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astromechs · 3 years

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keep whatever it is (that's compelling you on)

HERE IT IS, my matrix resurrections spec fic, completed and in under the wire before the trailer! i think i'm ready to quit fussing over this, and i'm really excited to get it out into the world!

also here on ao3!

01.

Every single morning, Thomas A. Anderson is jolted awake at approximately 8:15 AM by the shrill of the same alarm, shovels in the same shitty cereal before stumbling into one of the same five shitty suits that he has to remember to get dry-cleaned, takes the same seat on the subway on the way to work — where he sits in the same chair for eight hours straight with minimal breaks, staring at his computer screen (or, more often, out into nothing) until it’s time to take the same subway back to his shitty apartment, order from the same rotation of shitty takeout, and find some mindless, banal distraction while he ignores texts that don’t even matter anyway before he falls asleep to eventually wake up and do it all over again.

It’s nothing special — just the average life of an average mid-grade programmer at the average tech conglomerate. Comfortable, sure, and a dream many would kill to achieve; he knows this, knows this every time he passes the poor old woman who’s feeding pigeons in her ratty coat from the battered metal bench on the sidewalk in front of his apartment building. He slips her whatever spare change he has on him — a $20 bill, on the days he’s lucky, but often less than that — and, without fail, she always accepts, with a warm smile and kind eyes that seem to stare right into his soul, seeing the deepest parts of it.

Like she knows him. And that’s what’s weird.

He tries not to put too much thought into it, because, honestly, he tries not to put too much thought into anything at all; he’s found that to be the most effective way to navigate the machine that systematically runs his rhythmic, mundane life.

But even so, there are things that he knows he can’t shake.

One afternoon in late February, when the cut of the wind had not remotely suggested that spring would just be a month away, he’d passed the woman on the bench as always, but he could’ve sworn that the whole flock of pigeons scattered on the sidewalk at her feet had frozen for a split second. Like they’d been… glitching. In a blink, everything had returned to normal, and he’d spent about three days (and three sleepless nights) trying to convince himself he’d been seeing things, that he’d just been spending too much time actually working on his assigned program for once and that maybe he should take some of his accumulated vacation days? And the following week, he had, but….

No time off to try to clear his head would ever change the fact that this hadn’t been an isolated incident.

Because sometimes — he swears he sees pieces of code fall through his field of vision; a blink and then they’re gone, but it happens too often not to be a pattern, and no matter how much he might want to for the sake of his own sanity, he can’t just brush that aside. Sometimes, flashes come to his mind like barely-remembered dreams, in idle moments and just on the edge of the line that separates sleep from waking consciousness, so real that he knows they’re memories. Dark tunnels that haven’t seen the sun for centuries. Cold, so cold that no amount of warmth, human or otherwise, can really combat. Running, desperately bounding up the fire escape to the third floor of a rundown motel, three men in sunglasses and perfectly-tailored suits in close pursuit, his heart pounding in his ears so loudly he can barely hear the phone ring from Room 303, the place he has to get to, because everything depends on it. A barrage of bullets in his chest, one right after the other, back slumping against the wall as his heart gives out, vision fading to grey and then to black, but a voice, reaching through it all to call him, tether him….

Neo.

There are things that he knows he can’t shake, and sometimes, he thinks he had another life. Another name.

Another purpose.

He’s haunted by the ghost of it.

It’s the second of April — at least, that’s what the screen of his phone tells him, because otherwise he wouldn’t know, or care to know. A Friday, and all the faceless commuters are packed like sardines into this subway car, headed home for weekends that are sure to be as inconsequential as his own. Today, he has to stand holding the rail for the ride home; a woman trying to juggle both a baby and two bags of groceries had just barely managed to stumble onto the train before the doors had closed, and he’d sprung up, more than glad to give up his seat to someone in greater need.

She tries to thank him, profusely and repeatedly, but with where he’s standing, he would have to twist to keep facing her, so, with a nod and the barest hint of a smile, he turns away to spend the trip the way he always does: in solitude.

The route back to the station just down the block from his apartment building is never smooth, by any stretch of the imagination, but today, it’s bumpier than usual; the train car jerks and jostles, until, eventually, it sends him colliding into back of the passenger standing next to him.

He’s just about to stammer out some automatic, awkward apology, but then —

Blue eyes meet his, clear, crisp blue, and a jolt strikes him right to the core.

He thinks — no, he knows, he knows — he’s seen these eyes.

Neo. In the darkest corners of his mind, the voice whispers again.

Time freezes, glitches, around him, around him and this stranger with familiar blue eyes. He sees the light leave them, and then come right back. He sees warmth, what something is telling him had once been the only thing able to keep the cold of the real away; that warmth spreads through now, to the tips of him, and he has a sense, one he doesn’t entirely understand, that something has just clicked into place.

Behind sunglasses, another pair of eyes watches them from across the car.

“You all right?” Neo.

He sees brows knit in concern, and for the first time, he pays attention to the face that the eyes belong to. Probably the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in… more than one life, he’d have to guess, is now in front of him; he isn’t so detached and disconnected that he doesn’t notice that. Her short dark hair is cut into a severe bob, and she’s dressed in black from head to toe — from her coat and gloves, to her boots. It suits her, somehow.

After a beat, he finally remembers to speak. “Yeah. I — sorry.” The subway jerks to a halt; he glances up, and adds quickly, after clearing his throat, “This is… my stop. Excuse me. Sorry.”

Pushing past her, pushing past everyone in his way, he disembarks to the station, and when his feet touch solid pavement, he takes off at a sprint. Up the stairs (third floor… Room 303….), down the sidewalk (agents, just behind… he can beat them, if he just runs faster than he ever has…), not stopping until the mundane certainty of his shitty apartment building is within his sights.

Just before he makes it safely inside, he catches a glimpse of the old woman on the bench watching him, her smile wider than he’s ever seen it. Maybe, even, almost inhumanly wide.

10.

Her name is Natalie.

That’s what he learns about a week later, when he bumps into her again in front of the grocery store on the corner down from the subway station, the one he always chooses out of convenience. Quite literally; he’s distracted, disconnected, and before he even knows what’s happening, he’s collided with another body, contents of the two bags under his arms spilling out onto the sidewalk. His apologies are hurried and stammered, but her hands are gentle as she moves to help, brushing his more than once. Her smile is soft when their eyes meet.

Over the next several months, he learns a lot of other things, too.

He learns that she takes her coffee with cream and no sugar, and that she always leaves the barista a generous tip. He learns that she’s a genius with tech, better than him and his two computer science degrees and half-cushy corporate job could ever hope to be, and has his whole apartment practically rewired in an hour one day. He learns that if he’s quiet and still, her black cat has no qualms with being his friend. He learns that her lips curve up in just a certain way and her eyes crinkle when she’s just about to laugh.

And he learns that kissing her feels like coming home, as familiar and peaceful as it is new and strange. He learns that with her, coming together, becoming one with another person, is like nothing else.

For the first time in what he can remember, he knows what it feels like to be alive.

(Only it isn’t… is it? The first time. Somehow, just like he knows that he sees the same person walk past him twice, like he knows that those glitches start happening on a near-daily basis, like he knows that the old woman on the bench is smiling at him more broadly than ever….

Their lives have collided, and given each other meaning, purpose, before.)

11.

In his dreams, he sees a city entirely built from light. Spires touch the sky like fireworks, blindingly bright, and with every step, flames ripple out from his feet, making the next one all too clear.

Inevitable.

This is where his path had always led.

In his dreams, he can’t see her face. He can only hear struggling gasps for breath, and a voice that only grows shakier. He can only feel the metal that pierces her stomach, the blood that pools on her shirt. The faint heartbeat he can do nothing to restart.

Inevitable.

(You were right, Smith. You are always right.)

He wakes with a start, drenched in a cold sweat (as cold as their last kiss), gasping for breath. Next to him on the bed, Natalie stirs and shifts closer; when he reaches out a tentative hand, lets his fingers graze over her stomach, she’s warm.

His eyes scrunch tightly shut. Code falls behind his lids like the rain that patters against the windows outside.

100.

There’s nothing out of the ordinary on this day in early fall. A breeze rustles the trees as they walk hand in hand through the park, and provides the first hint that cooler weather is on the way. Children’s laughter from the nearby playground fills the air. Dogs chase each other on the grass. Natalie sips her coffee, cream with no sugar; they enjoy the contented silence that falls between them, only punctuated by her soft smile.

There’s nothing out of the ordinary — except for everything that is.

They meet each other’s eyes, her blue to his brown, and in an instant, everything changes.

It’s hard to tell who sees it first, but — the flash of recognition envelops both of them. Vague memories, the ones that have floated over him like a constant cloud, just out of reach, are in his hands, in his brain, in his heart. He’d had another life once, another name. And it’d been —

“Neo.”

She whispers it on an awed breath, tears forming in her eyes. The coffee cup slips from her grasp, long since forgotten; she lifts that hand to his face, fingers tracing the rise of his cheekbone.

Tears swim in his vision, too, tears and strands of code, falling. Falling. Nothing makes sense and yet everything makes sense, no more so than when the name falls out of his mouth, the last piece of a particularly jumbled puzzle: “Trinity.”

But a thousand words he doesn’t know how to say don’t even begin to get a chance to form. He feels the eyes watching them more than he sees them; both hands drop to his sides, and he tenses, ready to fight.

He’s barely aware that the old woman who’s usually on the bench near his apartment building approaches on the sidewalk. She looks between them, nods, and:

“They’re coming, kiddo,” she tells him, voice severe, with none of her usual warmth, as she grips his arm. “You need to run.”

101.

At sunset, a man in a white suit, tall and imposing, joins the old woman on a park bench near the playground, but says nothing; from all appearances, it looks as though he barely acknowledges her at all. They remain, just like this, as people filter out one by one under the steadily darkening sky, returning to their lives.

They always remain through every iteration, the Mother and Father of the Matrix.

Preoccupied with purpose and the inefficiency of wasting time, as is his programming, the Father is the first to break the silence.

"I informed you it was a dangerous game.”

The Oracle says nothing in response.

She merely smiles.

#neo x trinity #the matrix #the matrix resurrections #neo #trinity #* fic #song title is from cascades by metric #which for some reason just feels like a ship song for them #anyway i'm so hyped for tomorrow!

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bnhaven · 4 years

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A Potential ‘Hidden Quirk’ Idea

To begin: I am so sorry. Truly. I swore I’d be a writer of fluff, and yet here we are...again...whoops.

Anyways, let’s get on with it!

