’s catching her in a flash. She grins.

“Being my hero, huh?”

“Of course,” Steve says. “Where would I be if I didn’t save the pretty lady?”

Sharon smiles, leans closer.

“Can I...I wanna kiss you.”

Steve blinks. Goes for it.

Sharon smiles into it.

Months later, when everything’s going to shit and Natasha asks if that’s the first kiss he’s had since 1945, he smiles to himself.

“No, it’s not,” he tells her. “You knew that, didn’t you?”

Natasha smiles to herself.

“Sharon’s not gonna be mad at me, is she?”

“Of course not,” Steve says. “Especially after I tell her I convinced you to wear these terrible shoes.”

“Hey!”

When he wakes up at the hospital, Sharon’s standing at the side and Sam’s sitting down.

“On your left,” Steve pants out.

“You--” Sam hangs his head, laughing. “You got me on that one. Got your shield. We don’t know where Barnes is. Your girl is here, by the way. Gotta say, you got lucky.”

“Damn right I did,” Steve says weakly. Sharon waves. Steve tries to wave.

“You got thrown from a Helicarrier, don’t,” Sharon says. She sends Sam off with a goodbye hug and a promise to deliver some dessert as a thank-you.

She looks at Steve.

“You have so much explaining to do. So much. But later.” She takes his hand, kissing it softly. “I was terrified.”

“So was I.”

They sit like that for a moment. Steve turns, seeing the bandage around her arm.

“What’s that?”

“Rumlow’s a bastard with a knife, played dirty,” Sharon says. “It’s nothing. He got crushed under a building. Karma, you know. Whole thing.”

Steve laughs. Winces. Sharon puts her hand over his.

“Get some rest,” she says. “I’ll be back tomorrow to visit and evaluate if you can go home or not.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Sharon rolls her eyes.

“Of course you are.”

She presses a kiss to his forehead.

“I love you, honey. Stay safe.”

“You too.” He squeezes her hand.

Things will be okay.

#HOLY FUCKING SHIT. HOLY FUCKING SHIT THIS IS SO FUCKIGN LONG. WHAT THE FUCK DID I DO #peggy carter #sharon carter #steve rogers #clint barton #yes clint is her bff yes i do what i want #of course i do what would you have expected #lovelyirony writes #any single time jess (not me) requests a prompt from me i just HAVE to go feral #staron

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itachis-hoe · 4 years

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aha, I literally love tobirama so much and yet all I do is write angst for him lol anyways...yeah, I might continue this one maybe

inspired by the rain

thoughts of you just linger in my head

“I just don’t love you, Tobirama, y-you have to understand, okay? Let me go. Just let me go!”

It rained for an entire week in Konoha when she broke her own heart.

One week had passed since she’d told the love of her life that he was nothing but a passing fancy. That his place couldn’t be at her side or that her love had been something out of convenience.

It was all a lie.

She loved him more than she would dare admit. It had been a little crush that existed from the start of their youthful friendship. She’d tease him more than the other boys she’d ever met, toyed with the ends of his hair when they sat close, leaned into him when they walked and blushed when he looked at her directly. Her crush blossomed like she had when her days were filled with etiquette, and more delicate tasks. She’d grown to be an exceptional beauty and he’d grown into the advisor for the leader of Konoha.

She’d only ever bat an eye at Tobirama when parties or celebrations were held. Innocent touches had melted away into something more intimate. Starlight was the only witness to the first time she’d dared to kiss him—a small confession unspoken in the brush of her lips on his. He’d been unable to let her go that night having spent most of the better part of the night kissing her in the shadows of the party. Pressed up against the walls of a dark hallway, absolute putty in his arms. How she’d love nothing more than to die in those secret moments of romance.

And when the war ended and Konoha had established itself, she saw the way the village looked at the Senju brothers. They were heroes among men. They’d catapulted into the heights of the social world and she could never keep up. She held out hopes that it could last. Her heart hoped against hope.

Tobirama would still seek her hand out in a crowded room, holding it with naught a change of his own expression. He’d hold it ever so sweetly, a soft rhythmic stroke of his thumb on the back of her hand soothed her nerves. Hashirama had married an Uzumaki woman—a way to strengthen their village and suddenly it was obvious that Tobirama would just follow suit. So, her little infatuation with him just could not persist. She had asked him once, offhandedly, if he’d ever marry someone for the village and just like the levelheaded advisor he was trained to be, Tobirama said yes.

It had hurt her more than she thought. How could he have known his answer sealed their fate?

The next week, she’d stood before him in the drizzle of rain and had told him she no longer wished to be his someone. That she had never wished to be his someone.

She had no family. There was nothing that she could bring to the table that could help the village—she was just one woman. It was a selfish reason. Or, maybe she was just frightened that she’d hear Tobirama let her go first. She needed her heart shielded from that rejection. Not from him. He could handle it. She couldn’t.

That’s what she kept telling herself.

It rained for an entire week in Konoha when she broke Tobirama’s heart.

Not even Hashirama had been able to console his usually calm brother. He had seen his fair share of rare outbursts but this was unlike any of the others. This behavior wasn’t induced by rage or frustration, but by something he could never hope to heal. He hadn’t realized how much his brother actually loved her until she stood before him and told Tobirama he was nothing to her.

And this godforsaken rain wouldn’t let up.

Tobirama had loved her probably before he even knew it. Their youth had brought them together—her parents were still alive, allied with his clan and her presence seemed natural at his side. She’d been kind to everyone. She had a tender heart, a soft edge where Tobirama was rough. Strange that he should let this girl get so close when others had attempted it and had been shunned or scared away. She seemed unbothered by his permanent glare or the way he hardly spoke at all.

Hashirama remembered her when she was young—the times when he would watch her play with his little brothers, indulging in their fantasies. She had been shy at first, a little hesitant, but once she’d warmed up to them, they couldn’t stop her. She was bright and lively and everything worth fighting for in a person.

However, she latched onto Tobirama like a leech to flesh. She said she liked how quiet and serious he was for someone their age. It made him seem mature. Hashirama used to tease her about it all, but she didn’t seem to mind. His brother had been reluctant but something happened between the two of them that they’d not told a soul and had become inseparable ever since. And when her family died for his, she was provided all she needed. She was a friend in need and one he’d never turn his back on. (Tobirama had made sure to personally oversee the construction to her liking—of course, this was just another thing to tease.)

Her out of the blue confession came as a kunai in the dark. No one could have seen it coming after all the signs pointed to her and his brother tying the proverbial knot. His brother was not receiving it well, either. If he was any tougher on the shinobi training under him, Hashirama would have to completely step in and shut it down. (They were already getting complaints from the Medic Ninja at the hospital...)

She scratched at the wood of her bed frame, the rain pounded against her window. She’d been in bed all day—the bookstore she ran was “closed due to her health” besides the fact that she simply didn’t wish to open the doors and see people. She missed her mother at times like these. She wished she could ask her what to do. How could she be so dumb? Was it worth the pain? She wanted to say in confidence that she did the right thing, letting him go, but with the weather in it’s current state, all she could do was cry.

She had wanted to kiss him that day.

“Is that what you really want?” Tobirama held his hands at his sides, drops of rain peppered his pale face. His crimson eyes narrowed in their skepticism, searching her face for the truth. His snow white mane dyed grey in the rain as the strands wilted against his scalp and forehead.

They stood outside the front of the Senju compound, inches apart, electric air between them as she confessed how she wanted nothing to do with him anymore.

She clenched her eyes closed and shook her head, “Don’t try and fill my head with doubt!” He reached for her arm, but she dodged him with a step back. The betrayal was in his eyes was a subtle twitch in his brows, before he straightened out and composed himself, the rain pelting against their scene.

His tone was resolute. Tobirama would never beg someone. “If you can’t tell me the truth then perhaps it’s best that this ends here. If this is what you’re going to do I will let you do it. Just know that I had loved you the whole time.”

She figured she deserved this kind of suffering, or at least, she welcomed the company of her own misery to an extent. It was easier to wallow in her self pity than to face the reality of her own regrets. Tobirama was not a man who would give chase, she knew. He didn’t play games with people—she had loved that about him. She just couldn’t picture Tobirama choosing her over the sake of the village. She didn’t resent him for it. She loved that he was willing to fight for Konoha—to fight for future generations.

She loved him so much it hurt to think about.

She rolled around in her bed, a hand pressed against the ache beneath her skin. Tears pricked in the corners of her eyes as images of a life she had always dreamed of with Tobirama flashed before her. She had loved him wholeheartedly for the moments he had stolen away for her. A fact she kept reminding herself—that he stole those moments, that he could up and leave at any moment and she was subject to wait for him. She didn’t want to love a man who would choose someone or something else over her.

She knew Tobirama loved her, but he just loved the village more.

#tobirama senju #naruto imagines #tobirama senju imagine #tobirama x reader #haha oops I wrote angst #itachis-hoe imagine #I wanna be good to this man but he hurts me fundamentally in my soul and therefore I must do angst #but omg you should see the smut I wrote for him lolol

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starryknight09 · 4 years

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Unforeseen dangers Ch. 1

Summary: As Peter recovers from his capture by Ross, a photo of him with Tony and the Avengers leaks and is splashed all across the media. Luckily, no one can figure out who he is and everyone thinks the buzz will die down. However, the public’s interest has been ignited. While Tony worries it’s only a matter of time before Peter’s identity is exposed, Peter isn’t as concerned. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen anyway?

Read on AO3.

________________________________________________________

“Let him go Ross.” Tony ordered.

He held his arm out, repulsor charged and aimed at the man in front of him, but he didn’t fire. He couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t hit Peter. Ross had his kid in a chokehold and he was using him as a human shield, cowering behind him with a gun held to his head.

“I don’t think I will.” Ross said with a sneer, tightening his hold.

Peter’s face was starting to turn red, but he still struggled weakly, trying to pry Ross’s arm away from his neck. But he couldn’t get away. For Peter not to be able to free himself, Ross must’ve done something to block his strength or he was more hurt than Tony realized.

Peter’s terror filled eyes stared at Tony, silently pleading to be saved.

“You should’ve listened to me Stark.” Ross grit out. “Now it’s too late.”

Ross readjusted the gun so it was flush against Peter’s temple.

“No!” Tony screamed. But it was too late.

Ross pulled the trigger.

Tony awoke with a scream dying on his lips. He jerked upward, instantly recognizing the interior of his bedroom. A dream. It’d only been a dream. It hadn’t happened. Peter was safe. Safe and asleep in his bed across the hall.

Tony took a few deliberate breaths to try to quell the lingering panic and his racing heart. He ran a hand down his face to wipe away the cold sweat.

“Shit.” He shook his head. Even though his clock read 2:45AM there was no way he was getting back to sleep tonight. Peter was back home but his brain couldn’t seem to get with the program and believe that he was actually safe. The nightmares were starting to wear him down.

He got out of bed and changed into appropriate workshop attire, jeans and a t-shirt, since that was where he was headed. The past couple days he’d been toying with an idea for how to keep Peter safe, and after that dream he felt motivated to complete it tonight so Peter could get it as soon as possible. Just in case.

He stepped out of his bedroom and paused outside Peter’s door. He should walk past it. Logically he knew Peter was asleep and perfectly fine, but he still couldn’t stop himself from quietly turning the doorknob and poking his head inside his son’s room. Peter slept soundly on his back, completely oblivious to Tony’s nighttime rounds. A pile of pillows cushioned his bad leg and he appeared to be resting peacefully, although the way he was tangled in the covers didn’t look all that comfortable.

Tony opened the door the rest of the way and crept silently across the room to his kid. As he got closer he could hear soft snuffling snores. Usually Peter didn’t snore, but he also usually didn’t sleep on his back or take painkillers that completely knocked him out either.

Tony gently maneuvered his son’s sleep limp limbs so he could pull the sheets off and rearrange them so they softly fell back into place and completely covered Peter. He did the same with the down comforter that was half on the floor. Once the covers were nestled up against his kid’s chin, Tony took a second to appreciate the serene sight in front of him. It helped to erase the remnants of fear left from his nightmare.

Ross hadn’t won, and he never would. The man was dead. Tony had made sure of it. He brushed his son’s hair back and dropped a kiss on his forehead. Peter didn’t so much as stir. A smile tugged on Tony’s lips. Sometimes he was blown away by the amount of love he could feel for one small human. It felt like his heart existed outside of his body, away from his protection, vulnerable to all the dangers and hurts of the outside world. He’d wrap Peter in bubble wrap and have him within sight at all times if he could, but he knew that wasn’t possible, or even particularly sane. So instead, he had to satisfy himself with these small moments in time when he knew Peter was safe.

He reluctantly pried himself away from Peter’s side, backing out silently and shutting the door behind him, the sight of Peter peacefully resting ingrained in his mind. With his worries now settled, he might’ve been able to go back to sleep, and he briefly considered it, but instead of going back to his bedroom, he wandered down to the communal floor, only slightly surprised to find the lights on. The Avengers as a whole kept odd hours. It wasn’t rare for someone to be up all night or to get up in the middle of the night to grab a snack. He was, however, surprised to find several people up.

“Why wasn’t I invited to this party?” He griped as he headed to the coffee pot in the kitchen, walking past Bruce, Steve, Clint, and Nat sitting on the couches watching something on the TV at low volume.

“We thought you were asleep.” Steve answered.

“I was.” He said simply and went to work making a pot of coffee. While he waited for it to brew, he walked over and stood to the side of the couch where Steve sat.

“Bad dream?” Steve asked without any judgement.

“What gave it away?”

“Lucky guess.”

“The circles under your eyes have circles.” Nat added.

“That’s a gross overstatement.” Tony argued and crossed his arms over his chest. He didn’t feel like talking about it. They could all probably guess why he was having trouble sleeping anyway.

“So, what’s everyone doing out here?” He asked, deflecting, his favorite tactic to avoid conversations he didn’t want to have.

“What does it look like? Same thing as you. Not sleeping. We know he’s your kid, but you’re not the only one who’s feeling a little fucked up from everything.” Clint said with uncharacteristic honestly as he stared at the TV.

Ok, so his usual deflection tactic had definitely failed. He blinked, not quite sure what to say in response to Clint’s blunt statement. It was true. They couldn’t understand what it’d felt like as Peter’s father, but he did recognize that they all still loved his kid and what had happened had been hard on them too.

“So you turn to,” he glanced at the show on the television and recognized it instantly, “Downton Abbey? Oh dear god. Did Happy turn you all to the dark side?”

“Nice Star Wars reference. You learn that from the kid?” Nat asked.

Tony rolled his eyes.

“Sometimes a mind numbing period drama is the best kind of medicine.” Bruce said.

“Is that your official doctor opinion?”

“Uh-huh.” Bruce nodded distractedly as he grabbed handful of popcorn from the bowl in his lap.

“So you’re saying watching garbage television will help me get over the nightmares in vivid technicolor of my kid dying? Really? That’s how to fix this?” He’d meant it to come out jokingly, but instead, the words that escaped him had a desperate edge to them.

They all looked over at him and he could see the concern etched on all their faces. Great. Exactly what he’d been trying to avoid. The coffee maker beeped. Perfect timing.

“Why don’t you sit down and join us?” Steve asked, patting the empty cushion next to him.

“Think I’ll pass.” He sniffed, going for obnoxious so they’d know to leave him alone. If he stayed he wasn’t confident he wouldn’t end up spilling his guts, or possibly crying, and he didn’t have any desire to do either of those things at the moment.

“Tony.” Steve sighed in frustration.

“Sorry.” He shrugged, making it obvious he wasn’t sorry at all as he turned and walked to the coffeemaker. “I’ve got a project calling my name.”

“There’s nothing you need to do down there that can’t wait until morning.” Steve argued.

“Wrong Cap.” Tony said as he poured the coffee into his largest insulated mug. “This can’t. Got something I have to make for the kid. You cope through boring period dramas. I prefer work. To each their own.” He raised his mug in a brief mock salute.

He frowned and then took a sip of his still too hot coffee to cover it. He hadn’t meant to let that truthful little tidbit slip out.

“Tony—” Steve started, probably to try to convince him to stay, but Bruce interrupted him.

“Steve.” Bruce said softly and when Steve glanced over, Bruce shook his head almost imperceptibly.

Tony pretended he hadn’t seen and kept walking toward the elevator.

“See you in the morning tin can.” Clint called out from behind him.

He raised a hand in a halfhearted good bye but didn’t turn around. The elevator doors closed behind him and as he descended he started mentally going over the specs for the device he planned to build for Peter. Something that would help keep him safe and hopefully help Tony’s peace of mind, more so than any Downton Abbey episodes ever could.

“FRIDAY can you ask Peter to come down here?” Tony asked as he put the finishing touches on the watch in his hand.

“He’s on his way boss.” FRIDAY told him after a few seconds.

“Tell him there’s no rush.” Tony added. He didn’t want Peter to try to hurry and end up falling. For someone with super abilities, he wasn’t the most agile on crutches. Tony had watched him almost face plant yesterday. Luckily, Steve had been close enough to grab him before he hit the ground.

“I will relay the message.” FRIDAY said.

Tony nodded as he turned the watch dial to the correct time. Once it was set, he turned it over in his hand, examining it for any imperfections. He didn’t find any. Not that he’d expected to. He’d made it after all. The watch had turned out perfect.

Instead of a digital display, he’d chosen a classic watch face and stifled the desire to use a nicer casing. He didn’t want to risk it getting stolen, so he’d gone simple instead. Silver links made up the watch band and the hands were a matching silver with a navy blue watch face and red numbers. He hoped Peter appreciated the subtle red and blue theme.

“Hey dad, what’s up?” Peter greeted as he entered the workshop, “FRIDAY said you were looking for me.”

“Come here.” Tony said, beckoning him over with his arm.

He watched as Peter crutched his way over and stopped in front of him.

Tony stood and moved his desk chair so it was right behind Peter. “Take a seat.”

Peter eyed him apprehensively but did as he was told. As soon as he was sitting, Tony grabbed the crutches and set them against the desk beside him.

“Am I in trouble?” Peter asked jokingly, but Tony heard the hint of nervousness in the question like he wasn’t quite sure.

“No.” Tony answered with a smile. “You’re not in trouble. Actually…I have something for you.”

Tony held the watch out to him.

Peter quirked his head and gave him a curious look as he took it.

“It’s a…watch?”

“Very good.” Tony said. “It’s nice to know your powers of observation are as sharp as ever.”

Peter rolled his eyes and asked, “Why are you giving me a watch?”

“It’s more than a watch.”

“Of course it is.” Peter said wryly.

Tony watched as his kid studied the watch in his hand, trying to figure it out.

“Ok I give up.” Peter said after a minute. “How is it more than a watch?”

“That’s a highly advanced piece of Starktech in your hands.”

“What? Are you marketing watches now? Because if you are, I hate to be the one to tell you this but your product doesn’t seem very…”

“Very what?”

“It’s not the type of design you typically go for?”

“Hm. Maybe I’m going for an image change.”

“To what? Cheap and vintage?”

“Hey.” Tony lightly cuffed the side of Peter’s head and the kid smiled. “I’ll have you know it’s even harder to make something that advanced and have it look like that.”

“So it’s supposed to look like this?” Peter turned the watch around in his hands. “Is it some kind of antitheft outfitting?”

Tony grinned. Sometimes he forgot just how bright Peter was.

“That’s exactly it.”

“Ok. And is this one like a prototype? You want me to test it out for you?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“How many of these is SI going to manufacture?”

“Just that one.”

Peter’s brow furrowed and he looked up from his inspection of the watch. “What? I don’t understand.”

“That watch you’re holding is one of one. I made it just for you.”

“Why? What does it do?”

“Put it on and I’ll show you.”

“Why can’t you just tell me?” Peter asked probably just to be difficult.

“No. That’s not as fun.” Tony answered. “Put it on.”

Peter let out a resigned sigh, but listened, and fastened the watch on his left wrist. “There. Happy?”

“Very.” Tony said. “FRIDAY, how are we looking?”

“Everything is functioning optimally as projected Boss.” FRIDAY answered.

Peter lifted his wrist to stare closer at the watch again. He shook his head. “I don’t get it. What’s it doing?”

“It’s tracking your vitals and your location.”

“So it’s for spying on me?” Peter scoffed and moved to take it off.

Tony leaned forward and intercepted his hand before he could. “It’s not for spying.”

“Feels an awful lot like spying.”

Tony sighed and knelt down in front of him, still holding Peter’s wrist loosely as he looked up into his kid’s eyes. “I promise it’s not for spying. It’s to keep you safe.”

“You already watch me in the suit.” Peter complained, lips thinning in obvious displeasure.

“I know. And you know why.” Tony smiled sadly. “Same reason. To keep you safe. The contingencies in the suit protect Spiderman, but I made a big mistake by not having similar protections in place for Peter Parker.”

Tony couldn’t keep his eyes from flicking briefly to Peter’s leg where his jeans hid the swath of bandages covering the still healing bullet wound.

“That wasn’t your fault.” Peter argued.

“Yes it was. I’m your father. It’s my job to keep you safe, and I failed once already.”

“No you—”

Tony continued, ignoring Peter’s protests, “I’m not going to make the same mistake twice. That’s why I need you to wear the watch.”

“I don’t know.” Peter eyed the watch dubiously as if it might jump out and bite him. “It still feels a little too much like big brother for my taste.”

“It’s not.” Tony shook his head. “It doesn’t surveil you. It’s only outfitted with a GPS and a vitals tracker. So if you ever end up in trouble without your suit or phone, I can still find you. And if anything ever happens to you, if you ever get seriously hurt when you’re not in the suit, I’ll know right away.”

“That’s it?” Peter asked, still wary. “I thought you said this thing was high tech?”

“That is high tech. Sheesh you’re getting spoiled.” Tony stood, holding back a wince at the creaking in his knees.

“I’m pretty sure a Garmin does the same thing.” Peter joked but Tony chose to take it as a win since his kid was no longer looking at the watch like it was something repulsive.

“Well a Garmin doesn’t have FRIDAY installed in it, now does it?” Tony countered.

“FRIDAY’s installed in this?” Peter jerked his arm away and held it out like the watch was going to attack him. “You just said it was only a GPS and a vitals monitor!”

“It is!”

“Then why is FRIDAY installed on it?” Peter narrowed his eyes at him, clearly suspicious.

“In case you’re ever in a situation where you need her.” Tony explained. “You can activate her and the watch will have the same capabilities as your phone.”

“So she’s not going to be listening in on every word I’m saying all day?”

“No.”

Peter brought the watch in closer and twisted in his wrist around to look at it from every angle. “How do I activate her? Please tell me you didn’t make it voice recognition with her name because that’s going to be problematic in day to day life. You know, since Friday’s also a day of the week.”

“I know, and of course not. Remember you’re talking to a genius here.” Tony reached out to cradle Peter’s wrist with the watch on it. “It’s touch activated.”

“How?”

“See these two side buttons?” Tony pointed to the prongs sticking out on the side that would usually be used to wind a watch but he’d reconfigured for a different purpose.

Peter nodded.

“Hold them down at the same time.”

“Ok.” Peter did it and the watch face flickered a faint blue, only noticeable if looking directly at it.

“Did you see that?”

“Yeah.”

“That means FRIDAY’s activated and online. She won’t speak unless you talk to her but she’ll be listening and recording. If you’re in a situation where she can’t speak, there’s a silent mode. Just tap the top button again and instead of speakers, she’ll respond on the watch face screen. To turn her off you do the same thing as you did to turn her on.”

Peter repeated the action and the face flickered again.

“Ok that’s kind of cool.” Peter admitted.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet kid. I want to show you something else. Turn FRIDAY on again.”

Peter did.

“Ok now tap the face of the watch twice.”

He watched as Peter complied. The watch face switched from the clock hands to a digital display similar to his Starkphone home screen.

“Whoa.”

“Yep. Check this out.” Tony smiled and tapped a keyboard screen icon. A hologram keyboard manifested a couple inches above the watch face. “It has text capabilities and a lot of other functions. But try to keep in on the DL all right? This is for emergency use, not for playing around at school. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh I almost forgot. It’s outfitted with one more feature. The most important one.” Tony said seriously. “It has a panic button.”

Peter’s nose scrunched. Tony could tell he didn’t like that idea so much, but he didn’t voice it.

“I’d rather you have it and not need it, then need it and not have it.” Tony explained.

“I guess.”

“See this button here?” Tony pointed out the single button on the opposite side of the watch face.

Peter nodded.

“You can either hold it down for three seconds or tap it three times in a row. Either will activate it. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“Only use it for emergencies.”

“Ok.” Peter said softly.

“But if you need it, I want you to use it. Ok?”

Peter nodded.

“I want you to wear it whenever you’re not in the Tower or in the suit.”

“As long as you promise you’ll only use it in case of emergencies and not to spy on me.”

Tony held up a hand and vowed, “I promise.”

“Ok.”

“Thank you.” Tony smiled and ruffled Peter’s hair before letting his hand drop onto his kid’s shoulder. He gave it a squeeze and leaned down to kiss the top of Peter’s head.

“Now come on. Let’s head upstairs. I hear Cap’s cooking.” He handed Peter his crutches and stayed close as his kid stood and adjusted the crutches under his arms.

“He is. He’s making enchiladas.” Peter threw him a mischievous look. “I’ll race you upstairs.”

“As much as I’d love to take you up on that, because I think this might be the only time I’d ever have a chance of actually beating you, I’m going to have to pass.” He fell into easy step beside Peter, settling a hand lightly against his upper back as he started crutching toward the elevator. “Let’s just take it slow for now.”

“Party pooper.”

“Yeah that’s me. Party pooper dad.”

Peter smiled at his response and Tony’s heart stuttered briefly in his chest. Similar moments had been happening ever since he’d gotten Peter back. He’d be in the middle of doing something mundane when he’d suddenly be struck by the awe that Peter was there. He was ok. Hurt, but healing. Alive. It could’ve gone much differently. He could’ve lost his son. It was the reason he’d been having such a hard time sleeping. The reason he’d woken in a fit of fear and spent the rest of the night making the watch on Peter’s wrist.

“What?” Peter asked him once they were in the elevator. Tony realized he’d been staring.

“Nothing.” He shook his head and gave his kid a tight smile. He didn’t want any of his worries weighing on Peter. “Nothing at all.”

#unforeseen dangers #ch 1

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tuwasduwillst · 5 years

Text

Shadowbringers (pt 4/end)

This just has spoilers for everything, basically. :U I finished it and don’t feel like splitting stuff up because I have over 1k screenshots to go through...

Katana-bearing Centurion: Besides, there is but one hand that can make me whole again. My enemy... my friend...

He probably just says “friend” there in Japanese, but I don’t have my whole game switched, so I don’t get to know for sure. Good to know you’re still being weird, Zenos.

Don’t you smirk at me like that, mister.

Here’s Urianger being handsome, as usual

I hated fighting this old dude as Thancred.

1) I still can’t believe he can easily take out the WoL like he did

2) Stop making me be sword dudes!!

3) I get why they wanted people to see the dialogue here, but it was so slooooow and I died once near the end and had to do it all over again and ughhh, just go away

Ryne looks cute with her new hair and eyes, at least. :) Thancred is still a bad dad, but at least he’s doing better now... I guess.

Also, Urianger’s reaction to finding out that Thancred was paying attention to some of his talks about pixies was really good, haha.

...I wanna listen to Urianger give a pixie lecture...

Wow

This was something the game threw together when I asked it to pick recommended gear. It’s... some kind of look.

The Exarch/G’raha Tia is a qt. Y’know, I figured it was probably G’raha Tia, but I didn’t remember him being so short... and the lack of cat ears also made me doubt myself, haha.

I’m really glad I did the Crystal Tower stuff, though, because otherwise I’d... well, I’d still think that G’raha Tia/the Exarch is cute and like him a lot, but it wouldn’t have had the same impact.

I took a bunch of screenshots of Mikh’a. :U

& Emet-Selch, ofc

that one old dude: If you would pass me, you must endure all that I have learned on the battlefield... For I am a weapon forged in the fires of war!

~*oooh, I’m so scared of you and your tiny amount of health left*~

My MP doesn’t even have a dent in it, really. This is why I had such a hard time believing this dude could take out the WoL!! Even the first time we fought, I had tons of MP available to me and could’ve made a full recovery from being brought down to 1 HP. (...well, I have Benediction which is kind of cheating, but still.)

At least this was the last time I had to deal with him. He’s probably the worst thing about the expansion, which I guess I can deal with since the rest of it was so good.

Lots of really pretty screenshot opportunities in this expansion. c:

Mt. Gulg is something I thought was common to a bunch of FF games for some reason, but apparently it was in the original Final Fantasy, FFIX, and some random spin-off games. Weird.

How did Mikh’a hear him talking from that far away??

Emet-Selch has such a good design and you can tell that a lot of work was put into him. The expressions he makes, the way he stands and walks--it’s all unique to him and it makes him stand out a lot.

Even after everything that happened in the expansion, I’m really fond of him. They made the right move in having him kind of forge a more personal relationship with you/the WoL, because if he hadn’t been obnoxious in the background throughout most of the expansion it wouldn’t have been anywhere near as interesting/good as it ended up being.

I obviously chose to say that they were all Alphinaud’s assistants. :P

This little scene was so cute... lali-hos for everyone...

Crystal Exarch: Ugh! I would thank you not to shoot me!

I’m sorryyyyyy ; ~; You were there and I wanted to see what would happen!!!

Crystal Exarch: Ah heh... It may interest you to know that Mikh’a is a great hero in the land whence he hails. Some would say the greatest.

This little venture made me feel like I’d suddenly gotten married and adopted a child

(Which I’d be totally fine with, tbh.)

I loved this thing, actually!! I got to heal G’raha Tia, he healed me, we both healed our new tiny dwarf child, it was great.

I’m still using the Mogrod. I’m never going to stop using it. Give me another thing that has a flower and swirly rainbows all over and maybe I’ll switch weapons, but until then? No.

...unless there’s, like... a really, really pretty plant weapon, especially if it matches Mikh’a’s outfit... but I don’t think there is.

I got to put my bubble on them. :D

He’s so cuuuuuute. And Mikh’a clearly agrees with my thoughts on him, considering the expression on his face when he looks at him.

One of the reasons I keep Mikh’a wearing the WHM gear is because I really like the contrast I get--a lot of the major characters wear black, so it looks nice when they stand next to each other. :D

Katana-bearing Centurion: The whereabouts of my one true friend, however--they interest me greatly. I but hope the beasts of this “First” are providing him proper sport.

Zenos is so funny to me. He just pops up like “did someone mention my friend” while his dad and Elidibus are having a serious conversation.

Innocence has beautiful hair and if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I’d never believe that he was Vauthry.

You can kind of see @tarifu in this screenshot! :D

You can definitely see her here--wait... why is half the party wearing dwarf beard outfits...

This is probably weird to say, but I genuinely like when characters I play in games like this suffer/are in pain. Not, like... constantly. I just like it when NPCs get to express concern and you aren’t some kind of unbreakable hero 24/7. >_>

Obviously I was going to say his name, who wouldn’t.

This made me cry!! I thought he was dead. :C

But thankfully Emet-Selch didn’t want him dead, so he did not die.

...why’d he even need a gun? Has he always had a gun?

I wish I could just float off into the sky after ruining everything and being a big jerk

sad kitty

I died when I came here with Jack and Mari because I didn’t realize I was being targeted by the boss until it was too late. :,)

I got to practice using my shield, though!! I’m not used to having one so I’m not super great at remembering it exists and using it; the tether thing is a good visual for “this specific person is going to be damaged soon and a shield would be Good”. ...unless everyone’s bunched up and I can’t tell who has it until it’s too late, I guess.

I know I’m level 80 now, but there’s still a lot I haven’t done and I’m still trying to figure out what the best way to do things is sometimes... I still need to mess with my hotbars and stuff, actually. I think I might switch some things around more than I already have, because some useful things aren’t as easy to use as they could/should be and I’ve been wanting to mess around with stuff for a while. The Trust dungeons should be a really good opportunity to test new configurations! Or the squad dungeons, I guess. :/a

I’m still not Ardbert’s biggest fan, but I don’t dislike him.

Poor Urianger, getting stuck with the role of the only other person to know the Exarch’s plans. :(

& then everyone died going to the bottom of the sea and the game ended

I got to help put dwarf helmets on sineaters :U

I also remembered that I have fancy wings now, wheee

I got a nice new outfit after doing my last Healer role quest! :D I like it a lot~ The whites are brighter than the last outfit, and the bit in back accommodates his tail much better than the corset did.

I might play around with mixing and matching some pieces once I get newer stuff, but for now this is what I’ve got! c:

...and I refuse to wear the hat. 100%. I’m not making Mikh’a look like a weird nun. :|

Amaurot was really good, even if being there mostly just made me sad. >_> The not-people were so cute and nice, though...

Big

The WoL hanging out on this giant bench is so cute.

I liked getting to talk to Emet-Selch’s friend. c: Well... kind of, anyway. Since it’s not really his friend...

tiny

Emet-Selch: I have broken bread with you, fought with you, grown ill, grown old! Sired children and yes, welcomed death’s sweet embrace.

I still don’t 100% understand how Ascians work, but I guess it’s canon that Emet-Selch fucks :/a

I regret typing that, I think, but it is apparently true

i think your fireplace has something wrong with it

Really though, this dungeon was excellent.

Alisaie decided that she wanted to LB right as one of the bosses was doing one of those “hide behind a rock Or You Will Die” things so she died & I accidentally walked right off the edge near the end of the last boss fight (oops), but other than that things went okay!

ardbert could you please clean your axe somehow before you point it at me like that. tia

This was a really neat moment :U

I’m not calling Emet-Selch Hades ever. Sorry, Emet-Selch.

I was kind of afraid to do this trial and almost waited until someone would be able to do it with me, but it really wasn’t that bad in the end!

...except for when I died five times to the same attack... orz It was that arm-sweeping one, too, so it’s not like it’s not obvious that it’s coming. My problem was that I kept getting Raised in bad places right before it happened, so he basically just kept smacking me down over and over again.

(Which was partially my fault, because I should’ve waited to accept the Raise until I knew it was safe to be alive, but... I don’t like leaving the other healer alone and I don’t want to just be lying there uselessly if I can avoid it.)

Fortunately(?) the party wiped due to something completely unrelated (a failed mechanic I had nothing to do with) and I didn’t die at all the second time around! So at least there was that.

I liked this bit in the dark. c:

I also liked when I got trapped in the bubble and didn’t have to do anything. Thanks, Emet-Selch!

Genuinely though, it was a nice little chance for me to calm the hell down because my anxiety was getting real bad before/during this fight. >_>

Poor dude. :c Obviously he’s responsible for some absolutely terrible things and I’m not going to try to deny that or anything, but he’s lived for so long and he’s had to deal with the loss of basically everyone he ever cared about for that whole time. He recreated that entire city and all of its people, that’s how much he cared.

Still no excuse for basically trying to kill all of the people he didn’t consider “real”! But also still sad, IMO.

This made me go “awww” out loud and start to tear up, haha...

I didn’t want to leave him ; ~;

Estinien said a full sentence here about how these guards were dead, too (in a way that implied he assumed that’s what they’d find), and the localization translated it as “hmph”. Kind of a weird choice there, but okay.

Zenos basically went Full Yandere since he killed his father just because he could potentially get in the way of his thing with the WoL, so... that’s something that’s going to have to be dealt with at some point.

I’m interested in seeing how things go, but I’m also a wee bit concerned that other people might get caught up in whatever this obsession is. I don’t want anyone to get hurt or killed because of Zenos’s yandere tendencies. :(

Elidibus is being Boring on the moon.

But who cares about that! I got to lead a Girl Scout meeting for my level 80 WHM quest.

Oh! Almost forgot about the story I got to tell the girls: “The tale of a man who crossed time and space to save the world... and me.”

I think the second one is about (original) Minfilia, maybe? :/a I wanted to tell them about G’raha Tia, though.

Aaaand that’s all I’ve done! \o/ I unlocked a new dungeon and I know there’s more than one post-80 dungeon, so I’ll probably check those out when I get a chance... but I finished the main stuff.

Which is kinda weird, because now I’m done again, haha... but I’ve got plenty of stuff to do before the next new stuff comes out. Especially since I discovered that Vamo alla Flamenco is the “dancer’s theme”, apparently. Need to dance ASAP >:O

#game: ffxiv

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jflashandclash · 5 years

Text

Traitors of Olympus IV: Fall of the Sun

Thirty-seven: Ajax

I am No Longer A Baby Panda

Later, Pax would say he admired his mother’s stylish entrance.

At the time, he was just horrified. And maybe a little annoyed. He’d been proud of himself for getting back Frank’s stick and not having to sleep with his sister (something, he realized, really ought to cue him in that he had hit an all-time-low) and now the Goddess of Night had to steal the limelight—haha, steal the light—and tackle Apollo out of the sky.

Everything happened at once.

As the sun fell, ghostly silhouettes groaned out of the blackness. The lingering ghosts spilled from the forests, out of the shadows they’d been watching, and cackled with gleeful war cries.

Rotting corpses staggered towards Camp Half-Blood, an army at least four times larger than the one the Romans had been holding back earlier. Melinoe, her half-mummified, half-fireplace fabulous carcass, led the charge.

The piercing notes of a pipe echoed through the fields and a huntress, a Greek, and a Roman[1] standing guard at the border collapsed.

A suction of warm air eased away from the camp, and Pax knew the Mist shield—if it had been recovering—was completely down again.

The ground rumbled. Pax hoped, but doubted, that it was Nico or Axel to the rescue with a secret, giant mole army.

Instead, a massive black serpent exploded from—if Pax had to guess—that hole in the ground that Jack had voice-activated outside Hera’s cabin. You know, the major weakness of their defenses in the center of the camp that really ought to have a Welcome, Python, sign, We Forgot You RSVPed.

By now, the screams were omnipresent.

When Python collapsed onto the Apollo cabin, Pax liked to think there were as many screams afterwards as before Python decided to use the once-golden structure as a back scratcher.

Romans spilled out of the barracks. Greeks scrambled out of their cabins, er, the cabins that were left.

“Turn on the field lights!” Frank shouted from somewhere by the barracks.

The Canadian’s orders came to light and brought the ghastly attackers to high definition. The thump of the field lights echoed around the strawberry field. Pax had to wonder if substitute sunlight could weaken ghosts, and, if so, whether the Romans should seriously consider adding horticultural LED grow-lamps to their infantry.

Michael Kahale and Butch were with half-a-dozen demigods towards their edge of the strawberry field, apparently having been planning defenses for this evening. Well, surprise!

In a breath’s pause, Butch looked towards Python and Kahale blinked at the advancing ghoul army. The debate on whether to help with Python or guard the border lasted all of Michael Kahale ordering the troops to stand strong on the strawberry field. “To arms! Defend our barrier!”

What a mighty battle cry Michael missed out on; Pax would have said, Defend our berries!

Pax felt like he was watching an old family movie as his mother tossed her Molotov cocktail up and down. The flame flickered, making the malicious zeal in her eyes glitter. She wore black tactical pants, a torn up red and black shirt with a circled and slashed A, a black bandana to conceal half her face, and—

When she launched her Molotov cocktail, everything became too real.

Pax wanted to say, Nice throw, since he’d forgotten his mother was a goddess and lobbing a bottle of alcohol was as easy as tossing rice at a wedding, though that probably was what she tossed at weddings. The bottle went clean over half the strawberry field, far beyond where Percy was cursing Eris at his throne of Saturnalia.

The glass shattered.

Michael Kahale went up in flames.

There were more screams.

He dropped to the ground, rolling, tearing at his armor.

Two other soldiers dropped beside him. One went to rip Michael’s armor off, the other frantically shoved dirt onto him.

Watching the fire and screaming centurion, Pax clutched Frank’s stick to his chest. He felt like the stupid thing could burst into flames by sheer peer pressure.

A laugh with the same giggling mania as the Joker’s filled the battlefield along with the flick of a match.

Eris jumped up and down in excitement as she tossed another bottle from hand to hand. “Terror Muffin! Come paint with me! I’ll bet I can make my masterpiece more vibrant than yours!”

Pax, stupidly, went to shout a warning, like Michael Kahale and the others might be confused or capable of defending themselves from the whole “flaming bombs” thing.

As he opened his mouth, something much louder made an inhuman wail about ten feet behind him.

There was a crunch of metal and bone.

At the same time, the Silver-Tongued helm attached to his waist shrieked.

One of our brethren is in danger!

Really, Pax wanted to ask the helm why it didn’t open up more often. He was offended by the lack of weekly coffee chats—Axel’s helm talked to Axel all the time--but now wasn’t the time.

The shriek left him confused, with a lovely punched-by-a-minotaur-in-the-stomach sense of dread.

One horrifying thing at a time.

When he looked up to see the Molotov cocktail’s destruction, a blinding flash of light arched over the demigods.

The bottle hit something, exploded along the arch, and burned out, leaving the split second image of a brilliant, mini rainbow.

As the beams of colors faded, Pax could see Butch, the giant child of Iris, scowling hatefully in their direction. His arms were raised, one with a mister bottle, the other with a flashlight.

Rainbows were some powerful shit.

Pax wanted to slowly back up, put his hands in his pockets, and walk away whistling.

But he had to stop his mother from withdrawing a grenade from her utility belt.

He needed to chastise her: utility belts were definitely something that shouldn’t be used by evil. Only comic book heroes.

“Mom! Stop!” Pax cried. The shock faded enough for Pax to sprint towards her.

Her grenade didn’t even have a pin in it. From what he could see, it was held together by a hair band.

As she slipped the hair band back onto her wrist and cranked her arm for the throw, Pax slapped her hand.

The grenade tumbled out of her grip. While in mid-air, he kicked it as hard as he could towards Farm Road.

In the last few moments, he tackled his mother away—

An explosion popped his ears. Dirt sprayed his back.

Before the dust had settled, his mother was already squirming to shove him off. Pax wished he could hug the homicidal out of her and have them all go on a nice, non-violent family picnic after this, whatever was left of his family. Merry wouldn’t hurt Hiro, but he’d watched Jason kill someone Pax loved before. He hoped Lapis and Axel were okay.

“My Little Terror Muffin, what’s the matter?” she cooed, digging her talon-like nails into his recently-fractured shoulder. “The Greeks and Romans massacred all your friends and hunted you into hiding. This is the perfect opportunity for you to have a little fun. Don’t you want to honor your friends and let Momma have a nice Bring Your Son to Work Day?”

Pax whined in pain. He fumbled to withdraw a dart from his belt with his hand with functional tendons. He feared he didn’t have the dexterity with the other. Pax didn’t know if his darts would knock out a goddess, or if he had any Morpheus dust left to do the trick.

His belt wasn’t there.

Axel had shredded it and Pax left the remains in the Hermes cabin. All he had was Frank’s stick and the Silver-Tongued Snake helm on a rope around his waist, because he feared the Hermes little ones would play with it.

Pax wanted to cheerily brush his mother’s comment off. Instead, his mouth worked on its own. “Stop pretending all the messed up stuff you and Dad do is for me!” he snarled.

Pax meeped when his mother lifted him up like he was a small child. When she stood, they were several feet higher off the ground than they should have been. She was feeding off the chaos around them, growing. He trembled to think she’d be more powerful with each second of this battle.

But, Pax realized, he was her son. It ran in the family.

Although he felt small and baby-panda-like, Pax could discern the delirious sensation coursing through his limbs, like it had during the pandemonium when the Heroes of Olympus collided with the Traitors from Mount Othrys.

The feeling normally made him nauseous. Normally, he wished desperately he could get a high off a party, like Merry, or off two people in love, like Calex, or a song, like Kally.

This time, Pax didn’t try to stop the tugging in his stomach. An uncomfortable acceptance settled over him, putting him at ease with the surrounding screams and mayhem: Greeks and Romans were going to die during this battle, he and his brother were never going to be the same after what Ares and Aphrodite did to them, his family was in tatters and needed major therapy, everyone in this camp would die if he, Kally, Alabaster, and a handful of fighters didn’t level up, and if he kept pretending his family was a pack of misunderstood puppies.

Axel or Jack or someone else always came to the rescue. If Pax could let go, maybe if he stopped acting like a baby panda, he could protect other baby pandas still in Camp Half-Blood.

“Terror Muffin, I only want you to experience life and glee as fully as I do,” Eris cooed. She was about to toss him, he could feel her winding up. But Pax was the Silver-Tongued Snake, the former spymaster from Kronos’ army, and known for weaseling his way out of everything. “What is that silly saying they have? Be the change you want to see in the world? I’m setting a good example for someone I love.”

She nuzzled the top of his head with her chin. Her body tensed for the throw.

In a motion Hunnie, Baller, and Nietz would have been proud of, he latched onto his mother, digging his functional fingers into the skin above her kidney and chomping down hard with his teeth.

Eris lost her grip on Pax.

He thrashed and squirmed his way out, springing off her to land on his feet.

Pax stood a foot taller than the highest field light, his breath was ragged, and a hysterical laugh spilled from his lips. “I am not a baby panda!” he cried triumphantly.

Eris touched her back, her fingers returning with golden ichor smearing them. “Terror Muffin?” she asked, her serial killer grin one of amusement.

“Sorry. Internal monologue. It’s a main character thing,” he said. “Now, for the reprise. You and Dad always say you do this stuff because you love me.” Pax doned the Silver-Tongued Snake helm, feeling the warm enhancement of strength slither through him. He cracked his neck and withdrew Frank’s stick like it was one of his daggers. “If this is love, I don’t want to be loved!”

Pax really hoped this battle would be over soon, else he wasted a kick-ass line.

Eris’ wide, excited gaze turned adoring. “Your tricks won’t work on me, Terror Muffin. There’s no one you can turn into that would make me stop. You can’t puppet me the way you did the little Valdez. We have the same powers. You’re my son.”

“I’m not just your son. And I’m not letting you, or anyone else from our family hurt these baby pandas,” Pax said. He wished he would have pickpocketed her lighter off her, but he hadn’t felt one when he weaseled away. Instead, he focused on Frank’s stick, hoping it was as easily influenced as he thought. He also hoped this thing had a “slow burn” option or an alarm that would flash with, Destruction of Canadian: Imminent.

The tip burst into flames.

Pax bit his tongue, whining at the blood dribbling out—how did Axel do this every time without complaining?--and said the incantation he’d only ever successfully recited during the battle for Mount Othrys, something he’d heard Frasco do before he died. “Xma’su’tal Xib, Liik’il Ch’iich’!”[2]

Pax spit his blood into the flames. The red glow flared a brilliant turquoise. Pain flared as he felt his limbs elongate and his bones alter. What he was excited to say, and had rehearsed a few times in his head, was, “I’ll show you why you don’t mess with a Mayan warrior-prince!” but what came out was more of a, “Aye! Aye! OW! How does Axel do this all the time?!”

Sorry for some of the bravado, I’ll admit, I’ve been watching WAY too much anime recently.

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed :D

Footnotes:

[1] As Mel pointed out, excellent start to a joke, “A huntress, a Greek, and a Roman were standing guard…”

[2] “Abandon the man, ascend the eagle/bird.”