So, if there’s one thing we love about our innocent cinnamon roll of a boy, aka Izuku “Deku” Midoriya, it’s that he’s willing to go beyond (plus ultra style) in order to save the day, even going so far as to break his bones to the point of disfiguration. Adrenaline helps him fight through the pain, and even then I’ve heard a lot of people talk about his insanely high pain tolerance.

Like, ridiculously high. I mean, the Overhaul fight??? Where Izuku just destroys himself so that Eri doesn’t Rewind him out of existence? Wild. It’s like, unimaginable. Even with the decade of bullying to get used to pain, it’s almost unreal for the green bean to be able to push through so much naturally.

Which is where I say: what if it wasn’t natural?

Look, some Quirks are probably hidden ones. Ones that you can’t immediately see, ones that aren’t emitter types. Quirks that just affect the wielder, not anyone else. Like Nedzu’s High Spec, for example. But what’s another Quirk that no one would be able to see?

One that negates pain.

Now, I don’t think that Izuku would have always had this Quirk. I think it’s one that needed the right conditions to form. Like, let’s say...a really hard punch, something with an almost explosive force.

Lucky for Izuku, he has a classmate with a very painful Quirk, and a penchant for using it on those he deems weaker or lesser. Thus, when the bullying started, Izuku’s Quirk finally kicked in after one hit went too far.

The Issue: Nobody realizes that Izuku got his Quirk. Not even Izuku realizes it. Why? Well, Izuku thinks it’s just a high pain tolerance. He still feels Bakugou striking him, he just...doesn’t feel much else. He knows that he feels pressure, so he must have just gotten used to Bakugou’s hits. (And with all of the burn scars that Izuku is gaining, he wouldn’t be surprised if he’s lost some nerve endings due to the damage.)

And Izuku would definitely have burn scars in this AU (I’m not really sure if canon gives him said scars, I’ve done more reading for this fandom than watching, oops.) But no matter what happens in canon, this Izuku would have burn scars for one reason: Since Izuku doesn’t feel pain, he doesn’t cry out. Since he doesn’t cry out, Bakugou thinks his explosions aren’t strong enough to hurt...so the boy uses stronger blasts in an attempt to prove his ‘point’. (There is definitely an inferiority complex going on here, where Bakugou subconsciously worries that his Quirk is weak if ‘Quirkless Deku can stand there and take one of my hits without a single flinch’.) He pushes himself harder, lets more force into every controlled blast, etc.

So Izuku has no clue that he has a Quirk, Bakugou uses crazy amounts of explosions on the boy, neither realizing just how much damage is happening because Izuku can’t feel any pain.

Canon continues. The Sludge Villain stuff goes as usual, and All Might chooses Izuku as his successor just like always. The training montage from hell might actually be more self-destructive, not only because Izuku feels the need to catch up but also because he doesn’t feel so exhausted/sore. (Along with pain, the boy also doesn’t really feel when his muscles and body are sore, so he doesn’t realize he needs to take a breather.) But that isn’t the focus, so let’s move on!

The Entrance Exam occurs, and wow that really should have clued someone in. Because Izuku breaks his limbs for Uraraka and when he hits the ground, instead of dragging himself away he tries to stand up. He actually manages to find a 3-pointer, and breaks two more of his fingers by flicking in its direction, destroying it with a gust of air before he collapses to the ground.

But wow, everyone is just like ‘this boy is wild’ before completely forgetting about how they heard his bones crunching with every step.

Continue on.

Quirk Apprehension Test? Izuku doesn’t really get why Aizawa is complaining about how he shatters himself. Like, he doesn’t need to stop just because his arm is apparently broken. It’s fine, he can still use it. Still, he settles on breaking a single finger because he can’t risk expulsion, and he definitely doesn’t have the courage to talk back to a teacher.

Hero v. Villain Fight? Izuku doesn’t even collapse after the final blast, instead walking off without batting an eyelash. Iida ends up corralling him to Recovery Girl’s room, because first Izuku protested having to leave without getting to watch the other teams, then he got distracted by the school and nearly got lost.

USJ? Izuku goes a little more feral, fun times.

Sports Festival? Oh honey you know things are going to get wild here. Broken bones left and right, yeehaw it’s shatter city baby!

Izuku ends up with even less self-preservation with every passing problem, basically. Since the boy can’t feel pain, he assumes that any injury that he does get isn’t that bad. After all, wouldn’t he be crying and, you know, hurting if it was bad? Izuku knows what pain feels like, and this isn’t it!!

It’s only the realization that breaking bones so often could end his career early that causes Izuku to try new approaches to the whole Quirk-using situation. Even then, the boy has no sense of when to stop, and as such pushes himself to the point of passing out from either exhaustion or blood loss multiple times.

-One such time was after getting impaled. The boy didn’t realize he had a broken pole halfway through his back until Kaminari screamed and passed out from seeing Izuku bleeding, a giant rod jabbing out of him. Izuku tried to shrug it off.

Sometime around the impalation incident, people begin to notice that Izuku has a freaky high pain tolerance.

But nobody really connects the dots until Bakugou goes too far in training.

The bad news: his opponent loses a limb.

The good news: It is Shouji, and it’s one of the regrowable ones.

The bad news: the following dialogue occurs after school…

Bakugou: What the fuck? But that’s barely anything!

Aizawa: Bakugou. That explosion had enough force to sever your classmate’s hand off of his limb due to how you directed it. You should know to limit yourself by now.

Bakugou: But I was! That one is so weak that even Deku can walk away without flinching!

Aizawa: There is no way that Midoriya would be able to move on without needing medical attention after a hit that bad.

Bakugou: He has.

Aizawa: ...I beg your pardon?

Bakugou: Deku fucking has! How do you think I learned my limits, huh? Deku has taken a hit like that directly to the chest and didn’t even flinch! I know how weak I am!

Needless to say, Aizawa proceeds to lose his absolute shit. He makes Izuku stay after class the next day, and questions him about whether or not Bakugou has ever used his Quirk on him.

Izuku, a boy who is unafraid of breaking three limbs to save a girl from a giant robot, but who is terrified of teachers most of the time, cracks without too much pressure. He admits that Bakugou has used his Quirk on Izuku for years, but ‘It wasn’t bad, sensei! They were like love taps, I never even felt a thing!’

And Aizawa knows something is wrong with this, something isn’t adding up because if Shouji lost a limb to Bakugou’s hit, Izuku has to be lying...or there’s another factor in this equation.

Aizawa dismisses Izuku, and spends the night trying to figure it out.

And then he does.

The next day, he makes Bakugou and Izuku stay in the classroom during lunch. He questions them on their past. Bakugou complains about how ‘weak’ he’s always been, Izuku brushes past the concern without much thought because it never hurt, and sure there were markings but-

Aizawa: Markings?

The scars are revealed. Well, the ones on his upper body.

This is when Bakugou begins to realize that he’s fucked up.

During training, Aizawa pulls Bakugou and Izuku off to work with him separately. He

brings out machines that test how much force a blow gives off, and has Bakugou throw his ‘weak’ explosions at them.

As it turns out, Izuku should have been in crippling pain from everything Bakugou did. And then Aizawa drops the ‘I think you have a pain-related Quirk’ on Izuku, and yeah.

I didn’t really plan an end, sorry. I just think it’d be interesting, you know?

On the bright side, at least Izuku isn’t constantly in pain!!! He just got his body a whole lot more damaged than he would have, and has maybe half of the self-preservation that his canon counterpart possesses.

Finally, for an extra bit: Izuku only feels pain when Aizawa erases his Quirk. It’s not pleasant. (And, to make him even more oblivious, Izuku believes that the pain is because his Quirk is being ‘severed’ in its connection, not that this is lingering pain that comes from having bones shattered over and over without hesitation.)

#bnha au #izuku has a quirk #izuku can't feel pain #bnhaven #I went feral once more #my apologies #katsuki out here learning that his standards for strength and weakness have been skewed for a decade

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onlyonekenobi · 4 years

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Hi there 🐝💕 Firstly, thank you so much for your amazing blog.

Secondly, I was a fan of SPN many years ago and fell out of it for a while, only having gotten sucked back in after 15×18 (surprise). Back when I was into it before, there was a lot of discussion about Jensen being potentially homophobic, and now I'm noticing that there's been some..... less than awesome stuff said by Misha, too, in terms of the queerbaiting on the show and having only acted Castiel as in love with Dean this past season.

Obviously the content of the show itself proves this wrong, but it still troubles me, and I couldn't find much about it online other than a few posts by people and one con transcript. Do you have any feedback on this, and would you mind sharing it?

(Thank you so much, and no worries if you don't wanna answer, just keep being awesome!)

Hi!

I’ll do my best here, and I’ll try to track down some sources. also, idk if you sent this question to anyone else as well, but if you did, i’m interested to see what they say. if not, i am flattered to be your Trusted Source.

so, first: jensen re homophobia

I could be wrong, but I don’t remember him ever making any kind of “homophobic” comments OUTSIDE OF things regarding destiel that were construed that way by some fans (if i’m wrong, please let me know). I do remember him shutting down destiel comments, etc, and the infamous “?? no” which has since been debunked by the OP as having been taken out of context. (i can’t find the debunking post on my blog but if anyone has it please link!) with the shutting down destiel comments, he was definitely brash at times! but, I do think it’s also important to note that he and misha were explicitly told not to talk about it. and we know that jensen is (or at least especially used to be) a pretty shy guy, and I think destiel questions/comments being shoved in his face in a public setting- when addressing it could get him in trouble with his job- made him nervous and upset.

however, he took a noticeable shift re: destiel in recent years. for one, we know that he gave his blessing for the canon textual confession (again, I can’t find an og post in my absolute mess of late stage supernatural tags, but if anyone has the receipts, please drop them). I could add more of my own personal spec about how jensen shifted his acting choices in light of this information, but I’ll just move on. we know that he was excited about the confession scene. here’s a second post about that.

and re: general homophobia, here’s a post of jackles with pride flags, as well as a 2019 post from his aunt, who is gay. also, this is largely a shitpost, but I saw it in my jackles tag while looking for the above, and it feels relevant, so i’m including it. a little levity before we move on.

now, misha.