#TOO #HOO #PJO #fanfiction #Pax #Eris #Have you ever wanted to see someone from the first Cohort on fire?#You have?!?!#:D

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carceralmind · 5 years

Text

Sanctuary

Old creatures populated the area Barely breathing, living off of radiation contaminated trash Calling to us Calling for help But we couldn't do anything Couldn't move toward them So when the water rose We just had to run Run like hell Because inside these waves A great evil resided We felt bad for the creatures But also glad because it meant the end of their suffering On our way out of the cave we found a wondrous side opening With light of impossible colours shining out of it Barely large enough for a human to fit through Upon ducking in we noticed a strange drawing on the wall Symbols beyond our understanding No time for contemplation Still hearing the cries of drowning Scrambling upwards into the strange light As we were moving towards it, it became brighter and brighter Until it pierced our very souls, yet we were unable to shield our eyes The cave around us disappeared, making way for white nothingness All the sounds grew so loud that we couldn't distinguish between them anymore Just white noise All was white, senses diminishing

Then it was gone. The others were gone. SHE was gone. I was alone then, floating through empty white space. Hearing, feeling, smelling, touching absolutely nothing. For the first time in my life, I felt liberated. All my burdens had vanished. My pain was gone. My body was gone. I was free.

This became my state of being My sanctuary For years I stayed there My safe haven Shielded from reality Utterly blind to the world Forgetting all about time and space Not realizing what this void was Impossible to recall how long it lasted Maybe a whole life, maybe even several lifetimes

I began to question my surroundings when I saw the tiniest speck of color. A minuscule red dot that caught my attention. As I floated in this direction, it became more and more clear. This was a drop of blood on my perfect blank canvas. I studied it up close, furrowing my brow. Why was it here? Did it have significance? Pretty quickly I deducted that it had to have meaning, because nothing else had had. My concern started to grow into anxiety My anxiety into fear My fear into panic I needed to get out Where was SHE? How could I live without HER? Was SHE in the same state I'd been in? Was SHE even alive? Was I even alive? All these questions finally started boiling my thoughts after all this inconcievable time A second drop of blood appeared, then a third A fourth, a couple more, a dozen more A steady growth, varying in size and color Growing hotter At the same time I was beginning to see the insanity of my state

And then I heard HER voice "It's okay. We were never meant to save them. It's not your fault. Come with me, I will save you." It sounded so smooth, so soft, yet so firm and confident... "Please come back home, everyone's waiting for you. We miss you... I need you... Come back..." I was still trying to grasp the situation After some time, I found the courage to answer "Where am I?" -"You're here with us, everyone who came with us is still there. You have to come back!" "Where is here?" She paused for an uncomfortable amount of time -"You... you really don't know?" "Please, I really don't, this place... it's not a place and it feels corrupted. How does blood come in multiple colours? I'm... freaking out in here! Get me out!" -"...I'm sorry I have to tell you this..." "What? What is it?" -"I thought you knew. Anyways... you know, we were squeezing through that narrow opening... Toward the light... And then you disappeared in, like, a flash... The light was gone too and we realized we were at a dead end... This magical feeling, this... allure we had been feeling, that had been pulling us there... It was gone- But the noise was still rising so we started back, hoping to get to the entrance Of the cave in time But as we neared the opening to the main cave, the water had already engulfed it We could barely make out the mysterious symbols on the wall Then it hit us, with grueling certainty It was the inscription of IT The very creature living inside the waves We were trapped, Underwater, Somehow not dying, Time had stopped, IT spoke to us.

<<Your friend has gone to Sanctuary. But I'm afraid he's the only one worthy of the honor. You... All of you have committed treason against the Kingdom of Old... By trespassing here you caused the water to rise Killing an entire nation that had been surviving here For thousands of years Since the Great Nuclear War However... I'm not the evil entity you perceive me to be At least, not anymore The Kingdom of Old has been rightfully forgotten Nothing about this folk was ever right They were never quite human to begin with They were the very incorporation of hate They started the war They lost They were imprisoned here Waiting to be relieved of their endless pain The only thing that could kill them was being discovered Because of a safeguard that the winning parties of the war had imposed upon this cave Anyone who entered or left the cave would trigger the flooding of it And the entrance was hidden by ancient magic which only recently began diminishing So we knew our time was approaching You finally ended our painful existence For that I am thankful.

There was only ever meant to be one saviour, said the prophecy. So there was only one that was accepted into Sanctuary. My power is waning but there's one more thing I can do for you. Touch my sigil on the wall and I will move you to the surface. I am the King of the Old and I seek redemption for my wrongdoings in this final sacrifice. Be free, young ones, and forget about our folk.>>

So we did as we were told In the blink of an eye we were back in the dense green forest above the cave, soaked in water I think we spooked a deer and we were so confused We got back to our homes and lived our lives... Except it wasn't real. You were supposed to be with us. We didn't want to believe you were gone. We kept looking for clues. We were in serios denial. We knew this wasn't how it was supposed to be. Everyone around us told us to 'deal with it' But we knew better

The world we've been living in is no more real than yours! When that realization hit us, we began noticing details that were... off... Once we saw them, we felt so blind for not having seen them before. The colours were slightly wrong. Grass was not green, but a sickly turquoise. None of us ever even saw a dog all those years. Weird right? A lot of strangely specific details were piling up...

We knew we had to find you and get out of this place. We spent months meditating together, deconstructing this fake world piece by piece. Finally we reached an understanding of what we could do And we started feeling your presence. The others told me to do the final step and to find you, because our bond never broke..."

All the drops of, I guess it wasn't blood after all, but something very similar- Small parts of HER started converging and I saw HER standing in front of me Beautiful as ever, smiling timidly and revealing her slighty crooked teeth I found so adorable... Looking not a day older after all this time. I managed to form words with my... mouth? Yes, my mouth, my body was back! I was no longer a soul in the void, I was flesh and blood and around me, shapes were starting to materialize. "I have to be honest... I liked it here... I was finally free, floating around in nothingness... It felt like... Completion... It felt like... Multiple Lifetimes had passed... Then I saw a part of you, but I didn't know what it was. But you showed me that this place isn't real. That I can't possibly stay here forever. I remembered all of you. Most importantly, you..." At this point we ran to one another for a long, meaningful embrace and I closed my eyes I realized what pain SHE had had to endure for so long I felt bad for having forgotten about everyone I started crying

When I opened my eyes, I was standing in a wooden hut at night, scarcely lit by an oil lamp Still hugging HER And everyone else from our exploration group sitting around us in a loose circle Still meditating with their eyes closed I ended the embrace and said "I'm back." with tears of joy running down my cheeks. Upon hearing that, everyone opened their eyes, stood up and began cheering I received the most heartwarming welcome I had ever gotten. It didn't last very long. "We found out how to get you back", the Eldest said, "Now we have to find out how to get back home. Because this place...", he looked around in utter disgust, "is not home."

#original story #weird fiction #lovecraftian #mystery #fiction #short story #fantasy #adventure #stephen king inspired #the great old ones #supernatural #ancient #magic

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shardclan · 6 years

Photo

Equinox pushed to keep the skydancer dryad in sight. She had no idea what to expect, but she knew she couldn't let it get out of sight, even as they climbed into the precipitous heights of House Betelgeuse.

Much like a domed ceiling could pool and redistribute sound, the upper heights of the artificial crystalspine was a gathered and redistributed Arcane energy from below. It floated naturally toward the stars from the ground floor to where several systems, both magical and architectural, ensured that this pool of energy was never allowed to become too dense. Generally it was recycled back into the House as an emergency energy source for all the wards and runes that kept things operational.

But it was still a gathering point, easily siphoned and even more easily absorbed, as the dryad seemed to be taking advantage of. Its glass-thin wings grew bright, and it pulled away with ease even as Equinox beat her wings harder in an effort to keep up.

Azricai knew that the ridgeback was not going to be a match for a skydancer, even one made of wood, that was brimming with its native elemental energy.

"Wait for me!" she called, and took off after it, easily leaving Equinox behind. While she couldn't take in the Arcane magic, she knew its currents well. She could match them with her own natural wind magics. And she wasn't to be outflown, even as it flitted around a blind corner and into a crevice hidden in the crystalspine.

It was the barrier than brought her to a halt, shimmering and golden. The dryad passed through it unfazed, but Azricai could feel the thrum of it intensifying in response to her approach. It flew on, travelling down the tunnel and vanishing. While she worked to do something about the light magic barring her way, her antennae twisted almost painfully with a burst of choatic, clashing emotion from somewhere just beyond her sight.

Righteous fury and a black desperation that was marred by hopelessness. Anger. Fear. And in the middle of it all, piercing to the very core of what Azricai was, a child's specific and single-minded desire to prevent conflict.

With renewed fervor, she did her best to whip up her wind magics in the tight corridor. Churning until the materialized into the shape of a wolf--the very same gale wolf she had taken as a familiar as a younger dragon. The barrier was strong and expertly crafted, and Azricai was no mage, but a gale wolf's capacity for destruction combined with her keen focus was more than enough to slice a small opening in the light magic.

With a grunt, she hopped through, shedding her form for her glamor just to be able to fit through. She quickly flew ahead, following her senses as much as the path of the tunnel, but was not quite clear on what she was seeing when she arrived.

The den should not have been there to begin with. It was clearly not a part of Moyo's design; it was too rough hewn. It looked like their old lairs back in the Isles, gouged into the stone by amateur claws. In theory, it would have been cozy for a large guardian or maybe two smaller ones.

In reality, it was cramped by Prophecy's splayed wings and flared frills as she shielded a squirming and clearly distraught Hihi'o from the aggressive advnaces of the dryad. The pleading, teary expression on the fledgling imperial's face as he met Azricai's eyes infuriated her. But she used it. Channeled it into restraint and self-control, and pushed that out on both the warring parties.

Prophecy's body tensed and she hissed, even as her murderous fury cooled against her will. The dryad seemed momentarily confused, but was quick to shake off Azricai's attempt at recursive emotional control. It leapt at Prophecy, beak snapping and claws at the ready.

Hihi'o darted in front of the old guardian, defending her with his body. "Stop!" he cried.

For one breathless moment, both Azricai and Prophecy watched the dryad clumsily skid to a stop. Prophecy was the first to recover, drawing a wing defensively around Hihi'o.

He glanced back and gently patted Prophecy. "It's ok. Please don't hurt them."

Azricai glanced between the three figures. Something was amiss. They seemed to be fighting over Hihi'o, but she couldn't identify the primary aggressor. She swept forward, pulling Hihi'o away from both of them and pressing him under her wing. "You are safe?"

He nodded blearily. "I'm fine, just please--please don't hurt each other."

"That thing started it," Prophecy growled. "It attacked you!"

Hihi'o frowned, and this seemed to agitate the dryad. It moved in closer to him, and again Prophecy was quick to pull Hihi'o defensively back to her side.

Azricai intercepted the dryad. It gave her that same quizzical look as before, and its antennae raised. There was a vague humming--a physical one this time, Azricai noted. When she raised her antennae in kind, she felt something unusual. More than felt it; she saw something. A clear image in her mind that she knew was not her own.

[Clover crying]

Azricai squinted, tilting her head to try and make sense of what was happening without losing it. This was new. Uncharted territory. And she carefully sought words to get as much information as she could.

"What are you trying to do?" she asked slowly.

The answer came back clear: [Happy Clover with Hihi'o]

"That's all?"

It nodded emphatically, and spoke with that skin-crawling voice that sounded very specifically like an imitation of Azricai. "Yes!"

"How did you know he was here?"

It's features scrunched. [Prophecy flying in black with Hihi'o]

Azricai's beak creaked slightly as her jaw clenched. It probably didn't have a handle on what it was seeing. Azricai wouldn't have understood it either, if the image was not being shown to her.

Bending light was a form of highly advanced magic in the Sunbeam Ruins. It was how light dragons approached invisibility. It wasn't terribly practical if the population of mirrors was high--bending body heat wasn't possible after all. But Aphaster had a grand total of three, and none of them frequented the eastern quarter.

What House Betelgeuse had instead was an apiary full of hybridized Arcane bees who had visual spectrums that Azricai couldn't even imagine. The flight that had been invisible to other dragons was a sort of glossy blackish splotch in the environment to them.

"You're the bees..." she murmured. "And you came to find Hihi'o. For Clover."

It gave another emphatic nod. [Happy Clover with the hive]

Azricai's eyes turned toward Prophecy, sharp with fury. "They came to find him. And found you. Hiding. With a barrier placed. Do you have anything to say? I'll be sure to consider your statement while you await your trial."

Hihi'o clung to Azricai's robes, pleading tearfully. "Please, it's not her fault! She didn't hurt me, she just--"

"Kidnapped you," she finished harshly. "Made your family sick with worry. Indirectly caused a major aetheric disturbance because the bees apparently found it necessary to generate a body in order to retrieve you." She swung her arm widely and Prophecy, welcoming her to speak. "Feel free to refute."

The older guardian looked tightly at the ground, still as a statue. Without looking up, she whispered, "He's my charge..."

"...He's what?"

"He's my charge. I've never had one before. I've never... had this experience before." Prophecy clenched her eyes shut, and rubbed at her face. "I just wanted to spend some time with him..."

"And the solution was to snatch him?"

"She didn't snatch me!" Hihi'o protested. "She told me she never had a charge before so I came with her!"

Azricai took a deep breath, and looked patiently at Hihi'o. "The sympathy you are showing given the situation is exactly what is so abusable. She is several cycles your senior and should never have called you away from your family." She pushed his gently into the waiting arms of the dryad. "Please remain quiet. I will hear all you have to say later."

"It's as you both say," Prophecy admitted. "But you don't know what it's like. I had no idea who he was and I laid my eyes on him and knew I would have died for him on the spot. I wanted to know who my charge was. I had to know. I've been waiting so, so long, I just--"

"Tell me how any of this changes the nature of your crime." Azricai challenged.

Prophecy flinched as though she'd been slapped. Everything made sense in her head, even it was a desperate, manic sort of sense. But Azricai's cold grip on the core of the matter left her tongue-tied for something to say. No matter how innocuous her intent, no matter that she had been completely upfront with him the whole time, none of those were things that would satisfy. Not the judge, not his family, and not the bees. Embarrassment set in. She felt far too old for how vulnerable she felt. But eons and eons of unanswered wishing and more still of bitterness and envy for those with even the most humble charges had fallen away the moment she saw him.

He was all she had longed for since her distant adolescence. Her charge. And in her clumsy haste to cherish him, she had quite possibly sabotaged her chances of staying with him, of protecting him.

All this time, and she had failed her charge almost instantly.

"But he's mine...!" she pleaded pitifully, hiding her face in her hands.

Azricai shook her head at the sad old female. "No he isn't. Hopefully, you get the chance to learn that."

#Flight Rising #Tell the Bees #In which Prophecy fails to act her age when presented with her lifelong dream and suffers immensely for it #And also some bees are gay #C: Azricai #C: Prophecy #C: Hihi'o

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aresaphrodites · 7 years

Text

this crown of thorns.

Summary:

She never knew Jughead Jones. She would never know the man in that video, happy and carefree amidst all the death and war around them.

She knew Winter; a man who was fearless, feared. A man who was quiet and cold, almost a statue of a human being. She knew a man with enough demons and monsters to echo her own. She knew a man that stayed up all night, thoughts plagued with nightmares of deaths he wished he could forget. She didn’t know the war hero, she knew the asset; the man who brought war with him. She loved Winter. She didn’t love Jughead.

MARVEL AU. Some events were taken from CA:TWS. Betty = Black Widow. Archie = Captain America. Jughead = The Winter Soldier. Veronica is Hawkeye, Reggie is Iron Man, and Cheryl is Scarlet Witch although they’re only really mentioned, not key characters in the story.

As of right now, this story is just a one shot. I could consider adding another part if anyone wants it, though.

Thank you to @bettydooper and @itstenafterfour for cheering me on with this fic. And thank you to @jaded-youth for helping me with the ending. You guys are too good to me.

Jug speaks Russian in this fic so a few translations are (and don’t blame me if they aren’t entirely correct. I used Google, lol.):

Не стесняйтесь - Do not hesitate.

мое сердце - My heart.

Вы мое сердце - You are my heart.

ENJOY!

Life is weird. You wake up one day and you don’t really know how you got there or what happened prior to that one specific day. It’s just like you wake up and suddenly you can’t really remember anything from before, but you know that you’ve been alive for however many consecutive years and it’s just weird. People show you pictures and videos of yourself and they laugh about how cute and funny you used to be. They say things like ‘Oh, remember that time when?’ but no. You don’t remember any of it. You don’t remember a single thing. You nod, though. You nod and act like you have any clue what they’re talking about.

Betty Cooper sometimes feels like she hasn’t known anything from before she was a teenager. She doesn’t remember what it was like to be a child. She can’t remember if she was ever actually a child at all. She has no memories of swings and playgrounds. She doesn’t remember what it’s like to have tea parties and play with dolls.

She must have been a little girl at some point. She didn’t just wake up one day at the age of ten. Someone must have given birth to her. She must have had a mother and a father, maybe even a brother or a sister. She wonders if they’re still alive, if they ever think of her. She thinks about searching for them sometimes, but she never goes through with it. She’s scared of what she could find. She knows not to get her hopes up. Good things don’t happen to people like her.

Betty Cooper might have been a little girl once, but she had never been a child. She never would be a child.

“Cooper,” a voice calls from behind her. She turns around and Archie Andrews is looking at her with those eyes of his that always look so dead, so tired. “You okay?”

She feels bad that he’s asking her that. She doesn’t deserve to have people worry over her. Archie Andrews though, he deserved that. A fallen war hero, barely back from the dead itself; he deserved all the love and worry that he was faced with constantly. She knew that he hated having people baby him. He didn’t want the fame and responsibility that came with being Captain America; just like Betty never wanted the dread and death that followed Black Widow around.

“Great,” she tells him, smiling the smile that she’s perfected over the years. It’s the one that says ‘I’m perfect. I’m perfect in all and every way.’

She hates it. She hates being perfect, because she knows that she is and she knows what it means. It doesn’t mean that she’s a good girl who never gets in trouble; a girl who is pure and kind. It doesn’t mean any of that. She’s the perfect killer. That’s all she’ll ever be.

Archie nods. He knows that she’s lying. He always knows when she’s lying. He used to lecture her about it, being America’s golden boy and all, but he doesn’t lecture her anymore. She feels like maybe he understands. Maybe he lies too sometimes. She can hear him at night, screaming and crying. She hears the way he throws things all over his bedroom. She hears cries and then she hears nothing. She asked him about it one time and he just gave her a tired smile. He didn’t throw things after that. But he still cried. It didn’t matter how thick the walls were at the Avengers tower, she could always hear the broken cries of man who lost his whole world seventy years ago.

When Cap came off the ice, the United States cheered for their fallen hero. She remembers the day perfectly. Every news channel was talking about it, pictures of his face were plastered everywhere. It was the same picture of him that was taken during the war; him standing tall in his uniform, staring right at the camera with a smile on his face.

He had been happy. Once upon a time, Archie Andrews had been happy. He had been in the middle of a war and yet, he still smiled. There was still war and death, even seventy years later. War would never leave the world and Archie followed it like the true soldier he was, but the only difference was that he didn’t smile anymore. Sometimes she wonders if maybe he wished he would have died up in that plane all those years ago. Sometimes she wishes that he would have. At least then he wouldn’t be so sad.

The tower is quiet. Reggie is out at some kind of press meeting in D.C. and he won’t be back until tonight. Betty doesn’t know whether that’s a good thing or not. The tower is quiet without him, way too quiet, and the silence between her and Archie is so thick. They’re friends, of course they are. In fact, they probably get along better with each other than anyone else in the team, but that’s the problem. They know each other too well, their secrets and nightmares, they know them all. Betty doesn’t necessarily like that. At least when Mantle’s around, him and Archie are arguing with each other so much that they don’t really have time to focus on anything else. Sometimes she thinks they argue a little too much.

“Ronnie says we should train,” Archie tells her as he holds up his phone in her direction. He’s still getting used to technology, but at least he doesn’t flinch every time his phone vibrates now.

“We always train.” She’s been training since she was a little girl. She’s tired of it. “Tell her to come over here and train with you.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks her, picking up on the slight edge to her voice. “We’re friends, Betty. You can talk to me.”

She wants to remind him that if it weren’t for all the fucked up stuff they’d endured throughout their life, that they wouldn’t have been friends at all. If Archie Andrews had never picked up the shield and gone off to fight Nazis all those years ago, they wouldn’t be friends. If Betty had never been taken away from her family to go learn how to become the world’s most lethal assassin, they wouldn’t be friends. In a perfect world, they don’t know each other. In a perfect world, they aren’t friends. In a perfect world, Betty isn’t perfect.

“I need some air,” she says suddenly as she gets up from the couch. Archie looks at her like he wants to stop her, but he won’t because deep down he understands what it’s like. He knows all about the demons and monsters that plagued their thoughts and he knows that sometimes you have to run to escape them.

She wonders if she’ll ever stop running. She wonders if she even knows how to stop anymore.

Training never stops.

Everything in the Red Room qualifies as training. It never ends. She can’t remember the last time she sat down and had a moment to herself, a moment of peace and quiet. A moment where she could be herself, the version of herself she cooked up in her mind at night when her nightmares kept her awake; the nightmares that were her reality.

She had a version of herself, happy and carefree, living anywhere else. She has a family, friends, she’s happy. She doesn’t kill people. She doesn’t know what someone’s eyes look like right before they die. She doesn’t know what it’s like to have someone beg for their life. She doesn’t know what bones sound like as they snap under her touch.

‘Eyes up.’ The lady snaps in Russian. Betty isn’t Russian. She knows that much. She doesn’t know how she got here. She doesn't know why she’s here. She doesn’t know anything.

She looks up. She obeys.

It’s the first time she sees him.

She can’t see his eyes. His long hair falls into his face, matted and a little bit greasy, as he looks down at the ground. He’s wearing a black, leather getup and he should look normal, normal enough for the Red Room at least, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t because his left arm is made completely out of metal, from his shoulder all the way to his fingertips. She’s never seen anything like it before.

‘Begin.’

It’s like a second nature, the way her body reacts to the command. She jabs her fist out and watches in complete shock as the man ducks the punch. He’s still looking down at the floor, hair still covering his face, and he doesn’t even lose his footing. She frowns and reaches out to hit him again. This time, he grabs her fist and twists her arm behind her back.

She doesn’t cry out. She learned long ago not to cry out when she was in pain. Instead, she clenches her jaw and breathes out through her nose. She digs her feet into the ground and then brings up her leg and stomps down on the man’s boot covered foot. She doubts it hurts him, but she isn’t trying to hurt him. She needs him to become unfocused, taken off guard, and it works. He must not have expected her to still be able to think or move under the grip he’d had her arm in, but that’s where he was wrong. She had endured far worse than that.

She kicks him in the side and this time he does lose his balance as he stumbles to the side. This seems to anger him as he finally looks up at her. She gasps as she looks at his eyes. They’re a deep green color, but that’s not what shocks her. It’s the way he seems to be looking at her like she’s nothing. She can tell in his stance that he’s angry with the way she one upped him, but his eyes look void of any and all emotion. It’s unnerving and for the first time in a long time, she feels scared.

He steps towards her and reaches out for her, but she dodges it and brings her fist up to punch him in the jaw. His head snaps back and she twirls around, putting herself behind him and then wraps her arms around his neck as she forces him down to the ground.

His knees barely touch the ground before he’s standing back up, reaching up with his own hands to grab at her. She uses his body as leverage and brings her legs up to wrap around his neck. As he stands up tall again, she brings her hands together and hits him in the face. She thinks that it might end there, but instead he just shakes his head and leans back, making her lose her balance. Once he feels her grip loosen, he reaches up for her and grabs her, tossing her onto the ground afterwards.

She lands back on the floor with a hard thud and pain erupts throughout her entire body. She can hear sometime telling her something, but the words sound muffled to her.

She opens her eyes and gasps in shock when she sees a metal fist coming down at her face. Without a second thought, she rolls away from the oncoming impact and flinches to herself when she hears the sound the fist makes as it hits the ground.

She jumps up to her feet and roundhouse kicks the man in the face, not giving him any time to stand up again. He goes down and as he does, Betty reaches for the knife she keeps in her thigh holster and yanks it out before jumping on top of the man and bringing her hand up to kill him.

That’s what they do here. If you can’t keep up then you die. There are no do overs. Not here, not now. The man looks at her, empty eyes and for the first time in a long time, she feels sad.

He doesn’t look scared or even worried about what’s about to happen. The action startles her so much that she hesitates.

‘Не стесняйтесь.’ The man says simply and it takes Betty by surprise as she looks down at him, shocked that he’s actually said something to her. Before she can even realize what he’s said, he grabs the knife from her hand with his metal one and flips them over, pinning her to the ground before bringing the metal of the blade to her neck, pressing down on the skin there.

The people remember.

That’s what everyone usually tells Archie when they go out places. The people remember what he did for the country; for the world, and they appreciate him. He smiles, timidly and usually forcely, but he still gives them the validation they need; that he’s here and he’s not going anywhere. For Betty, it’s not that simple. The things she’s done? The things she’s seen? People don’t know about that. They look at her and they see the woman who’s helped Captain America keep the world safe and alive recently. They thank her too, but she doesn’t smile at them and offer the hope they want. She just nods.

She wonders what they would say if they all knew the truth.

There’s a bench in Central Park that she likes to sit at sometimes when she just needs to think. It’s nice to get fresh air and watch the world carry on in front of her eyes. She wishes that she could be one of the women running with her girl friends, gossiping about whatever juvenile things their significant others did that weekend. She doesn’t have any girl friends, but even if she did, she wouldn’t be gossiping about men with them.

She has no man in her life. Not anymore.

Veronica likes to think of them as friends, but Betty can’t allow that. She can never get close to someone that way again. Archie is different. He’s seen things, he’s experienced the horrible things in the world first hand. He knows the way their lives work and how they’ll end. Veronica still thinks the world can be saved. She thinks that one day they’ll all be able to live happily ever after. Even Cheryl, the girl who watched her twin brother die right in front of her eyes, has some hope for the future. They’re both young; they’re naive.

Betty accepted her fate long ago. She’s either going to die with a bullet to the head or a knife to the throat. There’s no other option. She’ll go out fighting, it’s the only possible way.

Her life feels like it’s on standby. She spends all her time waiting. Waiting for the next mission, for the next attack. She wakes up in the morning and spends her time waiting until she can sleep so she can begin the cycle all over again. She waits for the day that it’ll all finally be over. She didn’t used to think this way. Once upon a time, she’d looked forward to the sun rising every morning. That had been a different time though, back when he was still there; when he was still alive. Sometimes if she closes her eyes and focuses hard enough, she can see his eyes looking at her. Most of the time they had still portrayed that nearly lifeless look, but sometimes, when they were alone in the quiet hours of the night, he’d look at her and he’d see her. It was in those hours that she’d see glimpses of the man he might have once been and he saw the girl she’d made up in her mind.

Her fingernails dig into the palm of her hands, drawing blood, as she remembers him. It hurts too much to think of him these days, especially because now she knows. She knows who he is and what he did. She knows his real name and the man he once was. She can’t escape his face anymore.

She remembers when she’d first found out. Archie had dragged her down to the Smithsonian. It had been right after he’d woken up from the ice, only a few months after she’d been saved by S.H.I.E.L.D.. He told her that he needed to see the exhibit, the one dedicated to him; he needed to see how people remembered him. Betty had thought it was a bad idea and she was right. It just turned out to be bad for her.

It was like seeing a ghost.

She’d never been to the exhibit before. She didn’t really have time for it. She still didn’t like being in large crowds. She couldn’t trust the people around her. As she stood closely by Archie though, she felt a little safer. People wouldn’t harm her if she was with their hero.

He wore a cap and kept his head down, avoiding the eyes of everyone at all costs. Betty didn’t have to do that. No one knew who she was. She was no one, just like she’d always been.

It was kind of unreal at first, seeing Archie’s original suit on the mannequin. She wanted to reach out and touch it. Several other mannequins surrounded him, each wearing their own getup. Archie didn’t seem to pay attention to any of them except for the one that was directly behind him to the right. The mannequin was wearing a blue jacket and Archie didn’t hesitate as he reached his hand out and touched the material gently before ripping it back, as if it had burned him.

‘It shouldn’t be up here.’

Betty looks at him in question, but he doesn’t pay any attention to her.

‘His jacket should be with someone who loves it, who loved him. It was his favorite. He wouldn’t want it hanging in some old museum.’

‘Was he your friend?’ She asks, noticing the way his eyes start to water slightly.

‘He was my brother,’ he says softly. ‘In every sense except biological, he was my brother. He was always watching out for me, little Archie Andrews who couldn’t step down from a fight. He always protected me and when he needed me the most, I couldn’t do the same for him.’

Betty doesn’t say anything, mostly because she understands what that’s like. She had tried to save someone once too. It didn’t work out that well either.

‘I should have died with him that day.’

The words startled her. Archie had never said anything like that before and she didn’t know how serious he was.

‘I wish I had died with him that day.’

‘The world needed you,’ Betty tells him, not really knowing how to comfort him. She’d never had to comfort anyone before.

‘He needed me more.’

And that’s that. Archie turns away from the costume exhibit and walks off towards the memorial. She’s never seen the memorial, but she can hear the words that are spoken out through the intercom.

‘From childhood playground to the front lines of war, Sergeant Forsythe Pendleton “Jughead” Jones III and Captain Archie Andrews were inseparable. Jones followed right along Captain America as they banded what would become known as the Howling Commandos. Jones was the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country.’

Archie stares at a moving video on a screen in the exhibit and Betty follows his gaze.

She nearly faints at what she sees.

It’s him. Winter is on the screen in front of her. She moves closer, heart rate kicking up as she takes in the sight in front of her.

Winter is there, laughing and smiling right next to Archie as he throws a hand over the redhead’s shoulders. They both look so happy and Betty feels like she can’t breathe.

His hair is a lot shorter than it had been when she’d last seen him; right before they took him away from her, before they killed him, but she would recognize his face anywhere. His eyes are full of light; of life. It’s something Betty never got to see before. It’s beautiful. It’s heartbreaking.

‘Archie…’ she whispers out, begging for the other man’s attention. It comes slowly, pained, and he has to force himself to tear his eyes away from his once best friend. ‘That’s him. That’s Winter.’

She looks back on it now and realizes that maybe she should have never said a single thing to Archie. She’d seen the way his face had gone from confused to doubtful to hopeful. They had a long talk that night. Betty told him all about the Red Room, something she’d yet to do with anyone else. She told him about how they had taken Winter away from her. She couldn’t call him Jughead. That wasn’t his name, not to her. She never knew Jughead Jones. She would never know the man in that video, happy and carefree amidst all the death and war around them.

That was the first time she’d ever seen Archie cry. He cried as he longed for the friend that Betty had only seen just a few short years ago. He cried for the man that he’d once known and he cried for the man he had become. He cried for having to relive the death all over again.

Betty didn’t cry.

She had cried when they took him from her; only a few tears and not in front of anyone else. She knew better than to make that mistake.

She wonders what happened to Winter; how he ended up where he did. How he was alive after all those years. Her mind reeled with all the unanswered questions. She didn’t voice them though, that had been Archie. Archie who had barged into S.H.I.E.D., eyes blazing as he demanded someone to tell him what was going on, what he was missing.

Conversations about Serpents and terrorists rung out into the air; a man who had helped the enemy shape the world for almost a century. Archie had tried to drink himself blind that night, but it didn’t work.

‘He was a war hero,’ Archie had said with empty eyes. It was the first time she’d ever seen him look like he was giving up. ‘He was a war hero and they just took that all away.’

Betty doesn’t know Jughead Jones, but a small part of her sometimes wishes that she did. What was he like? Was he just as strong and hard headed as Winter had been? Archie had once told her stories of how he would charm all the girls in Brooklyn. No one could resist Jughead Jones and that smirk he would give them. Betty knew a little bit about that.

Her feet were aching and her muscles were screaming out at her. The last training session had been especially hard today and all she wanted was to take a shower and rest. She knew that wouldn’t happen though. There wasn’t time for rest in the Red Room. You could rest when you were dead. That’s what Madam B. had always said.

She was allowed to shower though. The cold water helped her aching muscles and she yearned to stay under there forever.

The sound of heavy footsteps echos in the quiet restroom, the sound of the shower door being open rings out, and she knows who it is before she even opens her eyes.

It’s him.

He’s fully dressed in front of her. His hair has recently been cut, not by much though, and she can see his eyes now as he looks at her. He doesn’t try to hide them from her anymore and she doesn’t hide herself from him as she stands up tall, completely bare in front of him.

He just looks at her, tilting his head to the side as he takes in her physical appearance. She knows what he’s looking at before he even does anything. He reaches out with his hand, the flesh one not the cold metal one, and touches the bruise that’s forming on her cheekbone.

‘It’s okay,’ she tells him as she brings her hand up to hold his. The touch startles him at first just like it always does, but his shoulders soon sag in familiarity and he lets her grab his hand and pull it away slowly. ‘It’ll heal. Just like yours heal.’

Except his wounds heal abnormally fast. She’s never seen anything like it before. Things don’t hurt him the way they hurt the others. He never stays down too long, even when the beating he takes should leave him a nearly lifeless lump on the ground.

He steps closer towards her, the shower isn’t a big one and their bodies are nearly already pressed up against each other. His combat boots slosh against the water and a part of her wants to ask him to undress. She won’t though. Because he never truly does.

He lowers his head and brings their lips closer together, but not close enough that they’re touching. Betty stays completely still as she waits for his next move.

It comes soon enough. His lips are slightly chapped as they press up against hers, but they still feel better than anything else. She’s never kissed anyone before, not until he came into her life, but she can’t imagine doing it with anyone else. He kisses her deep and passionately and Betty has to grab onto his arms to stop herself from doing something stupid like fainting.

‘мое сердце.’

It’s what he always calls her, the Russian words falling off his tongue so beautifully. His accent isn’t Russian though, so she knows that he’s not a native. His accent is flat, mirroring her own and she knows that they’re from the same place. She often thinks about asking him, but she isn’t prepared for the answers she’ll get. She wonders if he even knows or if he’s like her; confused and lost.

‘Don’t be gentle,’ she tells him. He looks at her, eyes a bit nervous, but she just nods. Winter knows what she needs. He always knows what she needs.

He puts his hands on the back of her thighs and picks her up in one swift motion. She gasps out in surprise and wraps her legs around his waist to stop herself from falling, even though she knows he’d never let her fall.

His metal hand is cold against her skin but it feels so good, a stark contrast to the warmth of his flesh hand on her other thigh. He digs his fingers into her thighs, like he can’t get enough of them, and she hisses out at the pain of it. It feels good against the soreness of the muscles there and he must see that because he digs them in a little deeper.

Betty groans out before wrapping her arms around his neck and bringing his face down to hers, pressing their lips together in a kiss that is more teeth than it is anything else. It’s a contrast to the one they shared earlier, but it’s just what she needs right now. He bites at her lip a bit harshly before pulling away and licking at the spot, trying to soothe it over.

She knows they don’t have enough time. They never have enough time. She dreams of a day when it’ll be just them, no more Red Room and no more handlers. She dreams of a day when they can lay together in a bed that’s bigger than twin sized; when they can sleep in until noon and she can wake up before him, bring him breakfast in bed and then waste the day away together.

But for now they have a cramped shower and that has to be good enough for them.

He unzips his pants quickly, using only one hand and Betty tosses her head back against the wall behind her. She wishes they could savor this moment.

He presses himself into her gently and she moans out at the feeling of him inside of her. No matter how many times they do this, she never gets used to the way he feels inside of her. She feels full and complete, like she wants them to stay in this position forever. It’s too much and not enough at the same time.

He begins a steady pace, pushing his hips into hers gently as she bounces up and down in his arms. The water cascades around them and for a moment, she lets herself think that they’re anywhere else but here.

‘Harder,’ she pants out. He does as she asks, snapping his hips into her with a little more force. It allows him to slide deeper into her and Betty lets her head fall back as her eyes all but roll to the back of her head. It’s fast and dirty and it’s everything she’s ever wanted, everything she’s ever needed.

It doesn’t take long before Winter comes apart completely inside of her. He always comes inside of her; there’s no reason not to, not after the graduation ceremony.

He presses their foreheads together, both of them are panting lightly.

‘I wish we could stay here forever, Elizabeth. If it weren’t for you, I would have lost myself long ago.’

The words are spoken so lightly by him that she nearly misses them. It’s not like him to be so sentimental and she’s taken off guard for a moment before she smiles.

‘I love you.’ She tells him, because she does. She’s never loved anyone before, but she loves the broken man in front of her.

He looks at her a bit unsure at first before he presses a soft kiss to her forehead.

‘Вы мое сердце.’

You are my heart.

That’s what he had told her. He hadn’t said he loved her, but he didn’t need to. She knew he did. They both knew that what he told her meant more than anything else. She was his whole heart, just as he was hers. They didn’t make sense. They were two machines, created by people more dangerous than they could ever be, built to create chaos and leave destruction whenever they went. They had both been taught that they could never love, never be normal, but yet she found love and the closest thing to normal that she could and she found it wrapped up in him.

Her phone starts to buzz rapidly in her pocket, letting her know that it’s one of the Avengers trying to get ahold of her. She doesn’t know how she feels about being one of the “good guys” now, but she’ll take what she can get.

Archie’s number flashes on the screen at her. The words ‘TOWER NOW. 911’ screaming back at her. She gets up from her spot on the bench and walks over to the motorcycle she’d brought to the park with her. Throwing a leg over it, she starts it up and begins to dash through all of the traffic, ignoring the honks she receives in retaliation.

“Archie!” She yells as she walks into the tower. He’s pacing back and forth across the floor, suit on and shield across his back. “What’s going on?”

“There’s been a breach over at S.H.I.E.L.D. Ronnie says that she thinks some people have been undercover as Serpents this entire time. We need to get down there right now.”

“I could have met you there!” Betty yells at him, aware that they’re now wasting time.

“You’re going like that?” He looks down at her clothes. She’s wearing a pair of tight black jeans and high heeled boots, a black top and a leather jacket. Not exactly fighting clothes, but they don’t call her Black Widow for nothing. She’s fought in high heels before. They’re her favorite accessory. “This might be a fight, Betty.”

“Things have been a little dull around here,” she says with a slight smirk.

Archie just nods before making his way towards the elevator. “We’re taking the motorcycle.”

Traffic is bad. Archie swerves through it as much as he can, but S.H.I.E.L.D. is across the city from them and they don’t really have much time. They’re on the highway right now and Betty is about to just run the rest of the way.

It comes suddenly and out of nowhere when the bike randomly stalls in the middle of the highway.

“What the hell?” Archie says to himself. Betty is just about to yell at him for forgetting to fuel up when she looks up and stops.

A man stands at the end of the bridge directly across from them. He’s covered completely head to toe in black. She can’t see an inch of skin on him, a black leather getup covers his entire torso and arms, black gloves even rest on his hands, and his face is covered with a black mask and eye goggles. The only thing she can see is long dark hair, nearly black, that fans out around his face. He stands tall, unmoving, and Betty stands up from the bike.

“We have company,” Betty tells Archie, who looks up and follows her gaze with his own curious one.

“Who…” before he can say anything else, the man picks up his arms and Betty and Archie see the large gun he’d been holding.

“Duck!” She yells out, grabbing Archie and throwing them both onto the ground just as the man starts shooting the gun. “Who the fuck is that?”

“I don’t know!” Archie yells at her, looking at her incredulously. “How the fuck should I know?”

The man starts walking towards them, stopping traffic as he gets in the way of the other pedestrians. People begin to get out of their cars and run off of the highway and Betty almost wants to do the same.

“We got more company,” Archie says and points behind them. Betty turns around and sees three more men, dressed exactly like the other one and curses to herself.

“We can’t outrun them all.”

“We can try.” Archie stands up and pulls his shield off his back, holding it in front of them as the men start shooting at them. “I got them! Can you take care of the other one?”

She only has one gun and a knife on her, but it’s more than enough. She nods towards Archie and turns to face the man. He aims the gun towards her as he moves closer but before he can shoot, Betty swings her legs over the edge of the railing and jumps off the highway, landing on an abandoned car underneath them. A sharp pain runs through her legs, but she doesn’t pay any mind to it. She jumps off of the car and turns around just in time to see the man follow her lead as he lands on the car too.

He struts down the hood of the car and Betty falters slightly as she watches him. Something about him seems so familiar and she gets lost in the way he moves so gracefully.

He seems confused as he looks around for her and that’s when Betty realizes that she’s supposed to be “taking care of him”. She runs up behind him and kicks him square in the back, making him lose his footing as he stumbles forward. His grip on the gun loosens, but he doesn’t drop it completely.

He turns around and immediately begins shooting but Betty’s already circled her way around him. She doesn’t want to kill him. She made a pact with herself long ago that she would never kill again unless completely necessary, but she needs to unarm him now or else that’s all going to be for nothing.

Doing what she does best, she runs and jumps up, using the man’s body and her strength to climb up and wrap her legs around his neck. It’s her signature move that’s always been able to knock Archie off his feet and it seems to do the same to the man as he finally drops his gun in surprise.

Betty pulls out the wire that she keeps in her jacket pocket and wraps it around the man’s neck, trying to cut off his air supply. If she can get him to pass out then that could make this a lot easier.

He brings his hands up and tries to pull her arms away, but her grip on him is way too tight. She watches as he begins to go slack and she sighs in relief.

Her relief is short lived when she’s suddenly thrown off of his back and throttled across the street. She lands roughly on the gravel and rolls a few times before finally coming to a stop. She groans out in pain as she tries to get to her feet again.

The man is talking to someone else, instructing them to do something, but Betty can’t understand a word they’re saying.

The man’s attention turns back to her and she watches in fear as he begins to stalk over to her. There’s no way she’s going to be able to fight him off right now. Her head feels fuzzy from the landing and she can’t even see him properly. He grabs a knife out of his thigh holster and twirls it around in his hand menacingly.

Betty shuts her eyes tightly and waits. If she’s going to die then she’d rather not watch it happen.

She waits but nothing happens. She hears a deep grunt and opens her eyes to see that the man is staggering backwards, an arrow through his shoulder. Betty whirls around, knowing exactly who those arrows belong to.

Veronica Lodge stands on top of the railing of the highway. Bow and arrow ready as she looks down at Betty.

“You good?” She yells out.

Betty nods, her head finally clearing up. “I got him! Go help Archie!”

Veronica nods and Betty turns her attention back towards the man. She watches in horror as he rips the arrow out of himself before snapping his head up. She can’t see his eyes and that makes everything so much scarier. She has no idea what he looks like and it makes her nervous. She feels like she’s fighting blindly.

She runs up to man, knowing there’s no other way to get around him. She throws her fist out, trying to land a punch to his stomach but he jumps back and grabs her arm, swinging her around over him before tossing her to the ground again. This time though, she jumps back up quickly as she ignores the pain in her back. He tries to punch her but she dodges it and elbows him in the back hard, causing him to fall forward onto his knees.

She roundhouse kicks him and watches as he falls into the ground face first. Just as she’s about to reach for her gun, he flips over and swings his legs out, bringing her down with him. She grunts as she hits the cement again but manages to get her knife out of her thigh holster.

Just as the man crouches over her, she picks up the knife and makes to stab him in the shoulder.

Before she can, he reaches out and grabs it like it’s nothing before tossing it off to the side. Betty gasps and looks at him in alarm.

Who the hell was she fighting?

They begin to throw punches left and right once she stands up. She hasn’t fought like this in a while and for some reason it takes her back to the Red Room, to all the training she had to endure. She was groomed to become the perfect killer and she was. She was the best of the best and right now she could feel it in the way she dodged and ducked every single hit the man was aiming at her.

“Betty!” She hears Archie yells from behind her. “Duck!”

She does as he asks and the man loses his balance as his hand swings out and hits the air. Archie throws his shield forward and it takes the man off guard as it hits him straight in the chest, making him roll backwards onto the gravel.

The black mask he’d been wearing falls off and Betty looks at it in wonder. Her heart is beating rapidly in her chest as she watches the man begin to stand up. His hand goes up to his face and he takes off the goggles, letting them fall to the ground besides him.

Archie jogs up to her, standing by her side as the both of them watch the man slowly turn around, waiting to see who had been behind the mask the entire time.

Finally, he faces them and Betty’s entire world stops.

Green eyes stare back at her; empty, lifeless, but familiar. A face she’d spent so many years trying to forget is looking back at her.

“Jughead?” Archie gasps out.

Betty takes a step forward and then two more before Archie reaches out and grabs her hand, stopping her. She pulls her hand out of his, but stays put. The man seems confused by the whole thing as he looks at them with wide, frightened eyes. She’s looking at him with broken eyes; eyes that wished they were seeing anything else. She can’t go through this again. She can’t.

But he’s here. He’s right in front of her.

“Winter?”

The man tilts his head. “Who the hell is Winter?”

#bughead fanfiction

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magpiewords · 7 years

Text

Code name: Shellhead

Title: And The Stars Are Too Much

Universe: MCU (Civil War Compliant)

Rating: G, Alcohol Warning, Panic Attack Warning?

Word Count: 1731

Summary: They were finally a team again and teams party together and this should be normal why can’t he be normal? Tony has anxiety about time, space, and pretty much everything in between.

A/N: I LOVE this art piece by Caz. I didn’t get to proof this piece because work is sucking up my entire life, but hopefully this’ll be an emotionally satisfying piece.

He had only gone outside for a minute, just to get away from the smell of it. He knew he should have asked what kind of party it would be, but he couldn’t. It was so petty, so weak, Tony hadn’t cared this much about what his peers thought since freshman year at MIT. He should have just asked, but asking if there was going to be alcohol was sure to get some snide comment from Clint, which would make Tony defensive and he’d say something stupid, would start another fight and everyone would hate each other again and and and. He couldn’t have that, couldn’t lose what little healing the team had managed to do.

Maybe Clint wouldn’t have said anything, maybe Tony would have been able to ignore whatever cutting comment was made, but he didn’t want to count on something as fragile as their collective self control. Things had finally started going well after their ‘civil war’.

Tony had to bite his lip to hold back a laugh at the thought. What the media called a war had been a fist fight in a parking lot. Pulling the team back together had taken time, taken so much sacrifice. A year ago, Clint Barton had spit in Tony’s face. Now, he hosted the new Avengers at the Barton farm for a post-mission party. Wanda used to leave the room if Tony walked in, now her spot for movie night was two seats from his and asked him to put Cherry Garcia on the shopping list every other week.

Things were good. He should be happy. Four months sober, three months into dating Captain America, and two years past everyone trying to kill each other. Any crush he had on Steve had been pretty brutally crushed when his ribs cracked from the shield being slammed into him. As the team reformed, Tony’s usually flirty comments were hard to be found. Once or twice his mouth ran on autopilot, but was quickly followed by apologies and retreating to his private workshop at the upstate compound.