I am aware of misha saying two upsetting things in regards to “the confession wasn’t bury your gays, why are you so angry” Again, if there’s more that i’m forgetting, please let me know. The first was in this panel talk (start at 35:50) from November 22. Here is a relevant post about that moment (I also watched the whole panel live and agree with this post.) The second is this video on twitter, and the following thread, from Nov. 25. However, after several fans replied to him explaining why we were so upset, he issued this apology on Nov. 26. I wanted to give you the original link there, but I’m also including a screenshot with a thoughtful and important addition here. And here is a tweet about Misha finding out about The Castiel Project.

i’ve never heard anything about misha only acting cas as in love for the last season exclusively, so I don’t have any posts to expressly debunk it, but I do firmly believe that to be untrue, just based on things misha has let slip over the years

and for both of them, it’s worth noting that whenever they were asked direct questions about the show, they could only do their best to talk around things like queerbaiting, etc, because they obviously couldn’t actively speak out against the show or the network (like this). for example, we know that misha got a couple phone calls from producers on occasions where he toed the line a little too closely, and he commented how you unfortunately have to listen to the people who have the power to kill off your character (immediately following previous clip)

in conclusion

neither of them are homophobic. to the best of my knowledge, neither of them have ever made an outright homophobic comment. and in cases regarding destiel (again, to the best of my knowledge) they have both either changed course or apologized since making any unsavory comments.

there are also WAY more posts on all this that I didn’t include here. if you search the jensen or misha tags on my blog, or probably the blog of just about anyone i follow, you could look into it more

all that said, it’s also important to note that i am Just Some Guy. i did my best to compile this information in a relevant and meaningful way, but i have oversaturated-sponge-adhd-brain that has been actively following this fandom for a decade, and i’m sure some things got lost in there. so to anyone reading this, if i forgot anything critical, please don’t yell at me, i am but a simple internet jester, just like you.

and while we’re here, I’ll say that- while I do think it’s important to keep a critical eye trained everywhere- if we were going to criticize any spn cast members for unsavory comments, these two are certainly not where i would start

tl;dr, ultimately myself and jensen and misha are all Just Some Guy, and none of us know them, but as far as I can figure, they are both genuinely kind and thoughtful people who care about and respect the lgbt community, including their respective characters’ involvement in it and the real world consequences that has

#hi i hope this makes sense i've spent four hours compiling it and i can't look at it anymore xx #anyway i hope this answers your question(s) but if it doesn't please feel free to dm me!!#asks #long post #rachelillustrates

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captainjimothycarter · 4 years

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I DIE for pregnant Peggy and Cap Steve where they don’t know one another.

New York traffic has always been a bitch and Peggy regrets her decision of thinking the subway would be better than the bus, but it seems her bad choices follow her even underground where they’ve been stalled for an hour in a stifling train.

She denies the need to sit down from a broad blonde whose wearing sunglasses despite they’re underground and a baseball cap that’s pulled low over his face. Despite how she can’t see his eyes too well, she can see he doesn’t agree with her choices but respects them none the less.

And why should he? She’s eight months pregnant and it shows with her rounder-than-life belly and all the wonderful side effects of carrying a pregnancy this far along.

“How long do you think we’ll be here?” She asks the stranger. He’s the only one closest to her and he seems nearly as on edge as she is with the antsty people. She’s lucky its not packed to the brim, all the seats are just taken and a few stragglers stand.

“Given it’s already been...” He sighed and looked at his watch for a second too long, as if he’s struggling to tell the time. There’s something familiar in his voice, but it could be the exhaustion in the same manner it is the Brooklyn accent she’s growing used to. “Half an hour and knowing the system it could be a whole another two hours. You sure you don’t want to sit? I don’t mind standing.”

“I’ve been laying down all morning, I need to stretch.” Her backs aching, but what else is new? She’s stubborn, but not to the point of self punishment. She needs to stretch it out at any rate. If the pain gets worst, she will. “Knowing the system...Crikey, I hope not. I don’t need to miss another appointment.”

He winces in sympathy and it tugs a smile on her lips. “I’m sure the doctor will understand - its New York. You can’t predict these things. Or anything for that matter. Sure has changed lots.”

There’s a whimsical note to his voice, like he’s longing for something, for the past maybe. For a life beforetime that she doesn’t know, it’s hard to tell without seeing his eyes. She tries to imagine what’s behind those glasses, but doesn’t try too hard. Surprises are plentiful in life.

They make small talk for a few and she learns more about this stranger who pauses a few times to pick a kid’s toy up and hand it back, open a stiff window when they won’t budge and even the emergency hatch to let fresh air in. She learns he works with a team - leads them actually and he seems proud of that. He learns she’s new to the country and recently gotten a job working in the library. He talks about his time spent in the library growing up and now and its almost lost on him, the need for something in his voice that craves a balm to the pain that edges it.

She wants to understand so much but she’s not liable to. This isn’t her place.

It’s the pain that makes her pause first, a familiar sensation of the contractions that have been happening more and more as of late. What surprises her is the fact she feels wetness between her thighs before there’s a clear sound of liquid hitting the floor. Her eyes widen and she looks to the stranger, not for help, but confirmation that her water just broke.

He’s all action and not taking no for an answer as he he takes off the coat and lays her back on it. Hat and glasses go next. That’s when she knows him. Captain America, she’s seen him on TV quite a few times. All uniform and smiles despite the pain he had to be in. She doesn’t even have time to be in shock when the next contraction hits. This baby is coming and it’s coming out now.

“Look at me - it’s Peggy, right?” he breathes, holding her hand as tight as she is. “It’s going to be okay. I’ve helped my ma deliver several babies. I called a few people, a team is going to meet us at the next station. They’re getting whatever is keeping us up taken care of right away.”

“Oh that’s comforting,” Peggy growns, brow knitting in pain. She hates the worried look on his face, but he hides it well with ordering people around. Give her room. Water. Someone gives them a blanket.

“You’re going to need to push,” he tells her in a voice that shouldn’t be calm when she’s understandably panicking. “It can’t wait. It’ll hurt you and the baby in the long run.”

She doesn’t want to push, not here, not without medical help, but he’s right and his voice is far too calm for her to ignore. She tries just to focus on his crystal clear blue eyes. She focuses on the specs of green, the freckles on his nose. How he smiles with a lopsided grin and encourages her through another painful contraction.

She’s out of her mind with pain and delusion, sweat burning her eyes. Someones wiping at her face while he holds her hand, still between her legs. She’s not even sure what she’s saying, maybe she’s cursing him out, maybe she’s asking to stop, she can’t focus enough. The pains fogged her mind, all she knows is to push. The instinct drives her to do so, a final scream leaves her lips, followed by another.

A heavy scream of an infant whose gasping for air, her first breaths of a long life. Peggy isn’t even aware she’s sobbing when Steve cleans the baby up best he can and lays her in her arms, against her chest. She’s even unaware when he cuts the cord [with her permission].

It’s a long few hours that fade in her mind before she’s fully aware she’s in the hospital. Steve was there the whole time, she knows. Covered in her mess, but still that boyish, lopsided grin on his lips the entire time. Pride radiating in his eyes.

The hospital says the baby is doing amazing and she latched on like it was nothing, suckling from her with a hunger that rivals her own. Steve still stays, calmly talking to her, talking to doctors and nurses for her. Someone asks if that’s his baby or if she’s with him but he denies it.

“There’ll be news about this tomorrow,” Peggy says weakly, thanking Steve when he lowers the straw from her lips. “Captain America helps a stranger give birth.”

“They’ll also speculate that it’s my kid and I’m an ass for making you stand, not having you give birth in Avengers Tower, and so forth,” he huffed, rolling his eyes. “Though, I’d be proud to call your little one my kid. She about busted my ear with screaming.”

“Yes, how terribly rude of you. I could’ve given birth in a plush bed instead of the dirty subway floor.” Her nose wrinkles when his ears turn a shade of pink, laughing softly. “She gets it from me. Still, thank you Steve. You didn’t have to stay.”

“I got nowhere to be and you need someone. No one should go through that alone.” His hand had returned to hers, a comfortable presence in the last few hours. “Have you thought of any names yet? No need to rush.”

Peggy’s silent, because she has, her entire pregnancy she’s thought of names but none seem to quite match the honor it is to carry her. Her eyes fall to the sleeping baby, knowing the nurses will take her soon. She has soft, downy brown curls. Her eyes are green, a soft shade that make her heart drop straight to her gut. There’s a powerful life in those eyes that challenges everyone she looks at. As if to dare them to try to take it.

“What was your mother’s name again? Sarah?”

Steve blinks beside her, his mouth formed into a perfect O. “Pegs, you don’t...have to name your daughter after my ma - she would be honored, yes but if you’re doing it to honor me...”

“Your mother raised a fine son whose done a lot for this world, she helped many people, including my family if history serves me right during the first war. It would be an honor to name her after Sarah after your mother.”

She’s sure Steve’s eyes are wet, but she looks away, giving him privacy as he lets go of her hand to clean his face up and looks down on the baby.

“Sarah it is, then. Hello, little one.”

Peggy’s lips forms into a small, exhausted smile, the wave of exhaustion washing over her. She hasn’t napped, but she wants to. She’s also afraid to sleep, if she wakes up and Steve or Sarah isn’t here...

“Go to sleep,” Steve tells her, his hand back in hers. The other tenderly strokes a curl from her face. “I think you deserve a nap or two. I’ll be here - Tony has made it clear with the staff that I am not to leave unless you kick me out. I’ll make sure little Sarah is safe.”

“Thank you, Steve,” she sighs once again, laying back into the cushion. Her eyes are struggling to stay open, its a struggle to keep them away, but she’s glad that Steve’s presence is there beside her.

#Steggy #StevePeggy #PregnantPeggy #CapSteve #Sorry for the post #I'm being annoying #There is Steggy brain #Can we stop?#captainamericapeggycarterismysexuality story idea

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theoscout · 4 years

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This is a continuation to a story that @bornoffireandwisdom wrote several months ago, and something I continually insisted I would try to finish, because I’m a “good” friend who is “responsible” and “mature” :,)

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it when you find it. EXTREME tw for gore by the way.

It would be difficult to judge the safety of any open area through merely a glance. The sense of paranoia upheld by any hardboiled survivor typically choked them of any sense of true relaxation, even as it provided a vital alarm against the starving, bloodthirsty which by now far outnumbered them all. The infected did not seek new refuges away from the crumbling buildings, they had little to fear aside from their ever increasing hunger, or the terminating blow of a quarry too lucid to outwit. They typically continued their miserable existances in the clothing they died in, and it was a general rule of thumb among survivors to determine how long ago a zombie died through the condition of their clothing, as the dark force coursing through their contaminated veins always imprisoned them in a state which could only be described as a macarbe mockery of their former selves. Though this did not appear to be a component of common knowledge among survivors, the undead did not decay. The stench which revealed their prescence would waft off the layers of filth accumulating on their skin and clothing through the gory trails they left in their insatiable bloodthirst- . Too many times had this unassuming appearence claimed a life of an unassuming survivor short of realising the danger in a failure to check someone before a greeting.

The figure in the vast, swirling white void strained her eyes against the myriad of specs which clouded her vision and reduced her surroundings to vague silhouettes. If her gloved hands weren't preoccupied with training the battered rifle into the blustery, consuming darkness, she would have been gripping her scraped cloak to her seal the openings to which the piercing gales would stab at her skin. As the abandoned farmhouse began to loom through the icy debris, she quickened her pace.

Grant lay curled and shivering on the threadbare carpet, the remaining rooms had been stripped of furniture but this worn sheet was now all that was guarding his frail form against the cruel chill of the wooden floorboards. He convulsed, the necrotic hunger gnawing at him like termites at woods, twisting like a sapient blade into his intestines. Stifling a whimper, he covered his head with his trembling hands and gnashed his teeth. Everything hurt. The bruises he had sustained when falling from the staircase, how the pair he had hunted earlier had bashed his head to rob him of consciousness, the way the rope had cut into his wrists when he had lunged from them as he struggled against their snare, and of course, his final desperate attempt at chewing himself free upon realizing they were long gone. Zombies could not work knots any more than a cat or a dog could, so the complications Lacie and Bertrum had gone to in binding him were few, but they had taken the liberties of making the rope so complex it was nearly impossibly to break from it through pure strength. Still, the violent memory of his prior struggle hung in his thoughts like the festering bloodstains on his clothes.

Quivering from another hunger induced convulsion, the undulating Blurrier than the fish underneath the rippling surface of a pond, he remembered things that no undead should have ever known. Events that the creator and mastermind would have forcefully wrenched from his mind if he knew of, events which would have prevented him from killing another. While others were little more than meat to Grant now, there was something about this particular face that filled him not with hunger and rage, but pain and longing. His trembling fingers numb from the icy dryness and the lack of circulation which comes with laying on one's limbs, he unsteadily reached into the pocket in his jumper which had somehow been deeper and more secure than others. He didn't need to think about the action, it was a move rehearsed a myriad of times prior, in any emotionally distressing moment. He could find his wallet just as he had done so those times before, despite how he could no longer recall the vast majority of times he had consciously done so.

Months worth of bloody fingerprints were beginning to wear down on the photo's visibility, but a near subliminal calling had prevented him from licking off the residue as he had done with his clothes. He didn't want to risk ruining the only contact to the life he barely recalled, even as the reason behind why licking something could potentially deface it had long left his memory. The cameo had one of the faces scratched out, from how he had gripped the slip of paper, in times of grief or desperation. It didn't matter that one of the faces was slowly being rubbed away into the formless pale grey of the backing paper, although in a more lucid moment he may have noted similarities between the clothing and body proportions shared with the figure and himself. No, the one face he cared about the one that stood proudly and protectively to the left of the figure. Like a supporting pillar to his emotions. In the same way the exhileration had coursed through him while hunting in a pack... except less restrictive? No... this face had never harmed anyone. Never asked any violence either. And though it resembled the strange, fast creatures who's veins and flesh were bliss to rend and wolf, this face was not one of them. The thought confused him as much as it comforted him. He needed comfort, in a time when anything unexpected could spell disaster. When it could bring him ruin. The face. The creature it belonged to. He needed to find him.

And then, from an unseen corner of the crumbling hideaway, he heard something pointed and metal slam into something structural and made of wood.

The intruder did not pay special heed to delicacy or discretion. The next thud shook the building, a splintering of wood following closely behind. The wrenching of frozen fibres split and severed, the resounding crash and clatter of a door thrown to the house’s floor which rattled the windows of the room far above. With some difficulty, Grant struggled through his trembling to a crouched position. His knees bent to spring, his nails digging into the decaying mattress. The zombie tilted his head as a trickle of necrotic energy pulsated through his veins, listening intently. The prospect of quenching his hunger filled his mouth full of froth like a rabid dog.

The survivor tossed her bag to the floor and regarded the door with distain. “Piece of junk,” she spat and gave it another kick, slinging the ice pick over her shoulder. What, were ALL the houses going to have security as shit as this? At least the owners could have attempted some form of barricade, but the possibility that they were merely the early deaths in the apocalypse wasn’t something to be dismissed. Nothing was more effective at dowsing the excitement of a new hideout than the sight of a couple or more corpses bundled up in a bed somewhere, as had been in the previous abode.

The survivor unslung the snow encased bag and kicked it to the side of the doorway, when independent of her cumbersome entry there rose a scuffling from upstairs. She froze, and the ice pick slung over her shoulder found itself poised in her hands. Around the corner the noises ebbed and faded, then heavy footfall on a hollow staircase echoed in the hall. No longer muffled by walls or distance, the footsteps sounded clear and sharp on the verge of the doorway.

Counting since the thing was heard approaching, the survivor landed a devastating, calculated strike on the figure with the blunt of her ice pick before her eyes even had time to discern what it was. The blow landed Grant across his face, splitting the stillness with the shatter of bones. He barely had time to stagger back before the survivor twisted the weapon's momentum and struck again at his torso. The impact sunk the butt into his ribcage and killed his screams, she raised the weapon once more as he toppled over. His side and face in splinters, Grant's struggles to stand were cut out with a kick, the assailant swinging and embedding the pick into his chest like a fang. She pinned him with a stomp and extracted the pick in a spray of blood, swinging again. Swinging repeatedly. Not bothering to see where it landed. It took an instant to wrench it out and repeat the attack, the metal no longer grey but dripping crimson like a viper's fang. Grant's screams and struggles cut short with every blow.

Eventually, she stepped back and slung the ice pick over her shoulder to analyse her results. The feeble movements remaining in its limbs could have indicated it was attempting to move, which was strange. She deduced that zombies could not feel much pain, and besides, what threat could a hole riddled corpse with a heavily fractured skeleton pose to her? Blood gurgled in the mess which had once been it's mouth. She suspected it was trying to cry, but even if enough of its vocal chords remained to form any distinctive noise, the collapsed trachea

Retrieving her bag, she made her way past the dribbling lake of red and began to go upstairs, to a room which preferably was far away from the rest of the snowstorm. It seemed to have subsided somewhat in the time she had been dispatching her quarry, but the breeze was still intense enough for her to shiver. Cleaning the blood off her hands with a handkerchief, she made her way into the recesses of the house. There wasn't any fireplace, much to her irritation, but the upstairs bathroom had a window functional enough to open and a shuttered door in a convenient position to block away smoke but not all the heat, so it would have to do for now. Despite the general emptiness of the area, there were surprising signs that someone had lived here, if only permanently. Where the carpet had been peeling off the floor, an unknown had torn up a large slice and laid it on top of the others. A smaller chunk lay at one end, possibly reminiscent of a pillow of sorts. The edges of the makeshift 'bed' were crusted with blood. She stared at it distastefully before kicking it aside and dumping the contents of her bag on the ground. There were tissues and matches and her meagre supplies... There wasn't much furniture to break, but apparently there was a chair that the owners of the house apparently didn't believe was worth packing up. "Rightio, here's the fire then." It was so rickety that it only took a couple of swings against the tiles to break, although forming it into a suitable fireplace was proving difficult. No way she would waste the precious sharpness of her knife on shredding the waxed wood. After several attempts she cursed and threw the wood to the ground again in disgust, then began to reach for her tissues.

She paused between pinching the match to the matchbox, and cursed, getting up and retrieving her ice pick she began to make her way downstairs. No, actually, it would be a shame if these tissues were to be used on the fire. How was she to know that the wind wouldn't blow them out? Besides, they were something she might need later. She didn't know exactly what at the moment, but it struck her as important. There was time before nightfall, and she certainly had enough time to kill at the moment. The survivor headed back downstairs, ice pick slung over her shoulder. "No..." The protest was faint on the wind, but she caught it this time. It was more of an agonized gurgle than a word, she was surprised the zombie could speak at all. This was one of the more lucid ones that she had encountered. She wondered if that meant it could feel pain more than the others, or remember things.

The zombie was still on the ground. And against all odds, was still moving. It had attempted to roll over onto its stomach and was now in the process of feebly attempting to crawl away. At her approach, the zombie's movements began to quicken with a panicked frenzy, smudging the already ensanguined tiles with more clots of crimson. "No..." Fine, she was right. The thing was lucid enough to talk. And possibly have some degree of self preservation, unlike the others who were too far gone to know that attacking without any regard to their own injuries. Still, she couldn't bear to have the dumb boy making pain noises all night. It might disturb her sleep. The zombie didn't pose enough of a threat to use her pickaxe anymore, instead she reached for the serrated knife typically reserved for wood. It wasn't exactly sharp... but it was enough for her to execute what she wanted. "No-" the dead boy whimpered a split second before her boot crashed into the side of his head. He didn't cry out from the impact, but he curled on the ground like a dying animal and made a noise which sounded like crying. She kicked him again, directly in the neck. She felt and heard something snap. "Quit rolling around and hold still you son of a bitch!" ignoring the corpses protests, she yanked it upright by the hair and began to hack at its neck. The fact that the zombie could still move to push her arms away amazed her. Self regeneration? Possibly. Having the appropriate angle was difficult in the air, so kicking him back against the wooden floorboards, she forced his chest down with her heel and sawed as hard as she could. It's no easy feat to cut through material as sinewy as human flesh, especially as the ruptured veins make the blade slippery and lacerate the area rather than cut or saw. More blood. Great. Its struggled and movement of its mouth were possibly a hint that it was trying to scream, but who cared? She paused to fish out tiny specks of flesh and skin caught between the teeth of her knife, then continued. How far down were the vocal chords and how fast did they take to regenerate? Was making the incision deep enough to hit bone enough to not regenerate? Maybe it would be enough once she heard enough steel grinding on bone.

Once more, the corpse lay motionless in front of her. Satisfied with her handiwork, she wiped off her knife and hands with a handkerchief and removed her rubber gloves. There was something in its hand that it appeared to have dropped upon realizing she had entered the room. She bent to retrieve it. A wallet, its brown cover crusted with blood and filth and age. How odd. She pulled out the ID card. Grant Cohen. The kid was 17. No wonder it was so easy to kill, the young ones weren't always made of tough stuff. He was pretty skinny too. Another slip caught her attention as she was busy stuffing remaining slips of cash into her pocket. A photo, printed on cheap paper. It was a well thumbed photo.. of someone who looked like Grant standing next to a stranger. She regarded the bloodstains on the thing with disgust, holding it with the tips of her fingers to avoid contact with the rest. How old and disgusting. But it was a lucky find, this paper would burn very slowly and nicely. So back upstairs went the thief with her pillage, the last reminder of Grant's humanity turned to fire kindling.. and then smoke and ashes.