Tony hoped his silence wasn’t what finally earned Steve’s approval. Hell, Steve had told him it was movie nights and take out dinners and early morning missions where they meshed together as perfect leaders of the perfect team. Tony wanted to believe him, he really did but, for a billionaire, he didn’t often get what he wanted.

He was cruelly reminded of this fact as soon as he made it two steps onto the Barton farmhouse porch. With no city towers, no compound full of planes and machinery, the air was still and the sky was clear. An ocean of stars spread out above him.

“Oh no.” Tony managed to mumble before everything seemed to fade away. Like his body went offline, he couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. He knew the stars weren’t getting closer, knew the wide expanse of space wasn’t somehow closing in on him. No matter how much he knew, logical was useless against this. The sky was taking him away and he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t stop anything. Something from beyond the galaxy was coming for them and they were helpless to stop it and everything was a mess and the team was going to explode again like a super nova right in front of his face and and and. There was a crash of broken glass behind him and Tony’s whole body jerked back into reality. For a split second, the stars were invisible and he scanned the porch, waiting for Howard to stumble out and curse about dropping his favorite whiskey tumbler.

Instead, he saw Natasha through the screen door into the house. She looked almost as miserable as him, taking a huge swing from an equally huge bottle of vodka. There was laughter and music, but the stars were slowly coming back into focus, even if Tony kept his eyes on the house.

“Fuck this.” He decided, walking back into the party with purpose. Natasha gave him a look at he pasted, but she didn’t stop him as he made a direct line for the kitchen. Thirty minutes and a half bottle of whiskey later, she hadn’t moved. She still looked at him as he walked past her, his arms full with his own near empty bottle of Jack, the well loved bottle he and Sam had been passing back at forth, and a bottle of rosé just in case. None of the new Avengers new about his old habit, but Natasha did. Either she was too drunk to care or, Tony suspected, she knew nothing was going to stop him from this.

The laughter and partying had silenced the stars that glowed behind his eyes, but everything else was still too loud. Too weird. Scott Lang had literally tried to fry Tony in his own armor two years ago, now he was showing the billionaire pictures of his daughter. Vision existed and that was older news, but it was still too much sometimes.

Steve was nowhere to be found and Tony hated how much he cared about that. The unanimously chosen ‘Team Dad’ was probably holding Wanda’s hair while she threw up her one too many drinks. When Tony was her age, he knew how to hold his liquor, he thought bitterly to himself. Had he always been this petty though? It was crazy to say Steve was his, Tony could never have something that good. Even if Steve was sort of his, no one wanted his drunken ramblings and cuddles and crying and and and.

Alcohol was supposed to shut out his feelings, but he couldn’t handle the still overwhelming emotions that remained. So he stumbled back out to the porch, to hopefully escape the too much noise from the party that his brain had always hated but his social standing had forced him to endure. Maybe the silence would be loud enough to keep his thoughts at bay. At least the alcohol kept the stars muted and he nearly sobbed with relief as he sat on the steps to watch a peaceful world. The day was saved today, he had earned a drink. The team was in one piece and no one wanted him dead probably and his heart wasn’t trying to kill him for now and Steve maybe didn’t hate him and and and. He looked down the bottle of the dark bottle. If he reached the end of it, he reasoned, the small, desperate voice in the back of his mind calling out for Steve would be muted too.

“Shellhead,” The nickname was nearly a year old now, yet too new to do anything but hurt to hear. “What are you doing out here? I heard you calling my name, is everything –” Oh, was Tony’s small desperate thoughts actually coming out of his mouth? How could he slip up like this and how could be so pathetic and he was better than this and Stark men are made of iron and and and.

The sound of the porch door creaking was somehow louder than the voice speaking right behind him. Alcohol never muted things in the right order anymore. At least the stars were quiet. “I thought you quit.” Though Steve’s voice was soft, almost small, those words were loud and clear.

“So did I.” Tony replied, resting his head against the wood column keeping the roof above the porch. He could already hear Steve open his mouth to start a lecture. Was this how they break up? Relationship barely restarted and he’s ruined it in two months. He knew everyone got sick of him eventually, and he has known Steve for years, but he had hoped being romantic with him would have lasted a little longer.

Instead, Steve’s mouth shut with an audible click and he sat next to Tony on the old porch. “You okay?”

Tony didn’t say anything for a while. The question had started as unanswerable and the silence became too vast and Steve was too warm, soft in disposition despite or perhaps because of the hard muscles, and Tony couldn’t make his eyes focus anymore and the stars were getting loud again and and and.

“I don’t get asked that question a lot.”

“Okay.”

So kind and good, Steve had to be an impossibility. He doesn’t push for a real answer. More silence follows and it could have been peaceful but Tony couldn’t take it anymore. He let the bottle of Jack Daniels rest at his feet and let his hands wrap around Steve’s waist. His face pressed into that too tight cotton shirt and it felt perfect. Warm and safe and smelled of beach wood and too good and and and.

“Let’s go inside, okay? Clint saved a bedroom just for us.”

“I hate this farm.” Tony said into the shirt. Steve huffed, but Tony could hear his smile.

“It has some bad memories, yeah.” Steve lifted him like he weighted nothing. Each step towards the door was smooth. “But the point of this party was to make some good ones. Because we have new good memories now, right?”

Tony nodded, too many emotions occupying his brain to let him form words.

“Right. So you and I are going to go to bed and tomorrow morning the stars will be gone.” He takes the stairs one at a time. He didn’t have to, but it was smoother this way.

“How’d you know about the stars?”

Steve gave a little laugh. He almost sounded embarrassed. “The constellations were reflected in your eyes before I sat down with you. I know they hurt you, but god, they do make a beautiful picture on you.”

“Oh.” Tony was surprisingly okay with that. “Draw me.” He rubbed his face against the cotton fabric again and Steve laughed more genuinely.

“Tomorrow. We’ll have sunshine and Bruce is barbequing and Rhodey said something about baseball. It’ll be fun. You’ll be okay.”

“Thank you.” It took a lot of energy, but Tony pulled himself up to give Steve a kiss. He had been aiming for his mouth, just something chaste, but missed and only caught the edge of his lips. Steve laid Tony down on the bed, kissing him proper in return. He got in on the other side, pulling up the sheets and curling around his boyfriend.

“We’re okay, Tony. We’re all okay.”

#capimtrb2017 #avengers #stony #steve/tony #post civil war #civil war fix it i guess #the barton farm #alcohol #anxiety #stars and partying #noise sensitivity #steve rogers #tony stark #round 2

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monstersandmaw · 6 years

Text

Male uruk hai x reader (sfw) - Part Two

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

So this is long overdue (I meant to release this in time for Orctober, but life had other ideas...), but I finally got round to editing all 4056 words of it! This boy is a bit different from my other orcs before. He's a bit rough around the edges, and has had a harsh, violent life, and his clan is not kind. There's some violence and fighting in this, and some injuries, but not excessive descriptions of gore, I don't think, and no harm to the reader.

I'm really pleased with how this one turned out, and, as ever, it previewed over on my Patreon for my wonderful Pixies and Goblins. Now it’s Tumblr’s turn! I really hope you enjoy it, and yes, there will be a Part Three. I now have plans for this boy and his reader...

Part One

You awoke in the Uruk camp to the sounds of pots clanking, boots tramping, training swords ringing, and the general murmur and hubbub of life in a raiding party. A goat bleated mournfully somewhere, and the harsh wind that swept across the high, barren plateau made the tent canvases snap and crack.

It was truly desolate, and, feeling utterly miserable, you sank further down into your furs and blankets, praying they’d forget about you so that you wouldn’t have to go out into the chilly air just yet. The furs behind you were pungent enough that you wrinkled your nose, and as you shuffled, you realised that the warg was still curled up beside you. She hadn’t moved all night, and, despite the smell, there was something rather sweet about that.

Dawn flashed through the tent flaps as someone entered, and you scowled and turned your face away from the brilliant, harsh light of the Barren Lands as it seared briefly across your face. The warg didn’t budge an inch as you tried to roll over and subsequently couldn’t. At the sudden blast of daylight, she too growled and shifted her head on top of your legs with a soft huff of complaint.

A rough chuckling made you both look up, blinking, and you saw Mauhír towering over you, a wooden bowl in his hands. “Sleep?” he asked gruffly, and you nodded.

“I can’t sit up,” you smiled, feeling stiff and tender all over from the terrible journey to the encampment and the orcs’ rough treatment of you upon arrival.

He frowned, and then barked something in Uruk at the warg. She wagged her ragged, stumpy tail and promptly snuggled closer to you. At that, his face set into a fierce snarl, the effect accentuated by the vicious twist of his scarred lips and the blankness of his blind eye. He set down the bowl and grabbed the scruff of her neck, snarling into her face the same command again, but with a vitriol that took your breath away this time. If you’d thought that this Uruk was gentler than the others, you saw now that he had the power and temperament to match even the fiercest Uruk in the camp if need be.

The warg, however, simply pushed herself nonchalantly upright and shook out her coat with a little grunt of effort, as though the whole ordeal were really very taxing, and the Uruk was simply the most inconvenient imposition she could have imagined. Before she moved away, she lowered her head one more time and snuffed almost affectionately at your neck before wandering off, snapping her powerful jaws in Mauhír’s face as she left as a parting shot.

He growled low in his throat at her as she passed, but made no other comment.

“Aren’t you afraid of them?” you whispered, honestly awestruck at the exchange between the two. “How can you stand up against that?”

“I must,” he said awkwardly, “She can eat me. She have to know… I lead. She obey.”

You shuddered.

“Don’t… afraid. Not me,” he said, shoulders dropping slightly. The effect of that one small shift softened his whole demeanour. “Here,” he murmured, and dropped to a crouch to nudge the bowl of some kind of gloopy looking, grain-based porridge, with indeterminate lumps and chunks folded into it, towards you with his scarred knuckle.

“Mmm,” you said sarcastically as you eyed the viscous sludge and felt your stomach churn ominously. “Looks… delicious.”

“Strong,” he said, startling you by taking your face in one rough, dirty hand and tilting it upwards by the chin. He felt the shock of fear go through you, but he didn’t release you. “Need strong,” he said, jabbing a finger into your bicep for extra emphasis.

“Strength,” you corrected angrily, lurching your face out of his grasp in a weak display of rebellion. “I need my strength, you mean.”

He cocked his head slightly at that. “You need…” he tried to complete the phrase but his knowledge of Common grammar failed him, and he snarled, hiding his face from you as he turned away in shame.

“‘You need your strength’,” you clarified, speaking a little more gently this time. “That’s what you meant to say, isn’t it?”

“Not speak your… words,” he growled, frustration darkening his features.

“I could teach you,” you found yourself saying. “If you want.”

He looked back at you, surprised at that, but shook his head again. “Not need.” Mauhír then abruptly stood and walked straight out of the tent without a backward glance. Once outside, an earsplitting whistle rent the air, and the warg growled and heaved herself reluctantly to her feet, grumbling to herself all the while. She was his beast then, you surmised.

Your first week with the Uruks was honestly awful.

You were set to waiting on them at meal times, and each time you passed around the circle of seated Uruks around the campfire, males and females alike grabbed for you, leered at you, and put their filthy hands on you, laughing when you flinched in disgust. Mauhír never touched you, nor did he try and speak to you again. In fact, for a solid week, he ignored you completely. Only the warg seemed to acknowledge you as another living being, sleeping every night by your side. The heat, if not the smell, was a great comfort, and you came to realise that she was a highly intelligent predator, and had a startling degree of empathy towards you. The fact that she sassed Mauhír in every way she possibly could was also hugely gratifying to watch, though you could tell she had an affection and grudging respect for the Uruk.

The orcs largely kept you separated from the humans from your village, but the baker’s daughter, who had been helping prepare the food, grabbed your arm one evening and fell, sobbing, into your embrace. You’d finished clearing away the used platters from the orcs’ supper, and you and she had been scrubbing them clean in the tiny, freezing brook that ran across the plains in a shallow, rocky bed. Behind you the lights of the camp flickered, the thin light of the torches wavering and dancing in the night breezes, and the sound of drunken laughter rose from the bonfire at the heart of the camp behind the crude palisade walls.

“I can’t bear this any longer,” Erica wailed, her cheek pressed against your chest. “I’ve heard nothing about the others! I don’t know what happened to them! I… I can’t…”

Her father and brother had been among those sent away as tribute to the other Uruk clan, and this was the first time she - or you for that matter - had truly been alone. “You must bear it,” you urged. “You must be strong. We’ll find a way to escape, I promise. Just stay strong.”

A heavy footfall in the dry grass behind you made you stiffen, and she yelped in horror as a harsh, female voice laughed, “What’s this? If you two want to fuck each other, you’ll have to do it in front of everyone. Slaves are for entertainment after all!”

You turned and your heart plummeted as you saw that it was Mauhír’s sister, Okash. She stood in her usual tight, tattered leathers, with a long, dirty looking knife hanging in its sheath from a hook on her belt.

Something hot and defensive bubbled up inside you, and you snarled at her, putting Erica behind your back to shield her. “Are you so heartless?” you sneered. “Are you so cold and cruel that you can’t see when someone’s hurting?”

“Oh I can practically smell the hurt on her, human!” she cackled, taking a step forwards. “And sex is a great way to forget hurt. Come on, shall I show you how it’s done? I could start with you…”

“Don’t touch me,” you hissed fiercely, standing your ground. “Don’t you dare touch me. Or her.”

“I like you,” she crooned, obviously finding that spark of defiance attractive in you. “Oh I like you. I see why my brother is so taken with you.”

As if called by the very mention of him, Mauhír’s figure appeared out of the deepening dusk behind her. He growled something in Uruk speech, and she laughed.

“Leave them both be?” she mocked in Common, turning and balling up her fists. “How about I fight you for them, dear brother?” she said still speaking Common, obviously knowing he had difficulty understanding it, if not quite as much as speaking it. “How about I carve your other eye out? Then you’ll need a little human to help you get around, feed you, and dress you, like an old man who shames his clan and refuses to go out and die.”

Mauhír snapped.

He hurled himself at Okash with an orcish war cry that sent goosebumps shivering up your arm, and made Erica scream. Tackling his sister to the ground with another roar and punching her in the gut, Mauhír did not hold back. Okash, however, simply tensed her impressive abs and his fist practically ricocheted off. The fight grew uglier and nastier the longer it lasted. Mauhír, it seemed from Okash’s bellowed insults, hadn’t fought anyone in hand-to-hand combat in a long time, and she had clearly been hoping he was out of practice.

He was.

Mauhír took a pounding from his sister, but there was one moment when you thought Mauhír might just win. Or even kill her. He brought his elbow swinging across towards her face in a vicious attack, and at the moment of impact, you heard something crack. She screamed with shock and rage, reeling back and bringing her hand to her face. When she pulled it away, you saw that Mauhír had cracked off the larger of her twin tusks on the left side of her face. Blood ran down his forearm from the gash that the impact had made in his elbow, but he paid it no heed.

Her eyes flared red with rage, and as she went to draw the knife from its sheath, you screamed, “No!”

Before you could process the fact that you’d yelled inexplicably in his defence, the massive figure of Mauhír’s great warg leapt snarling into the fray and hauled Okash off her brother by wrapping her jaws around Okash’s throat, though she didn’t grip hard enough to puncture.

Mauhír’s face was puffed up and bloody, tender bruises already blossoming all over his cheeks and eye sockets, but he had left his mark on Okash in more ways than the broken tusk. She bore a split lip as well as her shattered tusk, and she gasped suddenly as she tried to twist out of the warg’s maw. Her ribs might be cracked, you realised from the way she clutched instinctively at them. She yelled and spat curses at Mauhír, and he eventually called off his warg with a grunted command, still lying on his back.

Okash stood carefully and spat first at him, and then at you and the terrified woman still standing mute behind you, and stormed back off the the camp to lick her wounds.

You and Erica stood there for a few seconds while the warg approached Mauhír and began to lick at his bloodied face. He was breathing erratically, and with some difficulty. Finally you took a step towards him, but Erica grabbed your wrist. “Leave him,” she hissed. “Leave him. He’s a mess. We can run. Okash won’t be back - she doesn’t care for him at all - and we can run!”

You looked at the barren, empty lands around you, and then back at Mauhír. He had one golden eye - barely able to open because of the swelling - fixed on you. He raised his hand and pointed due east. His finger trembled with the effort. “River,” he grunted. “Follow. Centaurs that way. Help you.”

You turned to Erica. “Go. Take this chance. You’ll never get another.”

“But what about you?” she asked, blue eyes wide with fear and awe.

You looked back at Mauhír lying beaten, broken, and bleeding in the grass. “I can’t. I can’t leave him. Not after what he did for us. I’ll stay and work out a way for the rest of us to join you. Go and warn the centaurs. Go!” you said, shoving her to get her moving.

She ran, and you crossed to Mauhír’s side.

Kneeling down in the grass beside him, you winced at the sight of his injuries.

“Leave,” he wheezed.

“I can’t leave you,” you said again. “You need to get those injuries treated.” The warg looked up at you with her reddish eyes and whined. “I know, girl,” you chuckled. “He’s an idiot, isn’t he?”

She nuzzled your cheek and then looked back at her master.

“Can you stand?” you asked.

He nodded gruffly and you slid your body under his arm as he pushed himself shakily to his feet. The warg came and stood on his other side and he leaned his weight against her as the three of you began your procession back to the camp. You weren’t stopped as you entered, but a few cheers went up from the fire, and Okash hurled an empty clay wine jar over at you.

Mauhír looked up just in time, and shoved you out of the way. You hit the dirt hard, sprawling and scuffing your palms on the rough ground with a sting that made you gasp, but the wine jar shattered at his feet, right where you’d been standing a moment before. He held his hand out to you, and you took it shakily. “Thanks,” you murmured, but he only looked away and let go of you.

Okash yelled another torrent of abuse at him in the Uruks’ guttural dialect until their father stood up and cuffed her around the head and told her off, much to the general amusement of the gathered Uruks around the fire. She stomped away towards the healer’s tent, presumably to get her cracked tusk filed down or something.

Not knowing quite what to do, you followed Mauhír into his father’s large tent and hung back as he staggered over to a large hammered iron basin in one corner and washed the blood off his hands and face.

“So…” you said, hanging back by the doorway. “Just how angry is your sister?”

He turned around, squinting to see you through the puffy skin around his remaining eye. He held his finger and thumb together in front of him, with a small gap between them. “Every day,” he said, and then he opened both arms as wide as he could, palms facing each other, creating a wide space between them this time, and said, “Now.”

You had to laugh, and you were relieved when he let out a winded chuckle too.

“Seriously, you didn’t have to hurt each other so badly,” you scolded, crossing over to him. The warg growled softly as you approached, and she moved to put herself between her wounded master and you, but you looked at her and clicked your tongue at her. “Tsk-tsk,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “Cut that out,” you snapped. “Remember I’m on your side here, girl, ok? You pretty much asked me to help him back there.” And to your immense surprise, she grumped once more, and lay down with her muzzle on her paws, the big ring in her nose glinting in the low light of the tent.

Mauhír was practically goggling at you when you turned back to him.

“What?” you asked. “That was rude…”

He just blinked.

You sighed. “You said it yourself, you know? ‘I lead. She obey’… right?”

“I lead,” he said, jabbing his thumb against his chest. “Not you.”

You smirked and said, “Sit down before you fall down, and let me take care of your wounds, alright? It’s the least I can do after you went to all that trouble to let Erica get away.”

“Slow…” he pleaded, frowning and gesturing with his hands. “You word so… fast… I… I not…” he tapped his temple.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” you said. “I’ve always been told I speak too quickly. Alright,” you added, placing your hand on his bare upper arm and steering him towards the furs where he usually slept. “Let me deal with your wounds, alright?”

He nodded reluctantly and sat down on a nearby pile of furs. The warg came over to join you, and he leaned his back to rest against the warg’s side, winded by the pain in his bruised chest.

“What’s her name?” you asked conversationally as you began to gather the things you’d need to clean his injuries up. None of them looked bad enough to need stitches, thank goodness, but a good clean cloth was hard to come by. When you eventually found some - a human-sized shirt that you dug up from a chest of random odds and ends in the corner of the tent - you came back to him and found he was asleep.

Smiling, you dabbed water on the wounds and he hissed, coming awake with a growl. His hand flashed and grabbed your throat, engulfing your windpipe with no effort at all, but the moment you cried out, he let you go looking horrified with himself. “Sorry,” he grunted. “I… I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright,” you croaked, rubbing your neck. “I probably shouldn’t have startled you like that.”

After a deep breath and a stern look at him, you leaned over him and took in the monstrous scarring across his face. The paler gashes of scar tissue began on his close-shaved scalp, well behind his gnarled stump of a left ear, down over his forehead, claiming his blind left eye and leaving it sitting like a moonstone amid a torn up gully of scars. The scarring continued down his purplish-brown cheek in deep, angry, puckered crevices until it reached his lips. It curled his upper left lip up into a constant snarl, and proceeded down around his tusks to his lower lip and chin.

“How did you come by all these?” you asked in a whisper as you dabbed the blood from the puffy wound above his other eye. To illustrate your point, you trailed your fingertips down the ragged lines on his face.

His gaze went to the warg beside him. “She…”

You nearly dropped the sodden and now pink rag in shock. “The warg?”

He nodded. “She in cage. When we take warg… they… small…” he said, bringing his hands together.

“Puppies? You take a warg when they’re young?”

He nodded. “But I find her big… she…” he growled melodramatically to illustrate her anger, and you nodded, supplying a few words for him. “Yes, she ‘angry’. I want… free her… She… She fight.”

“I can’t believe it…” you breathed, fingertips still dancing along the massive scars. “You must have lost so much blood…”

“Dead,” he said, holding up his finger and thumb again to indicate that he was that close from death.

“You almost died,” you asked, and he twitched his head in affirmation. “You’re so brave,” you smiled. “And really kind of stupid too.”

He growled softly at that, and brought his hand up to encircle your wrist in his massive hand. It was rough and cool, but he was breathtakingly gentle with you this time. “Show me… speak…” he pointed at your chest with his free hand, “Words…”

“You want me to teach you Common?” you asked, and he nodded. “I thought you said you didn’t need to?”

He dropped his gaze and let go of your wrist.

The humility in his gesture made you relent immediately. “Alright,” you smiled. “But only if you take better care of yourself.”

He grinned lopsidedly at that. “How…?” he began, holding both his hands over his chest and looking utterly lost for words. Again. “You do this for me… How I…?”

“Thank you,” you said. “When someone does something nice for you, you say ‘thank you’.”

“Thank you,” he said stiffly, and you smiled.

“You know?” you said, drawing back a moment and regarding him playfully, “Maybe you’re not so scary after all.”

His wonky smile broadened even further. “Good,” he said. “For you, only.”

You had to laugh. “Alright. But I’m curious. Tell me something?”

He cocked his head to one side.

Gods, he looked battered, with his eye all puffy and his face all bruised, but he was sweet nonetheless, underneath all his fierceness. You suspected that life had made him that way; forced him to wear that fragile outer layer of tough armour, and that underneath it, he didn’t want this life at all, that he was a gentle soul. That realisation suddenly hurt you deeply.

Swallowing thickly, you asked, “What’s your warg’s name?”

He glanced down at her and murmured, “Avhundas. I call her Avhundas.”

“What does it mean?” you asked as the warg’s ragged, ring-studded ear twitched at the sound of her name.

Mauhír growled thoughtfully. “When wet…” he said, pointing at the ceiling, “Boom!” and he mimed rain falling.