___

Grant didn't know how long he lay there. He didn't know how long he had been wishing for the pain to end, or why exactly his attempts to scream only ended in unimaginable agony. But in the frosty darkness, he could finally move his arms along the floor. Sliding it against the tiles, his fingers brushed the tattered, moist remains of his throat. The feeling sent a jab of lancing pain through him. He didn't swallow. It had taken a while to put away this learned reflex. But the urge to clear his throat of the liquid was great. Grant did not see the folds of flesh slowly creeping across the tiles and slotting themselves back into his limbs and torso. He didn't see the pools of blood falling towards him, growing smaller and smaller. But he could feel the change. So instead... he waited. Slowly repositioning himself. Arms folded across his chest. Legs together, body straight. It wasn't because of the cold, somewhere in the forgotten recesses of his memory there was still something which called to him. Told him that this was the appropriate position. The final resting position of those who would have fallen before the outbreak... the position they would forever lie in their slumber in dark beds six feet below. And here he lay in the coffin of darkness, his flesh slowly reforming. It felt strangely appropriate. A subliminal part of him felt like doing it forever.

With the return of his health, came the return of his hunger. And with it... revenge. He attempted to stand, but so much as rolling over or propping onto his elbows filled him with lancing agony. With a gasp, he fell back down. Climbing to his feet was no longer an option, instead he focused what remained of his energy into the opening of his swollen eyelids. His disorientation didn't prevent him from realizing the great white stretch of plaster 10ft away from him was a ceiling and not a wall, or that by some mystical force he was somehow pinned upright to the opposite wall. He wouldn't have come to the conclusion naturally, it had somehow been ingrained in him through some hitherto unknown mechanism. His eyes half open, Grant was surprised but oddly calm in accepting that he could now see in total darkness. There was no need to regain his coordination, unlike on numerous other occasions. Turning his head to his right... he located the wallet. No amount of pain could prevent him reaching the felt folder of comfort, and his muscle memory had been attuned to it so long that not even a 90 degree change in gravitational pull could have made him fumble. The blood filtered from the tips of his fingers unconsciously, and so did what sensation remained in flesh numb with necromancy and cold. He set the wallet down and waited in anticipation... now staring at his hands. Every vessel and artery was now exposed clear as day to him, he examined them with a morbid fascination yet without the surprise or wonder typical of such discoveries. seemingly, if he focused hard... yes, that's it. His flesh rolled back from his finger like the bread of a sausage roll, the white tip of his finger bone visible. Grant felt no pain as the tips of his other fingers did the same, only smirked in the darkness as he picked up the wallet. Now he would never need to worry about getting blood on his beloved photo again. He needed that photo.

But with the contents examined and emptied, his satisfactions drained faster than the blood could flow back into his veins. It was gone. Filled with fear, Grant started to his feet. Blood splattered around him as it was displaced mid flow, permeated by the silt and snow remaining on the floor beforehand. It was gone. He needed it. He frantically turned to search the floor. It was gone. He needed it. He struggled against an onslaught of emotions and confusion. It was gone. He needed it.

He rushed upstairs, in his mind a single goal. It was gone. He needed it. He rounded the corner and followed the scent of warm blood. It was gone. He needed it. He bolted into the room, his vengeful gaze falling upon the sleeping figure. It was gone. He needed it. His heavy footfall unsettling her slumber as the blood on the ice pick began to drip and slide off towards him. It was gone. He needed it. He rushed to grab it, the half healed gaps in his legs stabbing him with knifelike pain. His fingers curling around the handle as he recalled how it had once been used against him. It was gone. He needed it. Bolting over, bringing the pointed part down against her skull with a bone cracking smack, cutting off her scream of realization.

Grant stared at the lifeless body in front of him, then immediately dropped to his knees and began rummaging through the bag beside it. His endless drive for fresh corpses forgotten, the only void he felt any compulsion to fill or fix was the empty slot in something he would have once called his wallet. Slips of soft paper were in a packet... all white and blank. Tools which were familiar to him in some way, Holding back a sob, he pulled the great thick sheet covering his fallen enemy and shoved his hands into the smaller holes which were similar to the ones in the cloth surrounding him, the ones conveniently placed closest to his hands. His fingers itched for the thin, crispy material which had comforted him so many times before. Tears, suffused with blood, were beginning to dribble down his cheeks. They hurt his half healed flesh. He let out a cry and covered his face, hastily attempting to clean away the salt from his wounds. It hurt. Everything hurt. It hurt before. Now there was a phantom pain somewhere in him that no amount of rubbing or reaching could alleviate.

Still determined to find his photo, he ran from the room to where the terrible intruder had destroyed his makeshift bed. Possibly hidden beneath the covers? No, it remained out of sight even after they were thrown against the wall. Grant wailed and wailed, running through the rooms and frisking them bottom to top.

The undead had a very poor perception of time, so it must have been ages before he eventually gave in and retreated to his hideout to curl away. His face in his hands, weeping quietly and wishing he had given her the most painful death imaginable. By the time he recalled his agony of almost starving to death at all, the intruder's body had about frozen solid.

It was gone. He needed it.

#my writing #bornoffireandwisdom #my posts #zombies #tw: gore #tw: violence #tw: blood #tw: sociopathy

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hellzyeahwebwielingessays · 4 years

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The Not-So-Amazing Mary Jane Part 35: AMJ #6.2

Previous Part

Next Part

Master Post

Much as we did for AMJ #4 we will be turning this issue into a three parter. This is because the next page we will cover has a Hell of a lot to unpack. As always, if you want the full context read the previous post.

MJ’s mental rehearsal continues, with her imagining Peter’s questions and the answers she plans on giving.

Why didn’t she call Peter? Because she couldn’t get to her phone safely

Why didn’t she scream for help/aren’t there security guars on set? Because she was the only one being pursued.

MJ plans to pause for dramatic effect and say (with enough conviction that Peter would have to understand): “I’d just seen this guy kill someone. Who knows what else he was capable of? I didn’t want to endanger anyone else by making them my shield. Especially since this guy was intent on following me and only me out of the building.”

Whilst MJ is going through this in her head she is shocked and scared at the sight of Oni. Oni reaches into his jacket (seemingly for a gun). MJ’ facial expression changes (I don’t really know what it’s trying to convey) and she smashes a fire alarm. Oni pulls his hand out of his jacket revealing nothing but his hand in a gun pose. Behind him the audiences rushes out in a panic.

Okay, the storytelling between the art and captions is actually very well executed here. If this was an original character rather than Mary Jane, someone who was perhaps characterized as brash, impulsive (possibly self-destructive), then this page would actually be really cool.

I appreciate how the art and dialogue marry up together creating irony and a contrast to what is happening. The framing of Oni and the ‘lighting’ (for lack of a better word) are also excellent as is the pacing and ‘rhythm’ of the page. It’s just executed very well.

Too bad MJ isn’t an original character and the context ruins the page.

Not only is MJ planning on deliberately lying to Peter but going to extra lengths to do it. It’s not just the one lie it’s several about her being in danger and unnecessarily. The worst part is the ‘I will say with enough conviction that my….boyfriend has to understand…’ It’s just so underhanded and exploitative, its MJ planning on in a sense tricking Peter into believing her lies.

And I do not know why.

Why is she planning to lie to him about this at all? Is she so egotistical that she can’t admit she made a mistake? Has she or is she planning on always lying to Peter about pursuing crooks herself?

I just do not understand the need for MJ to lie to Peter about this. Yes it will upset him but surely she knows he’ll get over it. Even if it’s just to save her some kind of hassle with him later surely she knows lying is just generally bad for a relationship, especially over something as serious as this. Peter doesn’t lie to her about being Spider-Man or the risks that entails for God’s sake.

This isn’t even connected to the Mysterio thing. This is just an extra pack of lies about an essentially unrelated event.

The most grating aspect of the page is that MJ recognizes the obvious questions and the obvious reasons she should have done something different. Which means Williams does too. Williams knows there were other more reasonable options for Mary Jane to have taken but has chosen for her to not take them.

And let’s dig into those options shall we.

She could have called Spidey. She is planning on lying about her phone being out of safe reach. Except it wasn’t.

She could’ve screamed for help or screamed about the murder. She could’ve gotten the security guards to help her. She plans to claim she was the only one being pursued. She wasn’t, the guy was leaving and she pursued him. He isn’t even pursuing her on this page.

Even if she was the only one being pursued she still could’ve gotten security guards involved. Putting aside the fact that that’s their job, this guy is seemingly not a super human. If he was why is he walking away, keeping to the shadows and using a weapon to strangle his victim. If he had enhanced strength he’d not need that. Therefore there is no evidence to suggest this man couldn’t be stopped by several burly guys or a bullet. After all, even in New York city the number of regular human criminals outnumber the costumed criminals.

And yes, this guy is seemingly a cold-blooded killer so MJ couldn’t be sure what else he was capable of. But if this chat show hosts celebrity guests then surely the security services have provisions in place to protect them? They are celebrities, there are always going to be one or two lunatics who might take things too far. So provided they aren’t incompetent the security guards should be armed and prepared to deal with a normal non-powered person at the very least, even an armed one and a cold blooded killer. In fact I’d have thought a crazed and armed celebrity stalker would be far less predictable than a sane and rationale killer.

Also, MJ’s point about not knowing what Oni is capable of applies to her. She doesn’t know what the man is capable of beyond obviously being willing and able to kill; we’ll come back to that in a moment.

MJ final point on this page regards not wanting to make other people her shield, especially since he was just after her. Again he wasn’t. In fact her pursuit of him wound up endangering more people. Not by accident either, she deliberately put them in danger by triggering the fire alarm.

That’s aggressively out of character for Mary Jane. Risk the lives of innocent people to save her own skin? Get fucked, Mary Jane would never do that. I can’t say I’m surprised. MJ’s moral compass has been utterly broken throughout this series. She’s been mind bogglingly selfish throughout this series.

You know when I wrote part 16, I was only thinking about MJ prioritizing her career over other people. I honestly never expected that I’d have to point out that she’d obviously not use other people as her shield.

There is an element of good craftsmanship to that moment though. The juxtaposition between what MJ is doing and the rehearsal dialogue MJ is running through in her head. As a moment intended to deliver irony it works magnificently. It just isn’t something Mary Jane would ever do. Oh, unless it was six villains and they were threatening the movie.

I guess in this series MJ’s priorities are:

Mysterio’s dream film project/Mysterio’s ‘redemption’/The employment of current super villains/Her career/Her life

Her relationship with Peter/the lives of innocent people

In that order.

Why do people sill laud this series again?

Anyway, MJ’s point about not wanting to use people as shields doesn’t hold up to scrutiny. Not just because that is literally what she is doing on this page. Not just because she basically did that last issue when the cast and crew battled the Savage Six for her. Not just because Mysterio battled them in issue #3.

But MJ has sought the help of others countless times before.

In part 20 I recounted several instances of MJ getting assists to save her self. Whilst some of those instances entailed help finding her, others involved her actively seeking help. In ASM #261 she asked Harry about Peter as she wanted Spider-Man to come help them. She asked Spidey to help rescue her and Liz from the fire in the same issue.

In part 17 I also pointed out that Mary Jane sought assistance from the police, body guards and Peter to deal with her stalker. In that instalment I also went over the time she encouraged Peter to go out and deal with a gangland shoot out going on. Obviously MJ was not in any direct danger there but wouldn’t asking Peter for help qualify as looking to him to protect innocent people, as MJ is herself was (allegedly) trying to do by pursing Oni?

There are numerous other instances where MJ has looked to others to help her in times of peril or when innocent people are in danger.

When Smythe abducted her in ASM Annual #19 she tried to get the attention of Peter or the authorities.

In Web #49 to Peter to sort out Lorraine’s drug dealer?

In ASm #317 she suggested calling in the marines when Venom was on the loose again.

In MKSM #11 she called S.H.I.E.L.D. to save Peter and Felicia from she (correctly) presumed would be a trap.

Or how about Spec #228 where a pregnant MJ was pursued by a mind controlled Peter bent on killing her? In that issue Mary Jane sought the help of the New Warriors and Ben Reilly/Scarlet Spider who acted as a shield between her and Peter.

No matter how you slice it, if MJ is in danger or thinks others are, she is more than willing to seek assistance from people who’s job it is to protect others. Shit, how many times has MJ suggested other heroes or the police could save the day instead of Spider-Man?

These do not mark her out as a weak coward. If you know your limits and can reasonably assess danger then often you serve the greater good by seeking the assistance of others. Sometimes serving the greater good means handing over responsibility to them if they are better qualified.

Spider-Man himself has sought help from other heroes when he feels outgunned on countless occasions. One of the most recent (as of this writing) occurred in FNSM v2 #12-13 where Peter asked the F4 to help him.

It’s all about scale. I went over this in parts 19-22, but MJ is not a super hero. She’s just a very capable civilian. But a capable civilian is still not on the same level as a very capable trained cop or trained security officer, someone who knows what they are doing with a gun basically. She’s probably more resourceful than those people, but her resourcefulness boils down to luck. She needs the right resources around her to exploit. Hence why her only course of action on this page was to create dozens of human shields.

Noticeably she was scared and unprepared deal with him one-on-one. Like what the fuck did she think was going to happen when she caught up with him. Her apprehension seemed at it’s worst when he was seemingly pulling out a gun and…yeah. What would she have done if he was armed.

Look back at the prior page. The distance between them would’ve been too great for her to have knocked the gun out of his hand or even attack him hand to hand. The pacing of the panels on this page make it clear that Oni would’ve had ample opportunity to have shot her if he wanted, even after MJ hit the alarm.

You could argue that her distraction worked because he wouldn’t have dared kill her with so many witnesses. That is to say he might’ve refrained from pulling a gun specifically because MJ hit the alarm. Or maybe you could argue if he had pulled a gun he wouldn’t have fired because of the witnesses.

The problem there being that he apparently wasn’t that fussed about witnesses because he knew MJ saw him but was leaving. And again, he’s wearing a mask! So what if people identify him. People know Spider-Man is guilty of countless property damage and other acts of vigilantism. It doesn’t matter because he wears a mask. Obviously he doesn’t want to be framed for a more serious crime like murder, but he’s on the side of the angels. Oni clearly isn’t and clearly doesn’t care to be. Not only because he just murdered someone but because he is literally dressed as a demon!

His decision to wear a mask like that at all actually destroys the idea that he is particularly worried about being spotted. From a realistic stand point no one would wear something so garish unless they wanted to be spotted. Super villains often want attention and have big egos, hence the flashy costumes. If this guy’s job was to be a shadowy assassin who kills with no witnesses why wear a bright red mask (which is specifically how MJ spotted him btw) with big impractical horns on it. I’m not saying this guy is actively trying to get noticed, but he clearly wouldn’t care about witnesses because his disguise is highly attention grabbing. Look how nonchalant he is amidst the crowd on this very page? If he really did want to just get in and get out, no witnesses he’d never have worn that.

Oh well. At least MJ isn’t nonplussed like she was last issue…Hey wait a minute. Why isn’t Mary Jane nonplussed like last issue? She could hold her own against the Savage Six single handily but one guy in a scary mask and some garrotte rope and she’s intimidated?

How does that make sense? I mean yes, it makes sense and is totally believable if you take this situation in isolation. But it this series isn’t consistent even with it’s own stupid ass rules!

Let’s leave it there for now. We’ll wrap up the issue with the next instalment.

Previous Part

Next Part

Master Post

#Leah Williams #Amazing Mary Jane #mjwatsonedit #mary jane watson #Mary Jane Watson Parker #MJ Watson #Spider-Man #Peter Parker #Fantastic Four #Venom #Alastair Smythe #Eddie Brock #Venom Symbiote

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sandersstudies · 6 years

Text

Quirky - Chapter 3

A High School Superhero AU - Sanders Sides

(US Boku No Hero Academia AU - Will add tag list in a reblog! If I miss you, please let me know ASAP - Sorry this chapter took literally forever - As always, asks, comments, messages, reblogs, and keysmashes are more than welcome. Writers love feedback, guys!)

Chapter Four ->

<- Chapter Two

Roman drove the tip of his pencil into the corner of his wooden desk, creating a minuscule pit of graphite. Mr. Picani was bubbling off about literature somewhere in the background, but Roman couldn’t focus.

I can’t believe Specs made me look so bad in front of the whole class yesterday. Still twisting his pencil, he glanced to his right, where Logan was shifting his gaze from Picani back to his oilcloth notebook, much heftier than Roman’s wide-ruled pages.

How pretentious.

Logan pushed his glasses up his nose and raised his hand. “When did the Romantic poetry movement transition into Realism?”

“Excellent question, Logan, let’s talk about the influence of later authors...”

What a teacher’s pet, too. Roman’s thought was cut off by the crisp snap of the tip of his pencil breaking off, splintering fragments of graphite and wood like rubble around the edge of the tiny pit. He resisted chucking the pencil and stood up to sharpen it. The clunky roll of the pencil sharpener drowned out the lecture in the background.

He removed the pencil. The tip had broken off inside the machine, and he crammed it back inside to hear the grinding sound again. The machine was probably loud enough to be disruptive.

Big deal. Hope this lasts long enough that the nerd misses half the lecture.

Mr. Picani cleared his throat. Roman glanced up. The teacher had paused, apparently mid-sentence, to watch as Roman stabbed the pencil sharpener repeatedly. The whole class followed his gaze, and Roman thought he heard a snort from the kid who was always wearing too much dark eyeshadow. His grip on his pencil tightened, and he felt a final give and heard a resounding crack as the pencil broke in half.

Several students laughed, and Roman felt his face get hot. He turned around with half the pencil still in his fist and the other half in the machine, and dropped back into his desk.

Mr. Picani continued his lecture from where he’d left off, but Roman couldn’t hear anything except a sound like the ocean in his ears. He glanced to his left and right, and saw Logan continuing to take notes.

Smug bastard probably thinks this is real funny, Roman thought. He wouldn’t say so, though - he likes to act like he’s got no emotions. He’s probably a robot under all those layers of nerdiness.

Remy was just two desks beyond Logan, and was rolling gum between his teeth as he scribbled in his notebook. He hadn’t even glanced up when Picani had stopped class.

Somebody needs to put that guy in his place, too, Roman thought, tapping his half-pencil against his leg. I’m surrounded by a bunch of pretentious and quirkless jerks who all want to upstage me and make me look like crap.

He sunk lower in his desk. If he wasn’t coming out near the top of the class by the first evaluations, what was he going to tell his parents? They’d pulled all their own strings to make sure he’d get in on a recommendation, and after that first day on the field, it had looked like everything would be so easy.

That was the thing: when he had a chance to prove himself, by himself, he could do it—he could show everyone. It was only when other people got involved that he looked like such a fool. If Logan hadn’t totally abandoned him during the bomb exercise, Roman would surely have won easily. As it was, they’d come so close to losing that the match was almost a tie. It didn’t help that it was against Shades—what was his name? Remy—who’d already enjoyed embarrassing him once, and in front of the whole cafeteria and the upperclassmen, no less.

Roman tried to suppress the warmth in his cheeks and ears. Blushing wasn’t the way to start gaining back his reputation. He’d just have to prove himself, and that was only a matter of getting back onto that training field. He breathed deeply and rolled his fingers against the desk. Seeing the sparkles in his skin catch the light was always relaxing, and a little hypnotic.

No problem, no problem, he told himself. It’s only a few days in. Everybody will forget about all this stuff by the end of the semester. I’ll give them new stuff to remember.

The bell rang.

Kai tried to get Roman’s attention from across the room, but Roman only noticed Logan leaning in toward the eyeshadow kid and Terrence, and the three exchanged some comment.

Talking about me, I’m sure, Roman thought. No big deal, they’ll regret it later. It’s too bad Terrence likes those guys, his quirk isn’t bad, and he seems pretty cool.

But that didn’t matter, either. Kenny and Kai, who’d both gone to middle school with Roman, were still on his side. So were plenty of other kids. It was only a matter of keeping it that way.

***

Roman bounced slightly in his seat as Mr. Sanders entered the room. In the end, the other classes didn’t matter, including his embarrassment in literature. This was the Hero course, the real reason any of them were at UA, and if Roman was going to prove himself, it would have to be here.

“No exercises today,” Mr. Sanders said, sliding behind his desk with a grin as a few students watched nervously. “I bet you guys are tired after a couple days in the field. We’ll start today with a bit of housekeeping. You’ve started to get to know your classmates, and it’s time to elect a class representative.”

He held up his hand in anticipation as a few hands shot in the air. “Don’t stress yourselves out,” he said. “Just wait a moment.

“Selecting a class rep should not be about the student who is loudest or strongest or most popular, it should be about who you think is the best leader. It should be somebody who is organized and trustworthy.”

Roman’s chest expanded. Half the class was already on his side after the exercises of the first day of class, and only a few of the other students seemed like they could really compete.

“Students who would like to be eligible may write their names on the board now,” Mr. Sanders said. He held up a piece of chalk and was immediately rushed. Roman barely grabbed the chalk from the teacher’s hand before Terrence did, but as Roman reached the board he discovered that Logan had beaten him there, using a piece of chalk he’d taken from the board shelf.