“Thunder? The loud crash you get in a storm?”

“Yes…” he said.

“Fitting,” you commented, casting the currently-quiescent warg a look. “If the sound of that growl is anything to go by.”

That night he lay down on his furs early, clearly still hurting, and you headed to your usual corner of the tent by the door. Okash came in much later, drunk, and staggered over to you. Their father had come in as well, a little while before, and he had woken Mauhír up. The two had had another blazing row in their harsh, Uruk dialect, but he had left his son alone since then. Okash, however, was just about to make a grab for you, when Avhundas let out a deep, slow, languid growl from the shadows beside you, and Okash thought better of it.

She looked up and saw Mauhír watching, and she had been on the verge of saying something when Mauhír spoke. He used the Common Speech, which surprised you, but you soon saw that it was as much for your benefit as hers as he said, “That human… is mine. You… not have, Okash.”

Okash threw back her head and laughed bitterly. Her blunt, filed-off tusk looked odd now, and she made what was presumably an obscenely crude, sexual gesture at her brother, turned on the spot, and lurched back out of the tent.

You were shaking, as much with relief as with fear, when Mauhír stood painfully and crossed the tent to you. “Alright?” he asked gruffly, and you smiled.

When he saw the expression on your face, he relaxed.

“Thank you,” you said, and he gave you one of his lopsided smiles. “Mauhír?” you said as he made to turn away.

“Yes?”

Tears sparkled in your eyes and you felt your lips tremble. He crouched down by your side immediately with a quiet grunt of stifled pain.

“What?” he pressed, cupping your cheek in his big hand. “Hurt?”

You shook your head. “I don’t want to be alone. Not tonight…”

He smiled and stood, holding out his hand. “Come,” he said, drawing you to your feet and leading you towards his pile of furs and blankets. Avhundas wagged her ragged tail as you passed, but offered no further judgement.

From the curtained-off section at the other end of the tent, his father was snoring soundly, and Mauhír laid you down gently on the soft furs before drawing a blanket over you. “I stay?” he asked gingerly, and you nodded.

“Please…”

He lay down beside you, the warmth of his body rolling off him in waves, and you snuggled up with your back pressed tightly against his side. Tentatively, hesitantly, almost nervously, he laid his heavy arm over your waist and drew you tightly against him. “Safe now,” he murmured, nuzzling against your neck. “Safe.”

“Thank you,” you said again, letting the exhaustion which had been building up in you all day wash over you and claim you.

You’d not slept that well since your last night in your own bed, before the raiding party had come and turned your world upside down. At least, for now, you were protected and sheltered.

Part Three (v light nsfw)

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#uruk hai #male orc #orc #sfw #male orc x reader #gender neutral reader #warg #exophilia #monster story #monster writing #monsters #sfw monster story

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concussed-to-pieces · 7 years

Text

The Empire

Fandom: WWE

Pairing: Baron Corbin/Roman Reigns

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Thirst Party Crew, welcome aboard! It's my birthday today, so I got a little (a lot) indulgent. We return to Suplex City! Tagging @tox-moxley, @oraclegazes, @hardcorewwetrash and a huge Thank You to @culturalrebel for their fantastic input! Enjoy!

The Brogue Kick Saloon

“The Shield!” Seth had said excitedly, of course he was excited. His daddy's money knew no end. He was one of the lucky ones, having been scooped up from an orphanage early on and groomed for greatness. “We'll dispense justice and shit like that, it'll be totally badass!”

Who wouldn't have been on board with that idea? Every kid dreamed about being a superhero, about wearing Kevlar and being so goddamn special that nothing could touch you. And in this city, the idea of being a deliverer of justice that wasn't as corrupt as the day was long was tantalizing all on its own.

The Shield.

It was perfect for a while. Roman felt like they were actually helping, the grateful looks on the faces of people they assisted more than enough for a couple of former gutter kids like he and Ambrose. They may not have superpowers, sure, but hard fists, quick kicks and Dean's motor-mouth were more than enough for them to deal with numerous Acolytes, so many members of the Family.

Seth wanted more though, not content with the offerings of thank-yous. He began calling for more aggressive patrols, more thorough sweeps. He wanted attention. Dean was ready for that, obviously, born and bred to fight was Dean Ambrose. Roman was the most cautious of the three of them and the idea of looking for trouble instead of just trying to prevent it made him uneasy.

Rollins was the first one to get hurt, of course. An Acolyte caught him across the back of his knee with a knife and he'd panicked, thrashing and making the wound a thousand times worse before Roman could knock the guy out. Old Mick Foley (who lived at the soup kitchen) had hollered at them from his doorstep, ushering the three men into his dingy quarters behind the kitchen.

“I see you boys out there almost every night, doing a real good job of keeping folks safe.” He'd said kindly as he patched up Seth's leg with tiny, expertly-placed stitches. “Just make sure you don't bite off more than you can chew, okay?” Roman implored Seth with his eyes to just shut the fuck up and be polite for once in your life, Rollins as Ambrose cracked his skull against Mick's in a fond gesture. Dean had always had an odd kinship with the mysterious older man, Mick returning the forehead bash after a moment. “Ambrose, I should have known it was you under that mask. God only knows who you other guys are, but you're making me proud keeping the Acolytes and Wyatts humble. It's dangerous work.”

Mick said things sometimes, back when Dean and Roman were nothing but scrappy teenagers picking up a hot meal at the soup kitchen. Things that got Roman thinking. One time Mick was just rattling on about the Underground, like how he had firsthand experience in dealing with the Deadman (yeah yeah, sure, crazy old Mick) and Roman had watched as Mick tugged his shaggy hair to the side for the first time and started nervously fidgeting with where his right ear had been. Roman also heard things on the streets and in the shelters. Things like that the fearsome creature Mankind was missing an ear and had lost it in a brutal brawl when another almost mythological level individual, Big Van Vader, had gone toe-to-toe with the maniac man of the Underground.

Roman never asked, but if he viewed Mick with a little more wary respect...well, it was probably for the best anyway, the guy fed a lot of people with his soup kitchen. A soup kitchen rumored to be kept afloat with warring donations from Seth's adoptive father Mr. Helmsley and the shadowy Undertaker, but one couldn't be too picky in the City That Showed No Mercy.

Seth's recovery period was longer than he would have liked. Roman figured that with the self-proclaimed brains of their outfit laid up, maybe they should tuck away their capes. At least for the time being. Dean kept his ears open for trouble but followed Roman's lead of laying low.

Reigns was eternally grateful for the shrewd business mind he had inherited from his long-gone father, investments of every penny tidily made years in advance for when he would be grown and wanting a little more out of life than a tiny apartment. The purchase of the old Kliq night club was a strategic move. The strip it was on was bustling by all accounts, properties being scooped up by the Triple H Corporation like hot cakes.

The club wasn't much to look at, bearing the same worn appearance as most of the battered buildings in Suplex City. But Roman knew deep down that with time and care, it could shine again. It had been a real hotspot back in its heyday. Roman could just barely remember how fancy the gold gilding and red paint used to be; the place had closed down when he was around eleven years old. Bankruptcy had a way of striking in the city when you least expected it, he guessed, especially if you weren’t paying attention.

His paint swatches and floor plans were put on the back burner when Seth made his triumphant solo return, exposing a coven of Family members that had been ritually torturing numerous members of the abundant homeless population. Dean was just happy to have an excuse to lace his ass kicking boots back up. Roman privately thought that something was wrong with Rollins. If he'd been aggressive before, now he was a goddamn man possessed. Always on the move, swinging from the rooftops dusk to dawn in shiny new gear with Dean and Roman trailing further and further behind. The time off had been hard on him, Roman supposed.

Seth should have known better than to try and fuck with the Family so boldly. Being the adopted heir of the Triple H Corporation had always come with boundaries that shouldn’t be crossed, for his own health. Rollins always griped about the ‘leash’ Stephanie and Hunter kept him on. But as much as he hated it, as much as he railed against it, it was still a leash that kept him safe. He didn’t seem to understand that Roman and Dean didn't have such luxurious ties, and one night Dean didn't show up.

The amount of sleep and blood Roman lost searching for Dean almost did him in; he woke up at Mick's battered and frantic and the older man had shoved him to lay back down. “We need to find Ambrose!” Roman's hand pressed to his poorly-bandaged ribs. He hadn't had time to stop when one of the Family came at him with their lantern, glass, metal and oil shattering across his side with a loud, hot explosion. He'd just torn his patchy velcro apart, mopped at the blood and clumsily pulled a chunk of his undershirt over the wounded area, zipped back up and kept moving forward through the dark. He didn't even remember it hurting, too scared and furious to care.

Mick gave him a sad look and Roman's throat closed up. No, no, please--

The older man had refrained from speaking while he helped clean Roman's side. “I can guess where Dean is.” He said finally. Roman's heart sank as Mick started rubbing over his ear.

Roman took the brunt of the beatings for their little Underground excursions ever since they’d lost Dean and the song and dance got a bit fucking tiring. Rollins didn't even seem to care that Dean was gone, too interested in his own game of superhero to bother looking for clues whenever they ventured below the streets of the city. Roman always returned with a few more tunnels mapped, a few more ways to figure out the labyrinth and a few more bruises, but Seth couldn’t seem to be fucked beyond the first couple feet of whichever manhole cover they’d disrupted.

Brief hope came in the screaming, barely human individual that Owens Powerbombed into unconsciousness in the alley behind the Brogue Kick Saloon. He was thin, so thin, reddish-blond hair sparsely peppering his body and covering his face. In his first brief moments of clarity, he would cry and tell them his name was Zayn, that he'd come here looking for a better life but he'd gotten so lost.

Kevin Owens was much more patient than he'd let on, and apparently a huge softie when it came to strawberry blond guys who could use some meat on their bones.

Sami Zayn, the fabled Underdog Of The Underground (and didn't that throw Roman for a loop that this scrawny guy was the Underdog), slowly regained most of his humanity, able to have halting conversations with Roman and Kevin about what had happened to him. He offered no insight on Dean, but he painted a picture of the Underground that was startlingly different from what everyone had thought.

“They fight for sport down there. The whole place is like a gladiator pit. They fight for Him.” Sami spoke slowly, so slowly. “Even if they think they're free to do as they please, everyone fights for Him.” His hands shook. “The Demon Balor, Viper, Beast, Empress. Owned by the Family, but they're all His.” The Deadman's grip was apparently absolute, and heaven help you if you fell out of his good graces.

...

Roman had gone to Hustle as a last resort and his desperation almost did him in. The hunt for Ambrose was ended by The Beast's fists and The Viper's deadly strikes.

When exactly Dean had resurfaced, Roman wasn’t sure. He still remembered the call he got from the frantic O’Shaunessy in the wee hours of the morning, the debilitating guilt that he felt because he’d traded Dean’s life for his own. Heyman drove a hard bargain.

“I know ya’ ran t’gether, I need ya’ to calm his arse down.” Sheamus sounded distraught, the unfamiliar accent thick over the phone. “I dinnae wanna’ bother ya’, Reigns, but he’s in a damn bind here hollerin’ abou’ ye an’ Rollins. Rollins dinnae answer.”

Ambrose was halfway out of his mind but he still recognized Roman, though not how Reigns or O’Shaunessy wanted. Dean was furious, screaming brokenly at the large man who was all but frozen in the doorway, “you didn’t help! You left me down there to fucking die!” Ambrose flew into a frothing rage at the sight of Roman and Sheamus only barely managed to snag him around the waist before he was snapping his teeth in Reigns’ face. “You and Rollins, you fucking piece of shit! I expected it from the rich boy, but not you, we were brothers, dammit!”

Sheamus didn’t know what had happened between them, and he didn’t need to. Once the large redhead had Dean essentially restrained Roman took a cautious step forward and cupped Ambrose’s face. Dean’s teeth clicked together as he tried to bite Roman’s fingers but Roman ignored the attempt, pressing his forehead to Dean’s. Like he used to do before, when Rollins was tearing off ahead of them and Dean was still trying to catch his breath.

“Ambrose, Christ.”

Dean stopped struggling for a second. Jerked around and then paused again, eyes half-closed while Roman murmured to him. “I c-can’t…Ro, please, m’sorry, make it stop…” He groaned.

“No Ambrose, you’re right. You’re right. I gave up. I failed you. I didn’t think I would ever see you again. Rollins…I don’t know what happened.” Roman shook his head. “It was like he didn’t even give a shit. I went down alone so many times, followed so many leads. I even went to Heyman, but I couldn’t…I’m so sorry, Dean.”

“R-Roman…” Dean had never said his name like that, almost a sob. Sheamus relaxed his grip a fraction and then Dean was lunging, yelling nonsense words and clawing at Roman wildly.

Roman hated the sympathy in Sheamus’ eyes when he’d left once Dean had cried himself out, the hand that the red-haired man rested on his shoulder feeling too heavy. But he hated himself far more. Dean was right, he had abandoned him to the bloodbath of the Underground. Sure, they could blame Rollins until the cows came home, but the fact of the matter was that Reigns had given up. His life had been threatened and he’d bitched out. He could have done more. He should have tried harder, pushed further, taken more abuse.

Maybe he could have saved his brother.

…

The years went by and The Empire opened to the public, Kevin proposing to Sami in a shocking moment right after Roman had cut the stereotypical ribbon. Sheamus had toasted the soon-to-be-married couple with Ambrose’s hand in his own. Roman was intensely grateful for Sheamus’ dedication to Dean, feeling the guilt in his chest ease off a little every time he saw Dean smile up at the redhead.

He and Ambrose never made up officially. But one night when Roman had visited the Saloon to warn them that the Acolytes had started moving more aggressively, Dean dragged him in for a quick headbutt at the door. That was it, but Roman decided it was far more than he deserved. Ambrose didn’t have to know about what he had done. Shit, Owens and Zayn were the only ones who knew the full story and they weren't exactly a talkative duo. Roman didn’t think he would be able to handle Dean being that infuriated with him again, “you didn’t help! You left me down there to fucking die!” so he kept it to himself.

Rollins stopped communicating with him altogether. Probably for the best, he and Roman had an ugly falling out over Dean and Roman had come scarily close to strangling his former brother.

“He’s always been a few sandwiches short of a fucking picnic, man. We’re better off without him. Stronger. Smarter.”

Roman couldn’t recall ever wanting to hurt someone more than he had at that moment. But he managed to keep himself under control (if only just), tossing Seth out on his ass with a stern, “don’t come back unless you’re in serious trouble, got it?”

Ever the strong, brave brother was Roman Reigns, one more thing on his shoulders.

...

Baron Corbin came roaring into the City That Showed No Mercy as the weather grew colder with all the subtlety of a brick through the front window of Royal Arrangements (and whoever had decided that was a good idea sincerely needed their head checked, the last thing any sane person would want was one of Regal's boys after them. Especially Pete!).

He was a big man with a bigger bike, tattoos that would make The Viper jealous and a rumored mean streak that ran deeper than the Underground. The fact that he arrived on a Friday (and Friday the thirteenth, no less) meant Roman wasn’t exactly able to devote any sort of attention to the fact that there was a new person in town.

He did not expect the application slipped under the front door of the club sometime early Monday morning, reading and rereading the neat, slightly-cramped handwriting as he drank his coffee. Prior experience looking/being threatening. Can't dance worth a damn but willing to learn if necessary. He chuckled a little bit at the idea of that guy tangling with the likes of Colin or Jericho on the stage. Just learning how flexible Big Colin Cassady was had surprised him, so it was an entertaining prospect. But no, he had more than enough talent on his hands at the moment what with people jumping ship from Hustle, and even a few office-workers-turned-dancers from when Del Rio Import And Export closed down.

Could use another guy for the door, at least until the spring. He mused to himself. That way Kevin can have another day off. Be with Sami in the mornings. Normally on Kevin’s days off Roman pulled door duty, and then on Sami’s days off Roman tended the bar. Having an extra body would let him get more paperwork done. Plus, if the guy had any sort of decent personality maybe he could offer him bar hours.

Baron was soft-spoken for being as large as he was. He didn’t twiddle his fingers or cross his arms, instead sitting as straight as possible in the chair across from Roman while he conducted the interview. For all intents and purposes he seemed like a shoe-in for the job, level-headed and able to take orders if he needed to.

“Sign here and you’re an official member of The Empire staff.” Roman watched as Baron’s face lit up and he felt…something in his chest loosen the tiniest bit.

…

Kevin got along with Baron as well as Kevin got along with anyone, which was to say that Baron stayed out of Kevin’s way and Kevin hadn’t tried to eat him alive yet. Sami was still a little wary of people who weren’t Roman or Kevin, so Reigns didn’t expect much in the friendship department from him.

Baron was strangely respectful of all the talent Roman employed, both the regulars like Cass and Jericho as well as the part-timers like Perkins, Dawson and Dash. His answer when Roman quizzed him on it offered a little more insight on the quiet man.

“My mom used to do this. The dancing. She loved it, loved the attention. You always hear stories about people who get forced into this field as a last resort.” Baron stared down at his own hands. “It was the only thing she wanted to do, though. She said it made her feel powerful, bein’ up on the stage with guys all over her.” He gestured at the stage, where Big Cass and Roman's MC, Enzo, were running through their routine before the place opened for the night. “You aren’t forcing anyone to be here, man. Nobody’s beholden to you or any of that bullshit and everyone knows not to touch. It’s…refreshing.”

Roman shook his head, leaning back in his chair. The revenue paperwork could wait a minute or two. “I never wanted this place to be like that. I couldn’t handle that prostitution cover kind of club. People want that, they can go to Heyman’s place.” He knew he sounded more bitter than he ought to. “Folks come here when they’ve had a bad day. Folks go to Hustle when they want to forget who they fucking are.”

“Good on you, man.” Baron seemed wistful, tacking on a, “Wish my mom had worked here.” Roman knew that tone of voice. But Baron didn’t continue like most people would have. Instead he just got to his feet, straightening out his vest silently.

Roman could take a hint, returning to his paperwork. The numbers swam in front of his eyes though. Why the hell had he badmouthed another establishment in front of an employee? That was juvenile shit, regardless of how justified it was. Roman groaned, rubbing his eyes and putting his forehead on the table. Just for a second...

He should have known that working at Hustle was a bad fucking move. The place was crawling with the Family and Acolytes, all throwing their money away on the different fighting pits or the strippers and the outrageously-priced drinks. But he was out of options and the pay they promised was excellent. Not to mention the fact that everyone knew Paul Heyman had dealings with every seedy character in the entire Suplex City underbelly. If there was going to be someone who knew about Dean, it would be Heyman. Roman figured working there would enable him to finish financing his own dream, as well as give him the best chance he had at someone who could help him find Dean.

Because of his intricate tattoo he was packaged as an ‘exotic attraction’, rare and expensive. He thanked his lucky stars that when he, Ambrose and Rollins were The Shield they'd had the foresight to cover up, since his arm piece was a dead goddamn giveaway. Roman remembered feeling disgusted with himself after the first night, his skin crawling every time someone approached his elaborate golden cage. The only thing that kept him from quitting on the spot was the promise of getting in good with Heyman. He had known what he was in for, but for some reason it seemed a hundred times worse when he was being leered at.

Roman didn’t have to strip. Shit, he didn’t even have to fight that often. He knew he should be thankful, he was a hell of a lot safer than the scrawnier guys like Kendrick or Swann because he didn't look like an easy win. Years of rooftop running and strict workout regiments from Rollins had finally done him some good. But being marketed as an ‘exotic’ never failed to rub him the wrong way. Heyman was (allegedly, according to Cena) a little disappointed when he found out Roman wasn’t going to snarl and pace in his cage like a fucking wild animal.

“He wants you to act like a savage, man.” John Cena wasn’t a person known to be cruel, but he could be…more blunt than was comfortable. Roman wanted to punch him more often than he didn’t.

Roman should have thrown in the towel right there, but he was stubborn. So goddamn stubborn. And then one morning, he got caught by Punk in Heyman’s office-

“Boss? Hey, Reigns.” Someone was shaking his shoulder and Roman jerked upright.

“What! What, what is it?” he asked blearily.

Baron’s laugh washed over him. “Stimulating stuff, huh? I walk off and you take a nap. Put down the work for a little while, Reigns. Give your brain a breather. Cass has a question for you anyhow.”

…

The night Roman noticed The Viper in the club, Kevin was off. And as much as Roman wanted to jump down Baron’s throat for letting the psychopath into his establishment, he had a sneaking suspicion that The Viper hadn’t come in through the front door.

Roman felt that old, familiar panic squeeze the air out of his lungs as he bolted for his office behind the bar. What do I do? He had hoped he would never see The Viper or The Beast ever again. He had stopped looking for Dean! He’d kept his end of the bargain! Why would Heyman do this to him? The Empire wasn’t big enough to threaten Hustle in the slightest, this didn’t make any sense!

And now that guy, The Viper, was in the middle of his club. Innocent people were fucking everywhere, it was like a playground for that maniac. It was going to be a bloodbath and Roman didn’t have the goddamn luxury of hiding in his office and waiting it out like the coward he was.

He had to do something.

Roman squared his shoulders, opened the door again. The first burst of music and lights was always disorienting and he closed his eyes, like he had a thousand times before.

“Boss?”

Reigns jumped about a foot as Baron stared down at him, looking a bit confused. “J-Jesus Baron, warn a guy huh? What’s up?” Roman finally stammered, trying to look around the larger man to keep tabs on The Viper.

“You alright, Reigns? Not looking so good. You sick or something?” Baron asked worriedly. Roman wanted to ponder the concern in the voice of the other man, but he finally caught sight of The Viper again and it was like time slowed to a halt for him. Everything faded away and Roman was left in darkness with The Viper once more…

“I didn’t expect that an employee of mine would stoop so low.”

Coming back to consciousness after CM had kneed him in the face and stomach a few times was terrifying. Roman had no idea where he was. It sure as hell wasn’t Hustle. His nose felt like it was broken.

Paul Heyman stood in front of him, his hands clasped behind his back. The smile on his face just made Roman even more nervous. “Snooping in my office, Reigns? Didn’t you learn anything from your stint as a play vigilante? Rollins was the only smart one in your bunch, I guess.”

Roman growled around the bandanna he’d been gagged with. Leave it to Heyman to lead him into some kind of trap. But shit, leave it to himself to walk into it like a bumbling idiot. An office left unlocked? With how paranoid Heyman was, that should have set bells and whistles off in Roman’s head.

Two people were prowling in the shadows of the room they were in. Roman kept on catching glimpses out of the corner of his eye. It might have been Punk. If he was lucky one of them would be Punk. Heavy footsteps and then light, skittering ones. Paul was still rattling on and Roman took the opportunity to slowly test the security of his bonds.

Either Heyman had Punk ready and waiting to knee him in the face again or they had severely underestimated Roman’s strength, because the ropes were already frayed.

It wasn’t CM in the room. The soft hiss was Roman’s first clue and his blood ran cold. The Viper.

“I brought a few people who you might remember. I know they remember you.” Paul’s chuckle was mirthless.

“I’m sorry. I have t-to--” Roman floundered, the panic setting in as he watched The Viper crane his head and scan the crowd bathed in flickering lights.

Baron followed his line of vision, eyes narrowing. “Who let him in here? He didn’t have an ID so I turned him away.” He growled, sounding annoyed.

“Him not having an ID is the least of our problems. Guy can drop a room full of people. We need to be care…ful.” Baron had headed off before Roman finished speaking, the tall man easily making his way through the mass of patrons. “Wait, Baron!” Roman yelled, his voice lost in the pulsing music. He had no choice but to hurry after him, managing to grab his arm before he was spotted by The Viper.