Roman stewed as Logan wrote his full name in methodical cursive.

He sure takes notes faster than this - clearly taking forever just to spite me.

Roman jostled for Logan’s place as the shorter boy stepped aside. He wrote his own name above Logan’s before handing the chalk off to Dominic.

Not all the students had come to the board. Remy was leaning over to make some comment to the boy in the wheelchair, and the boy with too much eyeshadow was doodling absentmindedly in a notebook.

“All right!” Mr. Sanders said as the final student, Dahlia, wrote her name. “I’m always excited by student enthusiasm. We have…” He glanced at the board. “Six candidates for class representative!”

Roman read the list. His own name and Logan’s were at the top, followed by Dominic, Rafaela, Terrence, and Dahlia.

“We’ll be putting this up to a vote,” Mr. Sanders went on, holding up simple ballots. “The student with the most votes will be class representative, and the student who comes in second will be our deputy representative.”

There was a tap on Roman’s shoulder, and he turned around to see Kenny and Kai showing him a thumbs-up.

“Good luck,” Kenny whispered.

Roman gave a thumbs-up in return and smiled as Mr. Sanders handed out the ballots, and he covered his up halfway as he wrote his own name on the line.

No use pretending, he thought. Can you imagine if I wrote Specs’ name? He snorted to himself and folded the paper in half.

Mr. Sanders collected the papers in a small wicker basket, and tossed them a few times before pulling them out.

“Virgil, would you keep track of numbers on the board, please?” he asked.

Virgil slunk to the front of the room and picked up the chalk, scratching a shaky line each time the teacher counted a ballot. Roman bounced his leg as the numbers went up. He had four, five, six…

“And that’s it!” Mr. Sanders said. “That makes Roman our class president with six votes, and Dahlia our deputy president with five. Congratulations, you two.”

Roman only smiled and nodded, but inside he felt his heart turn over.

A few people still voted for me, even after that mess yesterday. And Specs didn’t even come second. The tally marks on the board showed that Logan was a close third behind Dahlia, but in the end he hadn't won. Being bookish doesn’t make a hero, kid, Roman thought, glancing at Logan and searching for a hint of disappointment. But Logan’s face was unconcerned as he opened up his notebook and picked up his pen.

Probably real torn up inside, I’d imagine, Roman thought. Or maybe not. Sometimes seems like he doesn't feel anything.

***

“Hey, Earth to Roman,” Kai said.

“Hmm?” Roman’s fork had been suspended between his tray and mouth for thirty seconds. “Sorry, just thinking about some stuff.”

“You’re class rep now, man,” Kenny said. “You have to be alert! Attentive!” He karate-chopped the air jokingly.

“Very funny,” Roman said. He turned to Kai. “What were you saying?”

“I asked if you heard about this new villain,” Kai said. “It was all over the news this morning.”

Roman shrugged. He’d woken up late and barely had time to get dressed before rushing out the door.

“A big logo was drawn on the sidewalk in front of city hall today - a black circle with half-circles for eyes.”

“Doesn’t sound like a villain to me,” Kenny said. “Probably just a street artist messing around.”

“Oh come on, right in front of city hall? Sure seems like a threat,” Kai retorted.

“Your dad didn’t mention it, Roman?” Kenny asked. Roman’s friends knew that the one-time Flying Falcon followed hero and villain news religiously.

“Oh, he’s been travelling this week,” Roman said. “Giving a speech at some college or something.” Despite his retirement, the Falcon still received frequent calls for visits, promotions, and sponsorships.

“I mean, considering how many heroes graduate every year, it’s crazy that villains can keep up,” Kenny said.

“Half of them are just one-time petty thieves trying to get on TV without knowing the first thing about actual methods,” Roman groaned. He couldn’t stand wannabes. “Their quirk is kinda cool and suddenly they think they’re the next supervillain of the century. They always get unmasked as some twenty-something who works as a barista or whatever.”

Rafaela slid into the cafeteria bench next to Kai in one fluid movement, courtesy of her elastic limbs.

“No need to show off,” Roman muttered. Rafaela had always been his biggest middle school competition.

“Says Roman,” she retorted. “What are you guys talking about?”

“That logo that appeared last night,” Kai said. “Looks like there’s a new villain in town.”

“Oh yeah, some villain,” she snorted. “What’s he gonna do, spray-paint the heroes into submission? I’m really scared.”

“Exactly what I was sayin,” Roman said. “It’s clearly just a stunt.”

“Well, we could pull a stunt of our own,” Rafaela said, taking a bite of her pasta salad.

“What are you talking about?”

“What, Roman Lightflight gets into hero school and suddenly leaves his deviant ways behind? Becomes a model student? Reforms from his delinquency?”

“Oh, come on, we never did anything all that bad,” Kai protested. “We went to a midnight movie once and didn’t pick up the popcorn we spilled.”

“Exactly,” Rafaela said. “We’re high schoolers now, we have to step up our game.”

“What’s your point?” Kenny asked.

“They haven’t cleaned up that logo yet,” she went on. “You know my mom is a secretary at the hall, and she said it’s going to be taken off tomorrow. They needed to buy a special cleaner, or something, I dunno.”

“And?”

“And there’s spray paint in my garage.”

Roman shifted in his seat. “You don’t think the area will be under surveillance?” he asked. “After this whole ‘new-villain-in-town’ thing?”

“Real heroes and police don’t talk like that,” Rafaela said. “You said yourself, some loser is just doing this for attention, and the media blew it up.”

“I’m in,” Kai said. “It’s like our rite of passage into high school.”

“It’s also sort of like a metaphor,” Kenny pointed out. “We’ve started learning how to wipe out villains, so we remove a symbol of villainy. It’s kind of poetic.”

“Ro-man,” Rafaela crooned. “Are you in?”

“Guys, we have homework,” Roman whispered, leaning across the table. He glanced left and right. The last thing he needed was getting reported to a teacher for this.

“Did running the course with Logan get to your head yesterday?” Rafaela asked, tapping Roman’s skull playfully.

“Okay, fine, whatever,” Roman said, sitting back. He wasn’t fond of Rafaela acting like some kind of group leader. “What exactly are we doing?”

“Leave it to me,” she insisted.

***

“I can’t believe I left this to you,” Roman hissed, wiggling his hips in frustration.

“It’s not my fault your ass is so big,” Rafaela called back. “Doesn’t the window open any further?”

“It’s stuck,” Roman said. “Why couldn’t I just go out the door?”

“Oh sure, real advanced sneaking out technique,” Kai stage-whispered from the ground. “Just waltz out the front door. Are you insane? We’re in high school now.”

“My dad’s not even home, and my mom sleeps like a rock,” Roman insisted. “And it seems awfully convenient for you guys that I’m the only one who lives in a second-floor bedroom.”

“Oh, screw this,” Rafaela muttered. Her arms extended like eery eels under the moonlight and her hands reached out for Roman. “Come on.”

Roman groaned with humiliation as he took her hands. With a forceful flick, she retracted her arms, and Roman somersaulted face-first out the window and fumbled for a grasp on the shingles, skidding to a stop by jamming one foot against the drainpipe.

“Nice! Now jump down so we can get Kenny!” Kai said.

“Sure,” Roman said, keeping his screams internal. He slid onto his stomach and swallowed as he scooted backward and felt air under his feet. “How far am I from the ground?” He’d tried to sound casual, but heard the strain in his voice and tried to clear his throat.

“It’s not that far,” Rafaela said.

“I mean, it’s kinda-” Kai started to say.

Roman dropped. His landing didn’t jolt, but squelched, and he felt himself sink slightly.

“Thought that might be safer,” Kai said as Roman tried to disentangle himself from Kai’s goo.

“Let’s just get out of here,” Roman said, finally scrambling to his feet.

It was only a few blocks to Kenny’s house, but Roman felt like they’d been walking for an hour when he finally said, “One of us needs to hurry up and get a driver’s license so we can stop sneaking out on foot.”

“Oh, come on, you big baby,” Kai said. “Does the class president need a nappy-wappy?”

“It’s after midnight, cut me some slack.”

“Will you two hush?” Rafaela said as Kenny’s house loomed in front of them. Kenny was waiting on the step.

“Did you use the front door?” Roman asked.

“Duh, what else should I have done, climb out the window?”

“Whatever, let’s go.”

Rafaela claimed to know the fastest way to the city hall, and it was useless asking her it slow down; when she got excited, her legs tended to stretch an extra foot in front of her. Kai, the shortest, had to jog every third step to keep up. The only benefit of this was that the fast pace made the trip seem shorter, and it wasn’t long before they were near the center of town. Signs blinked the time lazily, and Roman groaned at the single-digit numbers. The streets were lit, but fairly deserted. It was the middle of the week, and even the pubs and clubs were mostly empty. A gas station and a 24-hour grocery were still bright, but most of the rest of the street was darkened.

“There’s the hall,” Rafaela said. “Let’s go see the logo.”

City hall was dark too, looming slightly in the darkness about a block away. Kai drew a deep breath to Roman’s left.

“You okay?” Roman asked.

“Rafaela is so fast,” he complained, standing with his hands on his knees.

“We’re almost there,” Roman said. “Come on.”

Kai groaned and began speed-walking again, and Roman fell in behind him

Roman felt a buzz on his thigh and fumbled in his pocket for his phone, trying not to slow down. As he glanced down, a passing man bumped into him, and Roman almost dropped the phone.

“Hey!” Roman snapped, turning over his shoulder to glance at the retreating man.

The man looked back. He was wearing a long coat with a hood and high collar, but under the sharp illumination of the streetlamp, Roman thought he recognized a sharp cheekbone and dark eyes. Roman turned around quickly and shuffled up between Kenny and Kai.

“What’s wrong?” Kenny asked.

“Shush,” Roman said. “I think I just saw Mr. Sanders.”

“What?” Kai exclaimed.

“I said shush,” Roman said as Rafaela slowed down to walk next to them.

“You think you saw who?” she said.

“Thomas Sanders,” Roman said. “I think he just bumped into me.”

Rafaela turned her head and scratched her neck, stealing a glance over her shoulder. “Well, if you saw him before, he’s gone now. He must not have recognized you.”

“He looked right at me,” Roman insisted, resisting the urge to look back down the street.

“What would Mr. Sanders be doing wandering the city at night?” Kenny said. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“You’re probably just nervous,” Rafaela said. Roman bristled. “Fine, fine,” Rafaela said, holding up her hands. “We’ll take the long way around, make sure nobody is behind us.” She yanked Roman’s arm as she turned down an alley, picking up speed again.