“What, boss?” Roman could hardly hear Baron, resorting to yanking him even closer.

“You can’t! This guy will fucking kill you, Baron!”

“He shouldn’t be in here! You obviously don’t want him in here, I didn’t let him in here, so he’s going to fucking leave!” Corbin roared.

“Will you think for a second?! This guy could seriously injure a lot of people if you upset him!” Roman refused to be intimidated, shouting right back. “Use your fucking head, Baron!”

“You want me to use my head, Reigns? Fine.” Baron ripped his arm free of Roman like it was nothing, Reigns left grabbing at air as Baron cleared the distance between himself and The Viper much too quickly. Corbin apparently caught The Viper off guard when he slammed his forehead into the other man’s, flooring him easily. “What’d I say at the door, asshole?!” Baron yelled.

Roman was flabbergasted. He’d never seen anyone get the upper hand on the damn snake and yet here was Baron, kicking the guy in the ribs. It has to be a trick.

…

“Talk, fuckstick.”

Roman had called Kevin in, apologizing over and over in a shaky voice when he answered the phone. Now, Owens loomed over the back of the chair they had tied The Viper to. The man with the scarred and shaved head looked incredibly uncomfortable. He was sweating bullets and kept wriggling in his bonds every couple of seconds. Clearly, being caught was not part of the plan tonight.

Corbin bared his teeth. “I said talk. You wanted in, you’re in. Better start talking, you piece of fucking garbage.”

The Viper cocked his head to the side, studying Baron. Roman flinched at the motion and a sick grin slowly spread across the snake's face. “He’s afraid of me…but you’re not.” His voice was soft. It always was. “Why? Is it because you don’t know any better?”

“I’ll ask the fucking questions, thank you.” Baron snarled. “Why are you fucking here? Start fucking talking before I start breaking your fingers.”

“You don’t scare me, Baronnnn.” The Viper hissed and Roman shuddered, his leg knocking into Baron’s. The taller man’s hand was abruptly on the back of Roman’s thigh, steadying the jitters of his body.

“That’s because you don’t fucking know better, Viperrrrr.” Baron mocked, giving Reigns’ leg one last pat before getting to his feet. “So I’m going to teach you to know better.”

The Viper narrowed his eyes, opening his mouth to retort and Corbin struck, wrenching his right index finger backwards with a quick, loud snap! The Viper yelled, sounding more pissed off than in pain as he thrashed.

“Nine to go.” Baron rumbled, his hand already moving to the next digit. “Want to try again?”

“Wait! Please, wait, I’m no good to Him broken, he’ll kill me!” The Viper begged.

“All the fucking better.” Owens commented dryly.

“Who fucking sent you?” Baron hovered over the other man’s fingers.

“It was the Family, the Family. They own me, they own everything. They wanted me to scout…H-Heyman said…” The Viper faltered as Roman’s whole body snapped to attention at the name. Reigns clenched his fists, feeling a cold sweat drench him.

Dammit.

“What about Heyman?” Owens pressed, shooting a worried look at Roman.

“He knows! Of course he knows, Roman knows everything about Heyman!” The snake sounded hysterical. “Why don’t you ask him? Ask the one in the golden cage. Ask him how well he took his beating, ask him how hard he cried when Punk broke his nose and the Beast busted his head open on the concrete and I ripped his back apart! Ask him, ask him!” Crazed laughter exploded out of the bound man. “Ask him about the friend he fucking abandoned to us, ask him about Ambrose! Ask him about how he tried and tried to find his brother, while Rollins played hero up on the rooftops far away from us! Oh yeah, Roman knows everything--!”

Kevin’s arm wrapped around The Viper’s neck, finally stopping his manic rambling. Reigns only realized he was trembling when Baron squeezed his hip, hard. He felt sick to his stomach. “Are we done here?” Kevin asked, sounding bored. Owens was always simmering, but in an eerily calm way. It was like he was constantly thinking, forever planning his next move. Even with his arm cutting off the other man's air Roman could almost hear the gears turning.

Baron’s mouth curved into an unpleasant smile. “I think law enforcement should handle you from here, Viper.” The Viper wheezed for breath with Owens' arm pressed into his throat, eyes wide in horror. “Boss, how long does it take our fine officers to get here? Five minutes? Three?”

“I-I’ll go call them now, usually about three?” Roman replied weakly.

Baron cracked his knuckles.

The music out in the club muffled any noise The Viper might have made before Officers Breeze and Fandango arrived on the scene. Roman couldn’t make himself go back into his office before they escorted the snake out, instead sitting at the bar and nursing a glass of water. Sami left him alone for the most part after bringing him his water, seeming to realize that something was very wrong. Roman felt numb, the beating he’d received at the hands of The Viper and The Beast years ago playing over and over in his mind like a shitty clip show.

Stupid him, believing Heyman when he’d said that would be it. He had thought he would be safe, he’d given his word that he wouldn’t ever return to the Underground and he’d stopped searching for Dean. He had cried and begged on that cold concrete floor at Heyman’s feet, pleaded just to know that Dean was alive even while The Beast battered his body with his fists. Roman didn’t care what The Viper did to him, what The Beast did to him as long as Ambrose was alive. Because if he knew for a fact that somewhere down there Dean was still fighting, there was no way in hell he’d stop trying to find him.

Paul hadn’t deigned to answer him, just standing there impassively with his hands clasped behind his back. Roman had finally shattered when The Viper had split his back open with the chair, resorting to pleading and bargaining for his own life before he finally lost consciousness. All the while his heart heavy with shame at how weak he was. He woke up in a gutter a block away from The Empire, a pink slip stapled to the remains of his shirt. Aside from it being his official notice of termination from Hustle, Paul had taken the time to carefully write in, “remember our agreement, Roman.”

William Regal was the one who helped Reigns stumble back to The Empire, the older man easily hefting him upright without so much as a ‘by your leave’. “Do I need to call the authorities?” He’d asked quietly, voice a little more clipped than usual. At Roman’s frantic head shake he’d sighed. “I must open up for the morning, but I’ll send young Tyler over to check on you. If you need anything, Reigns, let us know. You’re a good fellow. I hate to see you like this.” Roman remembered clinging to Regal, his eyes burning with tears that he couldn’t shed. What would William think if he knew that Roman had traded Dean’s life for his own? Some strong, brave brother he was, some fucking friend.

A hand latched onto his arm, startling Roman out of the looping nightmare, and then someone was hauling him off his barstool, almost knocking him over with the force of the motion. Roman raised his fists, milleseconds from swinging before he realized who it was that had moved him. “Christ, Baron.” The relief he felt was short-lived as he took in how ripshit the larger man looked.

“You wanna’ explain to me what the fuck is going on here, boss?” Corbin snapped. “Because I’m feeling like I might be the only one in the fucking dark!”

Roman scrubbed his hands over his face. “It’s nothing.” He said finally.

“Like hell it is!” Baron grabbed his arm hard, fingers digging into the tattooed skin. “You’re coming with me, and you’re telling me exactly what’s going on here. And if you don’t, I’m fucking gone!”

“I told you it’s nothing! Let me go!” Roman strained against Baron’s hold as the other man forcibly walked him to his office. Roman balked at the sight of the chair, the bits of rope still tied to it making him shudder.

“I’m warning you, Reigns.” Baron grunted. “You keep lying to me, I’ll zip the fuck up and head out.”

“I am the authority in this goddamn building, Corbin! I should fucking fire you for putting your hands on me, never mind the fact that you directly disobeyed an order!” Roman snarled back, struggling in Baron’s grip. All the other man did was cinch his arms tighter. “Let me go, dammit!”

“Listen to me. You were obviously scared stiff, so cut the tough guy bullshit. I don’t know what he did to make you scared.” Baron’s voice dropped even lower. “I wasn’t about to let him hurt you. Or anyone else, got it?”

Roman felt a little of the fight ooze out of him, his shoulders drooping. “I-I had to…I couldn't...” His voice failed him, dissolving into nothing.

Baron sighed heavily, Roman feeling the motion of his chest expanding against his back. “I don’t need to know. I get it, okay? It’s none of my fucking business anyways.” He said finally. “You’re safe. Your club is safe for the time being. I’m sorry I got carried away. The way you were acting made me nervous and I kind of just...lashed out.” Baron apologized, attempting to let Roman go.

But Reigns hugged his arms tightly, just for a second. “Thank you, Baron.” He swallowed thickly, not sure why he felt like he needed to cry all of a sudden.

Baron made a noise in his throat, one hand moving up to pat Roman on the top of his head like he was a small child. “Shh, you’re okay. Don’t fucking thank me for doing my job, man. I’m here to keep this place and everyone in it safe. Owens would have done exactly the same thing.” He paused for a second. “You can thank me by not firing me, and also maybe helping me figure out how that weirdo got in here, okay boss?”

“Fuck, my paperwork.” Roman groaned, knocking his head back against Baron's chest. He had expected Corbin to release him once he'd let go of his arms, but he was pleasantly surprised when the taller man didn't.

Baron rested his chin easily on Reigns' head, arms still tight around him. “Nope. We need to secure our perimeter, man. Keep your patrons safe. Owens can hold down the fort. He knows to get Jericho if he needs backup.”

“I can't just--”

“You can, and you will. We have a responsibility. The quicker we get this sorted out, the quicker we can get you back to your precious paperwork.”

The huge hand prints in the dust on the floor of the basement were more than enough to send Roman right back into a panic. The trapdoor. Once bolted and padlocked down securely, the wood and metal now laid in a tangled pile of scrap, with more prints around the gaping opening. At least The Beast hadn’t come any further than there.

“Fuck is this shit? Look at these marks.” Baron said, sounding almost excited. “You guys got Ninja Turtles in your sewers or something?”

“No, just fucking nightmares. We need to fix this. The sooner the better.” Roman replied, already making a list in his head of the things he would need. “Nakamura isn’t open this late, otherwise I’d just head over to Strong Style and grab a sheet of boilerplate. I should have known the lock wouldn’t be enough, fuck.”

“Well if you’ve got some scrap lumber around I can probably rig something up for the night.” Baron offered.

Roman scrubbed his hands over his face again. Christ, he was exhausted. “I need to get some coffee into me. You’ll probably need some too. I’ll have to stand watch down here for the night, make sure nothing-”

Baron waved him off. “Nah man, I think I can handle this. Coffee and power equipment are a hell of a combo, but I’ll make it work.”

…

Acolytes in his back room two days after The Beast was in his basement.

Roman felt like the universe might be against him and he’d had it up to here with the harassment, letting out his old Shield battle cry and tackling one of the robed figures. Roman put a little heart behind his attack and ended up launching himself and the Acolyte through the back door, rolling down the steps and crashing to a halt in the alley behind The Empire. The Acolyte flailed wildly beneath him as the other three scrambled after them and Roman bolted to his feet. He knew how they fought, knives and fists an often-lethal combination.

But they all took off running, fleeing the scene. Roman saw red. “Oh no you don’t, assholes!” He yelled, sprinting after them. It wasn’t hard to guess their destination, but seeing as how he’d given his word that he wouldn’t go to the Underground ever again Roman had to catch at least one of them if he wanted to get anything rectified.

He heard Sheamus’ booming voice right before he rounded the corner behind the Brogue Kick, the older man swearing in Gaelic. Roman skidded to a stop after he saw the Acolytes leap the fence at the far end of the alley, bending over and trying to catch his breath. “You guys see 'em go by? Christ.” He gasped out.

“Yeah Reigns, but they're probably halfway to the Casket by now. There was a group of 'em, you dumb shit. You know better than to try and take those guys on. Too many knives.” Dean scolded. A smaller individual sat next to Ambrose, busily stuffing their face full of colcannon. Roman felt like they might be one of the people that sometimes turned up behind The Empire begging for food.

“Motherfuckers were in my back room. They trashed the place. I lost my cool.” Roman shot Sheamus a pleading look as he fought to get his hair back out of his face. O'Shaunessy seemed concerned, glancing at Dean.

“I ain't kicked an ass in a while.” Dean mused, not appearing to notice the fourth member of their party slipping off the steps and back into the shadows of the alley. “I ain't been to the Casket since before the Underground, though. Probably shouldn't go back.”

Reigns felt guilty for even putting the idea in Ambrose's head when he saw the way Dean's whole body shivered momentarily, the way Sheamus quickly grabbed the other man's hand. “Ah, never mind guys. You're right, Dean. Bad move, trying to take on a group of them. Especially in territory they're familiar with.” Roman quickly backtracked.

“I agree with Reigns, Ambrose. S' no good.” Sheamus mouthed thank you to Roman as Dean slowly nodded. “I am sorry abou' the damage done, Reigns. We can help tidy up, if ya' need more hands?”

“It was only a couple of bottles, I should be okay. Thanks.” Roman winced. “I may have done more damage to the door throwing one of them out than four of them did getting in.” He bid them farewell and slowly made his way back to The Empire, fighting to get a handle on his temper for most of the walk. It was almost time to start getting ready for the night so he unlocked the front door and stepped inside. A loud voice met his ears and light streamed from the back room into the main area of the club.

“--fuck he is, Kevin it looks like a fucking bomb went off in here! I don’t know…the back door is all fucked up, I already checked the basement--“

Roman leaned against the doorway of the room, that odd feeling in his chest back as he watched Baron rant into the phone and pace. The stupidity of what he’d done finally caught up to him and Reigns cringed. He could be seriously injured or dead in a gutter somewhere for all anyone knew, one didn’t normally pursue Acolytes. He cleared his throat and Baron looked up, unceremoniously ending his call with a curt, “never mind, he’s here.”

“There were Acolytes.” Roman began, feeling like he might be in trouble. The door to the outside was hanging by one hinge, a few bottles broken on the floor. It looked like there had been a struggle, like someone had gotten dragged off. He hadn’t really thought about it, too upset with the idea of being fucked over for the second time in less than a week.

“You went after them by yourself?”

Oh yeah, he was definitely in trouble. Roman nodded slowly. Baron exhaled a long, irritated growl of breath. “How the hell have you lasted this long, man?”

“I just got so fucking pissed off. Wasn’t thinking straight but…I’m tired of being a fucking pushover, tired of being scared that some asshole is going to set his man-beasts on me.” Roman shrugged. He knew it sounded flippant and he was waiting for Baron to accuse him of lying again.

Baron shook his head after a minute, jerking on the bottom of his leather vest to straighten it out. “I…just wait for someone next time, boss. Damn near gave Owens a heart attack. We weren’t sure what happened to you. Think about how pissed off he or Zayn would be if you got fucking stabbed or some shit.” He said gruffly.

“What about you?” Roman didn’t know why the hell he’d even asked. The words hung awkwardly between them and he wished he could take them back.

Especially when Baron replied nonchalantly, “You’re the guy who signs my checks, obviously I’d be a little upset, boss.”

…

Thanksgiving Eve found most of the neighborhood at the Brogue Kick Saloon, playing pool and enjoying a cold drink with a piping hot bowl of colcannon or soup deej or. The gutter kid that Ambrose and Sheamus had taken in looked much healthier than the last time Roman had seen them, that was for sure. Their face wasn’t quite so pinched and they actually smiled up at Baron and Roman when the two men entered from the street with Big Cass in tow.

Roman found a lot of Sheamus’ advice invaluable when it came to The Empire. This was his first real business venture, after all, so any and all input he could get was good in his book.

Dean hauled him in to whack their foreheads together while Sheamus was occupied with pouring Regal’s lone glass of stout. “M’ proud of you, big bro.” Ambrose said quietly. “Doing fine over there. Your dad would be fuckin’ stoked if he could see you.”

Reigns hadn’t planned on hiding in the bathroom for damn near half an hour trying to get his emotions back under control, but life was strange that way. Every time he looked up and caught sight of himself in the mirror everything went to pieces inside him. He never knew his mother and his memories of his father faded with every passing day, but he and his father had the same eyes, the same laugh.

“Roman, my son Roman! Strong as he is brave, and brave as he is strong!” His father used to jokingly announce him when he came to his hospital room after school, laughing in between coughing fits when Roman would launch himself at the bed to hug him and rattle on about what he'd learned that day.

The mirror reminded Roman of everything he'd lost and he hated it, clenching his fists on either side of the sink as his whole body fought the urge to just curl up and cry for hours. He tried not to get into states like this. It was too dangerous, he had way too much at stake to be able to break down whenever shit got too heavy for brave, strong Roman fucking Reigns.

Sami was the one who ended up finding him, the bearded man not saying anything before he wrapped Roman in a hug. Reigns couldn’t help the pathetic heave of his shoulders as he cried, the way his fingers dug into Zayn’s shirt.

“Oh shit, is this a moment or…?” Baron’s voice interrupted Sami quietly murmuring to Roman. He sounded awkward. “I mean, I can leave if it is. My bad, guys, I’ll just-”

“Will you shut the fuck up and get over here, Christ.” Sami grumbled in annoyance. “He needs us, Baron.”

It was barely a second before another set of arms settled heavily around Roman’s waist, Corbin wiggling into the hug more than a little clumsily. “I don’t really do hugs.” Baron grunted. “What the fuck happened?”

“I dunno’. Walked in on him like this. He was gone for a little while, figured I’d find him.” Sami replied quietly over Reigns’ head. “Also Kevin is cheating at pool.”

“We were both cheating, you twit.” Owens snapped, making Roman flinch. When had Kevin gotten there?! “You guys better have a great explanation for why you’re having a grabass festival without me, especially with my damn husband.” A hand fondly rumpled Roman’s neatly-ponytailed hair. “Motherfucker.”

“Th-thank you, guys.” Roman finally croaked out. “You're so fucking good to me, shit.”

“We care about you, Roman.” Sami said gently. “You gave me a second chance at life, gave so many people security and peace of mind when Del Rio closed up shop. You even took in Styles when he jumped ship from Hustle, and that was dangerous considering you know as well as I do how much of a breadwinner he was for Heyman.”

“It's alright, man.” Owens' voice was much softer than Roman was used to. “You don't have to be the Big Dog all the time. You're allowed a day off.”

Roman just shook his head and hugged them all a little tighter.

…

Before Roman knew it the time had come to have their annual holiday celebration. He had offered The Empire as the location this year, their neighborhood revel getting a little too large in number for Sheamus's Saloon to contain.

He was kept busy running back and forth with Regal and Pete in tow as they discussed decorations for The Empire and took notes. Little sketches began to clutter Roman’s desk instead of his usual paperwork, how centerpieces should look and where the garlands would be. The Brogue Kick volunteered to take care of the food, and Sheamus had given Roman and Sami some great ideas for toddy add-ons (why hadn’t Roman thought of spiked cherries before?!).

With all the planning going on Roman didn’t have a spare second ever, so when a timid knock rapped against his office door early on the morning of the party he was perplexed. Trent and Pete weren’t due to come by until at least eight and it was barely six now. He opened the door, stifling a yawn as he did. “Oh! Baron, ‘sup?”

Corbin looked nervous, which might have woken Roman up a bit more if he hadn’t been so damn tired. “Reigns…boss, I uh…I mean, stop me if this is a little forward, but everyone's been working really hard and shit and I-I was wondering if there was any way I could maybe be more help? I mean, I don’t do much during the day except tinker with my bike, and there’s only so much tinkering to be done. I…I don’t feel like I’m farm--shit, earning my keep, y’know?”

Roman blinked up at him, confused. What the heck had he been about to say? Farming his keep? That shit didn't make sense even to Roman's exhausted mind. “You want to work more?”

“You have a lot of the other guys doing stuff during the day too, I just figured…”

“Sami and Owens have been my friends for a while, Corbin. I wouldn’t be able to stop them from helping me even if I wanted to.” Roman said wryly. “Styles thinks he has to get in my good graces or some shit, I think. Either that or he's got the hots for Jericho. Maybe both.”

Baron chuckled, seeming to relax somewhat. “Well, keep me in mind. I know Cass probably has the 'reaching high stuff' category covered, but if he needs a breather, I could be your guy, boss.”

After Roman dozed off on his pile of forms out in the main room for the third time and woke up with Pete's heavy, fur-lined jacket draped over his shoulders he finally decided that maybe...maybe the paperwork could wait until after the party. Regal's boys hardly needed supervision. Jericho was doing an excellent job of directing them, all the while leafing through Roman's sketches pinned to his worn-looking clipboard. AJ hovered by Chris's shoulder, offering input and beaming when Jericho praised him. Roman got the feeling that he may have his hands full when it came to those two, vaguely recalling that Styles had been a bit of a pain in the ass during his time at Hustle.

Sheamus had Ambrose and their gutter kid (apparently dubbed Mite) running back and forth across the street delivering the food, so that was taken care of. Sami was all over the bar, speaking in excited bursts with Kevin about the plans he had for the evening beverages. Corbin had been placated for the moment with helping Regal and Trent cart over the decorations.

All in all, it was shaping up to be an excellent evening.

Old Mick made his usual entrance. Fashionably early, clad in a full Santa suit and lugging his familiar, massive pot of spaghetti and meatballs. John and Nikki managed to stop by for a few minutes before they opened Hustle that evening, offering warm wishes and an ornate fruit basket to the staff of The Empire (courtesy of Mr. Paul Heyman, of course).

Roman crumpled up the card on the basket after he read the brief message. 'Well played, Reigns.' He wasn't sure what the hell that was supposed to mean, whether Heyman was pissed about AJ or The Viper, or if it was just more cryptic bullshit. Quite frankly Roman couldn't bring himself to give a tenth of a shit. Tonight was a night for celebration.

Even Mr. Helmsley and his wife Stephanie made an eventual appearance, surprising the hell out of everyone. They didn't normally leave the high rise district to play with the riff-raff, but apparently Irwin Schyster had made it abundantly clear that he wasn't missing 'The Empire Holiday Revue'. Roman liked the sound of the elaborate title, but he was far more pleased with the way Hunter and Stephanie looked at everything.

Stephanie seemed ready to jump out of her skin, watching Santa-Mick make his jolly rounds with narrowed eyes. That is, until Sami slid a fresh toddy garnished with a lemon wedge across the bar and offered her a soft, “how are you tonight, ma'am?” Few people could resist the charm of Sami Zayn.

Hunter went straight to Ambrose, slapping him on the back and asking him how he was, “still working at that dump, huh kid?” Helmsley was a ruthless businessman but that was as far as he reached, reportedly having turned down numerous collaborations with Heyman. Though the old Kliq Club going out of business may have been helped along by a few bad deals on the side of The Triple H Corporation. Roman never understood why Hunter hadn't tried to buy him out on the property, but he figured he should probably just count his blessings and leave it at that.

Cass, Jericho and Styles had a special couple of things planned for the night, and it was a hell of a show. Apparently Regal's boys had been practicing with them in secret. Roman whooped as loud as everyone else when 'young' Tyler performed a strongman act that was flawless, the final cartoonish flex of his muscles and twirl of his well-kept mustache more than enough to light the place up. The wink he threw to Stephanie Helmsley certainly didn't hurt. Pete and Trent were a hit as well, ending their own short routine with an impressive (but not indecent) amount of clothing gone. Pete even got to keep his jacket! Roman looked to where Regal was sitting, a little worried that the older man might be upset with his employees. But William looked like he was thoroughly enjoying himself, a smile quirking the scar on his lip.

Roman wasn't sure when the goddamn Phenom, Undertaker himself had showed up at his club, he just knew that at one point he turned around and saw Sami chatting amiably with the large, black-cloaked figure. Granted, Christmas Eve and Day were usually considered truce days among The Family and The Acolytes, but Roman would prefer if the monsters kept to their realms. His preferences apparently fell on deaf ears. Demon Balor nodded cordially to him from a shadowy corner far from the muted lights of the stage, eyes glowing unnaturally. Beside him sat none other than the masked Empress Of Tomorrow, her flowing robe immaculate.

Roman had the sneaking suspicion that perhaps the boilerplate might need to be replaced after tonight's party. His suspicions were confirmed when Baron sidled up to him and muttered, “basement.” Sure enough, the thick metal had been removed so forcibly that it was embedded in the ceiling. No huge hand prints though, thank fuck, just a scorch mark in the middle of it. Undertaker.

Reigns sighed and took another sip of his drink. “Fuck it. It'll wait until tomorrow.” He said finally. “Nothing will happen tonight.”

“Are you sure?” Baron's concern was touching and Roman was a little too drunk for that, especially since Baron had made it abundantly clear that all Roman was to him was a check-signer.

“Do you really think they wandered in through the front door?” Roman retorted. “Owens would never let them in without a fight and they know that. It's too late now, Baron. What we get to do now is leave their preferred door open and hope that jolly old Saint fucking Mankind can work his magic to keep things mellow.”

“Shit man, I don't know how you do it.” Baron admitted after a moment of silence. “I feel like I'm walking on eggshells up there and you're just sliding around, dealing with legends and shit.”

“I grew up here, Baron. You get used to it. The fucking mystique wears off and you're left with the tarnished bullshit of worn-out tricks and maybe, maybe, a few legitimate monsters.” Roman tipped his glass towards the other man. “Liquid courage helps.”

“I guess fucking so.” Baron grinned at him, all white teeth and eyes crinkling at the edges and fuck, Roman was so fucked if he didn't get his ass back upstairs and away from him. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Baron looked nervous again, his back straight and whole body tight. “Hey uh, boss? Can I ask something?” He mumbled, focusing on his hands.

Oh no. Roman felt his heart start to thunder in his chest. Oh no, oh no. “Yeah, what's up?” His brain was apparently still on the 'pretend everything is fine' setting.

“D-do you...uh, does The Empire have a policy on relationships? I mean, Zayn and Owens are married and stuff, so they would be exempt, but you didn't seem too upset about Styles going after Jericho. I'm just...I need to know.” Baron's face hardened at the end of his ramble and he crossed his arms.

“Oh.” Roman said weakly, his heart screaming not me, not me, I'm the guy who signs his checks, remember? “I don't...I m-mean, there's no official policy in place, Corbin. I expect professionalism, and who you do is kind of your own business, you know? I uh...you and Big Cass, huh? That's cool, man. I'm happy for you.” Roman managed to force the trite phrase out before he lost his nerve completely.

Baron's shoulders slumped. He seemed disappointed for some reason that Reigns couldn't wrap his mind around. “I...I'd better get back outside. Gotta' keep the place safe. S'what I'm here for, right?” His tone was bitter and Roman's drunk brain remembered that he'd been outside in the cold for most of the evening.

“Hey wait, take a break, eat. Get a drink from Sami before you go. Warm up.” He insisted, unable to stop his hand before he laid it on Baron's arm. “Did you have any of Mick's spaghetti? He says it's seasoned with hunger, that's why it always tastes so good.” Roman had no idea why he was still talking. Corbin obviously had shit to go do (like Cass his mind supplied helpfully). “Sorry, I uh. Sorry. Head up there and. Um. Food.” He apologized, flushing and removing his hand.

Baron fixed him with a look that had Roman squirming, and not exactly in discomfort. “Reigns,” Baron began, then muttered, “Shit, just forget about it.”

Baron was halfway up the fucking stairs when Reigns' drunk ass decided to react. “Forget about what, Corbin?” He shouted louder than he meant to, making Baron freeze.

“I fucked up.” The taller man answered quietly. “Please just...never mind. Go back to the party, Reigns.”

Just forget about it. Roman ended up sleeping in the cellar, curled up next to the gaping hole in the floor. And if he cried, well, he was very drunk so that made it alright. Brave and strong Roman Reigns. Just forget about it.

He woke up with an aching head and a shiny new boilerplate hatch over the hole. A black and purple bow was stuck to the top of it and Roman couldn't help the raw laugh that he let out. Merry Christmas to me.

…

January and February passed in their usual gray, slushy blur. Come March, Baron dragged out his bike and started prepping for his eventual departure. He didn't really talk to Roman anymore, not like how he had before the holiday party. Always brief, polite. Very much the employee, no longer the friend.

It hurt, but Roman understood. He hoped that Cass and Baron had some sort of system worked out, maybe a long distance relationship via Skype. Either that or it had just been about the sex. They didn't really act couple-y, so Roman wasn't too sure. And it really wasn't any of his business, so he sure as hell wasn't about to ask.

The knock came in the wee hours of the morning, waking Reigns up from his usual pile of liquor orders and electric bills. “Come in.” He groaned, not bothering to raise his head from the desk.

“Boss, I'm leaving.” Roman watched dully out of the corner of his eye as Baron's legs shifted his weight back and forth. “Weather's finally good. I can make decent miles.” Baron cleared his throat. “I uh. Thank you. For taking me on.”

“No problem.” Roman replied, still not moving his head as he pulled open one of the drawers in his desk. “Here, s'last check. For gas. Food.” He waved the envelope in the air.

“Boss...”

“Don't fucking 'boss' me, Corbin. You pretty much single-handedly got The Viper behind bars, which is no damn small feat. If only for that, okay?” Roman shut his eyes as a large hand closed around his own, Baron removing the envelope after a second too long. “You've been a big help around here, man. I know Cass will miss you. Sure there's no way I can get you to stay?” Roman finally looked up, false cheer dying as he saw the stony look on Corbin's face.

Baron turned to leave. “It wasn't fucking Cass.” He grumbled.

“Well it sure as shit wasn't me either.” Roman had no idea where the hell that came from, flinching when Corbin whipped back around.

“The fuck did you just say, Reigns?” Baron's voice was deadly low.

“I-I...” Roman hated his fucking stammer, the way his voice died on him. He was trying so hard just to keep it together and he didn't need this shit. Ever the brave, strong Roman Reigns he thought bitterly.

“Shows how much you fucking know, I guess.” Corbin slapped the envelope back onto Roman's desk, planting his fists on the wood to pin it there. “Dammit Reigns, why the hell do you have to make this so fucking difficult?”

“Difficult?” Roman was thoroughly confused once again. I thought I was making this shit easier.

Baron glared at him for a few breathless seconds and then growled in frustration, “Forget it!”, threw his hands up and left.

…

The old fairgrounds housed nothing but an overabundance of memories for Roman. Before his father had gotten so sick, they would visit sometimes, to ride on The Spinnarooni. Roman only just recalled poking his nose over the edge of the Ferris wheel cab for the first time, the way his stomach had dropped to his shoes when he saw how high up he was. But his father was there to tuck Roman's face into his side, laughing and calling him brave beyond his years. “So much courage in your heart, my son!”

It hadn't felt like courage in quite a while. It felt like a damn rock. It felt like The Beast's fists and it felt like guilt and it felt like just forget it.

Roman kicked a pebble over the edge of the crumpling cement jetty at the far end of the fairgrounds, watching as it sank out of sight beneath the trash-choked water. Summer made the ground waver in the heat and Roman wondered for a crazy second if trying to become a mirage was easier than dealing with his dumb, courageous heart. If it was so full of courage why the hell did it falter at every little thing?

Soft footsteps alerted him to Mite's approach before they drew up alongside him, a hand taking his own and tugging him back from the frail side of the jetty. “Don't worry, it's not deep enough here.” Roman tried for a joke but it sounded a lot more grim when he said it out loud. Mite shook their head and frowned, pointing in the other direction. Towards the city. They still weren't much for talking but Reigns could guess. Go home, Roman. “Why?” He asked. “It isn't like Kevin and Sami can't handle The Empire without me.”

Mite's face somehow got even more stern. Go home, Roman. He finally relented, letting himself be mobilized to return to reality. Getting lost in the past wasn't exactly doing him any favors, after all.

The motorcycle parked outside The Empire stopped Roman dead, and Mite patted his hand comfortingly. Then, before Roman could even react they fucking bolted, abandoning him to stand slack-jawed in the road for another minute or two.

He came back.

That courageous heart of Roman's was weary and bruised but not shattered yet, slamming against his ribs as he circled around back. He almost bumped Corbin's chest when the taller man rounded the corner. “Reigns, thank fuck.” Baron pushed a small, rectangular parcel into Roman's hands, then grabbed his jaw gracelessly and kissed him hard. “Forgive me, for fuck's sake please forgive me.” Corbin begged, pressing their foreheads together. “I'm an ass. I'm the biggest fucking dickhead. I hurt you and all I had to do was fucking talk to you, I'm so fucking--”

“Wait, wait.” Roman panted, still a little out of breath from the kiss and oh my God, he came back. “Are you staying?”

Baron nodded furiously.

The space in the upper area of The Empire was mostly for storage purposes, but Roman had cordoned off a small section for his bed and a single chair. It was here that he sat to open the parcel, Baron pacing nervously while he did. It was a stack of postcards, five of them. Roman's brow furrowed and he flipped the first one (Kansas) over.

I'm an idiot. I'm an idiot and the worst part is knowing I'm an idiot. I'm an idiot for leaving. I'm an idiot for hurting you. I'm an idiot for writing this shit out on my spare postcards but I don't have any real paper. I'm an idiot for writing this shit out like you're going to read it, like you'll even give me the time of fucking day. You don't have a mean bone in your body, but you giving me a chance is the last thing I deserve.

Florida came next and the lump in Roman's throat grew.

I didn't realize how hard it was for you. I didn't understand until that night with that motherfucker, that Viper guy. He was fucking ranting and you just started shuddering all over your body. I don't know if you even knew you were doing it. You looked like you were going to pass out. The shit that guy said made me want to kill him, how he talked about hurting you like it was a thing to be proud of. Normally I've got a pretty decent hold on myself, but the way you reacted...I lost my cool in the worst way and I'm so sorry. I don't really do hugs, I'm not good at them.

Roman put the postcards down for a second, huffing in a breath to try and calm himself. He had nightmares about that night sometimes, about what would have happened if Baron Corbin hadn't cracked his stubborn head into The Viper's without a thought for his own safety.

Georgia was next in the pile but Corbin tipped his chin up, searching Roman's eyes. “Are you alright?” He asked quietly, one hand cupping the back of Roman's neck. Careful, so careful.

“Not really, no.” Reigns admitted shakily. “I'm supposed to be brave and strong, Baron. But it gets really damn hard and God, I'm fucking tired.”

“Can I help?” Fingers moved down the skin of Roman's arm, following the zigzags of his traditional tattoo. “Let me help.”

“I don't know if you can, Baron. If you leave again, I don't-”

“I'm never leaving again.” Baron insisted.

“Yeah? Convince me.” Roman growled. “Because as I recall, when you left last time not even the guy who signed your checks could get you to stay.”

“I know. But I didn't come back for that guy.” Baron's eyes softened. “I came back for the busted-up guy with the badass sleeve of ink and the heart of fucking gold. I came back because I'm an asshole and I missed you.”

I missed you.

“When you told me to forget it...”

“I'm bad at shit. I'll get better at shit.” Baron kissed Roman's forehead. “I promise you that.”

Roman felt his resolve crumpling, hands already pitifully tangled in the fabric of Baron's tight shirt. “I missed you too.”

“Christ, I hoped you would.” Baron murmured. “I'm so damn sorry, Roman.”

“I don't know what to do, Corbin.” Reigns confessed helplessly after letting himself be held for a few minutes. “Everything is just so heavy all the time, I don't know how to handle it anymore.” It was both terrifying and a relief to say out loud. “I used to be so damn strong, Baron. Nothing could phase me.”

“You're still strong. Guilt and grief fucking cheat when you're having good days and it makes them feel a thousand times heavier on your bad days. Let me take care of you.” Baron pressed Roman to lay down on his back, the taller man smiling at him. “You don't need to be strong here. You can just be you. It's alright.”

Roman covered his face, groaning, “Fuck, I want to believe your bullshit.”

“S'not bullshit.” Baron lifted the hem of Reigns' t-shirt and pressed a kiss to his stomach. “How can I convince you? Pet names? Flowers and chocolates? Help with the paperwork? How about a ride on the Lone Wolf?”

Roman peeked out suspiciously from in-between his fingers. “Is that a euphemism or did you seriously name your motorcycle?”

Baron hummed. “Might be both. You'll have to wait and see.” Roman's laugh felt rusty but good, especially when Baron joined in. Roman tugged at Baron's shirt and the other man quickly stripped his vest and shirt off for him. It had always been easier when Roman didn't have to ask with his words. Baron seemed to understand that, smoothing the hair back from Roman's face. “Christ, Roman, I'm so sorry.” He murmured. Roman fumbled out of his shirt and Baron sucked in a breath, large hands greedily mapping out the new area with single-minded purpose. “Fucking shit, Reigns.” Fingers ran over the scarred patch on his side where Roman had been burned on the hunt for Dean. “I'll keep you safe from now on. Nobody will ever do this to you again.”

Roman wanted to believe him, and that might have been the scariest thing of all. Corbin made him feel safe, like he was actually worth protecting. It should hurt because Roman was still guilty, but Baron was being so careful. The couple of times Roman had hooked up with other men had been lackluster. He'd wanted it to hurt. Not because he liked it, but because it should, it was what he deserved and what he was familiar with. People were willing and so was he, who cared if he didn't get off on it? Roman knew it was the only thing he had earned and while he wasn't happy he was pretty fucking resigned to it.

As Baron unbuckled his pants and dragged his boxers down Roman tried to relax. This was the hard part, the part when Baron would shatter all the pretty words he'd said about no one ever hurting him again. Roman knew all the ways to move to make it seem like it was good, like he was enjoying himself, “I'm just not hard because it's an off night.” The sooner this part was over with, the sooner Baron could get back to saying kind, gentle things to him and hopefully not leaving again because he was disappointed.

Reigns didn't realize he'd closed his eyes until he heard Corbin asking him to open them. He obeyed, feeling a weight settle on his thigh as he did. Corbin was in between his legs, cheek resting on Roman's thigh. Roman's cock was barely half-hard, obviously not on board with the plan and Baron seemed perturbed. “Reigns, if you don't want to do this we don't...I mean, I did kind of just blow in here so I-”

“No I do! I do!” Roman said quickly, too quickly, propping himself up on his elbows. It's an off night for me.

Baron's eyes narrowed. Normally, people were really invested in getting Roman to flip over onto his belly so they could give him what he asked for. Baron, however, was really invested in sucking Roman's dick. Which shot all of Roman's plans out of the water. That didn't hurt and Roman didn't really know what to do with himself because Christ, Corbin was good at that but he didn't deserve it and also Baron was teasing. Corbin seemed perfectly content to do nothing but kitten lick Roman's cock until the sun came back up, fingertips barely brushing the base. Roman found himself getting legitimately hard and he threw an arm over his eyes, hopelessly turned on and at total war with his guilt.

“Look at me, Roman.” Corbin ordered for the second time that evening. “I don't know why the hell you're letting me do this if you're not planning on enjoying it.”

“I can't, s-shouldn't.” Roman hated how his voice was already cracking.

“You're allowed to enjoy shit, Reigns.” Baron reprimanded him gently. “I can be strong tonight, okay? It's your night off. It's not wrong to like what I'm doing to you. It's not bad to like what I'm doing to you.”

“But I--”

“No buts. I want you coming and screaming my name at some point before sun up. Other than that, I think I'm pretty flexible.” Baron shrugged. “Until you believe me. Until you're comfortable. I don't care how long it takes. Because you deserve it, okay?”

Roman felt the weight in his chest finally ease and he was pretty sure he almost broke Baron's nose with his pelvis when he rolled forwards to hug him tightly. “Fuck, I missed you so much.”

“I've thought about doing this to you so many damn times, taking you apart and making you fucking shake in my lap.” Baron said fiercely, like he was trying to convince Roman. His fingers closed around Roman's cock for the first time and Roman keened into Baron's shoulder, hips arching up of their own accord. “Fucking touch me already, Reigns. I know you want to.” Baron begged. “Let me help, dammit, be fucking weak and greedy for me. I've got you.”

Roman flushed (he didn't know why, Baron's hand was on his cock for fuck's sake) and Baron made a helpless noise of want, rubbing his groin against Roman's thick thigh. When Reigns finally reached out his hand and shakily touched Baron's chest it was like he couldn't stop, yanking Corbin even closer and burying his face in the other man's neck. Corbin's excited sounds spurred Roman on more than he wanted to admit, his hands growing bolder by the second as Baron praised him quietly, reminded him that this wasn't wrong.

Baron's tattoos were fascinatingly vibrant where Roman's were monochrome, and Reigns found himself with his palm firmly planted on the taller man's inked heart, fingers digging into the skin hard enough to make Corbin grin at him. “Shit, shit, wait.” Baron finally panted, tugging Roman's other hand away from his zipper. “I can't yet, gotta' calm down.”

“But I--” Baron's kiss cut Roman off and Reigns growled into the taller man's mouth as he came all over his fist. Roman sank his teeth into Corbin's lower lip and the other man groaned embarrassingly loud.

“Fuck, I'm going to love this.” Baron licked his fingers criminally slow, seeming intent on getting every last drop. “M' gonna' open you up, make you beg for me.”

Roman expected it to hurt now but Baron made good on his word, taking his damn time as he prepared Roman's body for him. Thick fingers sloppy with lube stretched him, slowly one after the other and Roman found himself hard and leaking again by the time Baron was finally satisfied, the taller man allowing Roman the privilege of peeling his tight pants down his thighs. The tattoos continued on the skin there and Roman dimly noticed the one that said 'Farm Your Keep' in flowing script above Baron's knee.

Baron urged Roman up over him, hand gripping the base of the condom firmly after he slid it down over his cock. “I want to watch you. Take as much as you want, but let's just say I really hope you're interested in more than one round.” His knowing smirk bordered on insufferable.

Roman felt greedy and weak, his entrance over-slick and aching for what Baron had promised hotly in his ear while he crooked his fingers inside him. Baron had been patient, much more patient than Roman believed he needed to be. He wouldn't break for fuck's sake. Hadn't yet.

Baron's sound when Roman finally slid the head of his cock past his entrance was amazing, a low, heartfelt groan that threatened to make Roman come on the spot. Reigns being on top allowed him to decide exactly when Baron would get more or less of him and the power was dangerously heady. He ended up with his hands covering the swallows on Baron's chest, bracing his body weight easily as he carefully lowered himself down.

Corbin's hands cupped Roman's jaw, thumbs rubbing over the other man's facial hair. “You ever done it like this before?” Baron asked through clenched teeth, his smirk popping back up when Roman shook his head. “Always from behind, right? Hurts less that way, they don't have to see your face and you don't have to see theirs.” Baron was apparently a goddamn mind reader.

“Y-Yeah.” Roman stammered, finally coming to a stop. He sucked in a shaky breath, trying to force his body to adjust quicker to the intrusion.

But Baron was having none of it, a hand firmly gripping Roman's thigh to keep him from moving. “When you're ready, Reigns. Feels good to me no matter what, so when you're ready.” Corbin reassured him quietly, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“You'd better not.” Roman choked out. “I'll fucking hunt you down if you do and sign your face with my fist.”

Corbin ran his fingers over Reigns' inked arm, a smile softening his features. “That's fair, especially with how I left. Christ, I missed you so much. Wanted you like this from the first time I saw you on door duty at your own fucking club. You're handsome enough to be inside on stage and yet here you were owning the damn building, wrinkling your beautiful face worrying, working your fingers to the bone on forms and shit.” Roman ducked his head a little self-consciously but Corbin caught his chin. “Nope, eyes up.” Baron murmured. “Be greedy. Be weak for me.”

“I'm trying. It's...” Roman trailed off, rocking his hips back and forth against Baron's. Corbin's cock dragged over his spot suddenly and Roman's body stiffened. Oh-! Beneath him, Corbin let out a fucking growling noise that made Roman shudder, Baron's hand moving to press to the continuation of ink on Roman's chest. “Baron, fuck.” Reigns finally sobbed, unable to keep quiet anymore when gentle fingers soothed his messy hair back from his face. “Fuck, Baron, fuck.” He felt dumb but his brain couldn't figure out anything else to say as Baron rolled his hips up hungrily. “I'm trying, I promise, j-just--”

“Shh, you're fine.” Corbin grinned at him, making the worry in Roman's stomach ease off a bit. “Jesus Christ, you are so damn fine. Look at you go, I'm gonna' make you come so hard.” Baron tugged a spare elastic off his wrist and then proceeded to quickly rake Roman's dark locks back into a haphazard ponytail. “Wanna' see you when you do, want to watch your face.”

“God, please--” Roman's prayers were answered when Corbin wrapped his hand back around his cock. “Oh! Fuck, Corbin!” The moan felt like it was ripped out of him but it was so damn good, so right.

“That's the idea, yeah.” Baron grunted, winking when Reigns tried to give him a stern look. “Don't even bother, man. I can feel you getting all tight around me so it's a lost damn cause.”

“Are you close?” Roman panted, closing his eyes as Baron nodded jerkily and quickened his hand on Roman's dick. “Never come while someone else was fucking me.” His groin ached with the closeness of his orgasm, Roman ducking his head so he could touch his forehead to Baron's. It had never been like this before. Reigns felt hot and good all over his body, his heart seemingly trying to beat its way out of his chest.

“Their fucking loss.” Baron snarled through his teeth. “You deserved so much better.”

“Shit, I hope so.”

“I know so.” Baron cupped the back of his neck, kissed him hard and that was all it took. Roman cried out when he came again, his hands balling into fists on Baron's chest as he shuddered and rocked his hips weakly. “Fuck's sake, Reigns--” Baron dug his fingers into the skin of Roman's hips, thrusting up into him fiercely and off-tempo before finally coming to a stop with a loud, satisfied moan.

Now he leaves. Roman didn't want the thought but was gone as quickly as it arrived because Baron almost immediately dragged him down to lay on his chest, fingers stroking carefully over Roman's hair. Reigns closed his eyes, relaxing into the other man's grip against his better judgment.

“It's only about a thousand degrees up here, huh?” Baron whispered after several silent minutes had gone by. “I mean, I figured I would work up a sweat anyway, but shit.”

Roman swatted him on the ribs, making the taller man yelp. “You deserve to suffer in the hell garret for the shit you pulled.” Roman scolded, reaching over to turn on the air conditioner.

Baron smiled good-naturedly, crossing his arms behind his head. “Very true. How many more times should we bang, do you think, before you forgive me?”

“Depends on whether you'll leave after you get me to forgive you.” Roman fidgeted with the slick mess on his stomach, reaching for his t-shirt to wipe it off. But Baron caught his hand.

“I'm not leaving if you don't want me to, Reigns.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Hey, hey.” Baron's voice dropped a little when Roman teared up. “Shit, don't do that. I'm so ugly when I cry. If you start, I'm gonna' start, and it's just going to be a fucking nightmare. Buck up, Reigns, you're stuck with my ass.”

“Really?” Roman asked.

Baron nodded, brown eyes crinkling at the edges when he smiled again. “You're getting the worse end of the deal here, man, but I'm willing to swap off if you get me a little drunk beforehand.” Baron's offer made Reigns snort in a somewhat-undignified manner.

He knocked his forehead against Baron's a little harder than before, to let him know he was serious. “Never again, got it?” He meant for it to sound firmer, like an order.

Baron seemed to understand though. “Yeah, I got it. I promise.”

I promise.

Activate (Strong Style)

#Holy shit this is long #thirst party saturday #roman reigns/baron corbin #roman reigns smut #baron corbin smut #roman reigns #baron corbin #wwe au #AU: Suplex City #WWE #hurt/comfort #happy birthday to me

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