“What are we doing?” Kai groaned. “The City Hall is that way.”

“We’ll come from behind.” Rafaela said. “In fact...If we come from this direction, we’ll be right behind the hero’s honor statue. If anybody’s around, we’ll see them before they see us.” She kept one hand tightly grasped around Roman’s bicep, and he found himself being half-dragged as her strides increased with excitement.

“There’s the statue,” Rafaela whispered as they emerged into the square. “Come on.” She was only illuminated by the streetlamp for a moment before ducking into the shadow of the statue, and the boys followed her.

“Let’s get this over with and go home,” Roman hissed.

“Where’s the logo?” Rafaela asked. She stood up and peeked over the brick base of the statue.

“Everything clear?” Roman asked.

“Yeah. Wait…” She paused. “I think there’s somebody across the square.”

“Let me see,” Roman said, shifting into a crouch next to her. She pointed, and Roman stared between the bronze legs of the statue toward the intersection. There was somebody with a high coat collar walking slowly toward the building. Roman grabbed Rafaela and yanked her back to the ground.

“That’s who I saw before,” he hissed urgently. “It’s Mr. Sanders.”

“Lemme see!” Kai said, standing up. He was barely tall enough to look over the base of the statue. “It’s too dark, that could be anybody.”

“I saw him,” Roman insisted. “Why would I make that up?”

“What’s he doing, anyhow?” Rafaela asked. The figure was still in shadow, standing in one place outside the reach of the streetlights. He might have been gazing into the window of a nearby building. “Super creepy.”

“Is he looking at us?” Kenny asked, still sitting.

“I can’t tell,” Rafaela said.

“Should we go?” Kai slunk below the edge of statue again.

“I didn’t climb out that stupid window for nothing,” Roman said. Class president, he reminded himself. “Let’s just wait and see what happens.”

The only sound was the distant buzz of traffic, the occasional rattle of a train, and a faint hum from the nearest streetlamp as the four students crouched behind the statue. The man across the street seemed to gather his bearings and began moving toward the city hall.

“He saw us,” Kai whispered fearfully.

“Shush. He might just be looking at the logo,” Rafaela said. The logo was still hidden from their view by the steps to the hall. The man approached the place and stood staring down. Roman wasn’t sure if he imagined the familiarity of the man’s shoulders, his gait. The hum of the streetlamp seemed to grow louder in Roman’s ears.

“I expected you to be here.”

Rafaela stifled Kai’s gasp with one hand, pulling the smaller student against her. Kenny and Roman shared a fearful glance. They all knew that voice.

“I’ve been waiting for you to show up,” a second voice said. Roman and Rafaela squabbled for a look, frantically silent. A figure had appeared on the city hall steps, either emerged from the building or dropped from the roof, but it seemed as if he might have emerged from the shadows themselves. Rafaela gripped Roman’s arm so tightly he felt her nails dig into his skin.

Roman had to struggle to understand the next words over the roaring in his ears.

“It’s good to see you again, Falcon,” the first man said.

“I fear you may have the upper hand, my friend,” the Flying Falcon said. “You know who I am, and I’m afraid we haven’t met.”

The figure straightened up for the first time, revealing the face Roman had printed on his brain. Rafaela stared at him in astonishment.

“Multi-Man?” the Flying Falcon said. “There must be some mistake.”

“No mistake, old friend,” Mr. Sanders said. The voice that was usually so warm echoed cold off the stone steps. “There’s a new era coming to the city. This is only the first sign. Forgive the publicity stunt, I needed you to be here.”

“And why is that?”

“Roman,” Rafaela whispered. “Roman, let’s go.”

“To make the second sign,” Mr. Sanders said. “By defeating one of the most iconic heroes of our era.”

“Roman, come on,” Kai insisted, tugging on Roman’s shirt.

The Flying Falcon took a step back, and Roman felt his throat grow cold — he couldn’t swallow. “I don’t want to fight you, Multi-Man,” Falcon said. “Let’s talk about this, you’re not well.”

“You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you?” Mr. Sanders said. “Don’t tell me you’re too soft to fight, Falcon.”

The Flying Falcon straightened. “I notified the police when you approached city hall. They’ll be here any minute.”

“You’ll have to keep me there until then,” Mr. Sanders said. His hands balled into fists at his sides, and Roman felt his stomach tighten as, with a sudden transition, two Mr. Sanders stood in front of city hall. This was the power that had felled villains, saved cities, prevented disasters.

And now his father was facing it.

“Roman, we have to get out of here,” Rafaela said. “The police are coming.” Kai and Kenny were already dashing for the alley.

The first Mr. Sanders split a second time, and the copies rushed toward the Flying Falcon, who assumed a fighting stance. In a flurry of blows, he felled both copies, who disintegrated as they hit the ground.

There were police sirens in the distance. Rafaela let go of Roman’s arm and sprinted for the alley.

More copies appeared and rushed up the steps, and the Falcon was able to use the height to his advantage, striking downward to take out the copies. However, as they increased in number, the hero began backing up the steps, unable to defend on three sides. His breath was coming quickly, and Roman could see him tiring. He swung his leg around in one huge kick to drive the copies back, and jumped up two more steps, crouching. With one leap, he moved to take flight. He was suspended for one moment in the moonlight, and Roman’s heart jumped.

One of the copies reached up and just managed to grasp the Falcon’s ankle. Thrown off balance, the Falcon’s momentum carried him forward and down into the tide of copies, of which there were now over a dozen. He vanished under them.

Roman’s hand flew up in a motion that was automatic. Something swelled inside him, and he felt his body grow hot. A tremor ran from his shoulder to his hand, and a blinding light shot through the legs of the statue, and into Multi-Man’s face.

Mr. Sanders cried out, raising his hands to his eyes, and as he stumbled backward, the copies melted into the air. The Flying Falcon was illuminated on the steps for an instant before the light also dissipated. A police car screamed around the corner, followed by two more.

Roman felt paralyzed, as if all the heat had streamed out of his body with the light and left him frozen.

Mr. Sanders was still recovering from the light, but heard the sirens and sprinted for the opposite intersection. Officers were streaming from the vehicles, and the first of them paused to reach for the Falcon.

“Don’t worry about me.” The hero’s voice was so quiet Roman could barely hear him. “He went that way, you have to stop him.”

More officers were following, but the dark figure was already out of sight. They were asking questions, shining lights, dashing around. One car drove in the direction of the fleeing man.

None of them noticed a teenager fleeing the scene.

#sanders sides #fanfiction #fanfic #fic #roman sanders #studywritesstuff #violence #swearing

520 notes · View notes

someonestole15 · 4 years

Text

Face every fight with a smile across your face

Where will you be when the carrier falls?

Calm before the storm, I feel somewhat afraid of what awaits us up there. Plan is to assault the Crimson carrier sitting in orbit around the moon known as Declus. The moon itself is barren and lacks any defenses or weaponry, but it is blocking the Empire from dealing with the carrier from range.

Rails to unknown, they told us to board this train without further knowledge. Almost empty, there are a few other soldiers in this carriage, but the silence is killing me. Valkyrie sat opposite me; Nine beside her, many a question still cloud my mind.

Why did that turret activate when I was on my last legs? How was I able to hold my own against the Sister?

Mix of grey and black, the flashes of gunfire in my mind go by like the pictures in an album, every one of them breaking my mind a little more. Shattered pieces floating around, still combined by hair thin parts, the smallest impact capable of pushing it over the edge.

Slight shivers as the realization kicks in, I’ve been running recklessly for days now, welcoming any chance to die on the field, to escape from the reality.

Breathe, focus, you’ve gotten this far with luck, but from here, play by your strengths.

Form a loadout from known data and Empire inventory. Older fashioned, lower caliber than the Beowulf but easier to manage along with a higher capacity. Power might prove problematic, but I have a few tricks to make sure their armor won’t be an issue. The deck of cards reshuffled in my mind, draw out a hand and see where it lands you.

With no destination in sight, I decided to catch some shuteye, let the dreams of past be reworked into new ones.

Minutes, hours, hard to tell anymore, I woke up as the train slowed down. The view outside of a frigid tundra, how far it taken us from the capital? No need to ponder that, a large hangar on the horizon with a runway longer than anything I had seen before stretching out from it. Several smaller buildings around it, a glistening web above, no wonder the Crimson hadn’t attacked it.

Out onto the platform, the trickle of doubt still sat in my mind, but parts of the plan formed along with the loadout made me feel easier about it. Lost in thought, Valkyrie waved her hand in front of my face and brought me back to reality.

“Valkyrie to Specter, you there?”

“Yes…” The mask still affixed to my face by its seams, the reason why I had preferred fabric for masks, it was practically impossible to tell how I looked underneath it. All I was certain off was that we were on our way to Declus, the glow from my eye felt almost burning through the visors dim glass.

“…Specter/Phoenix, I hear you.”

“There he is, you good to go?”

“Yeah, a bit fragmented but otherwise fine.”

“That does remind me… your transponder doesn’t show up on my list anymore.”

“It was broken from the fall… they installed a new one.”

“But you haven’t changed it?”

“Not yet.”

>Clearing transponder code… Done >Awaiting new code… >Input AX-15 >Code accepted, linking system with VAL_0_1 and K-09_NINE >Complete.

Pixelated wave over my vision as the outlines formed on my HUD, under the mask, my face formed a smile as I wrapped my arms around Valkyrie.

“Never let me lose myself like that.”

“I’ll try…but why the name change?”

“As long as you know me, does it matter?”

“Guessing it doesn’t…” She laughed a little before pulling herself free as an Empire soldier approached us.

“VAL, K9 and… AX-15, please follow me.”

“Understood.”

Trail the soldier like a shadow a man, he took us to a troop transport vehicle and instructed us to board it, following us himself once we were in, radioing ahead as the truck started moving. Short drive, the view hardly changed from the snow and wind blowing throughout the area. Bright sun above, memories of Earth rushed through my mind, everything done there… on Mars… I never got to clear my name.

Actions speak louder than words, and if this goes through, they will have to do a lot of yelling to attempt covering it.

Brakes kicking up a small cloud of snow, the truck stopped in front of a building, blank in details but clearly one of their military bases. Dismount, follow the soldier inside and steps into a room of steel and bright lights.

Loadout request processed before we even got there, scanning my hand on a console sat at the middle of the room brought up the details.

“Someone is packing heat for the mission…” A man in charge of the armory said as he brought in a weapons case and placed it on a table next to me.

“…Rare to see anyone make a request like this, I mean asking me to load both hollow point and High EX into the same magazine? Far from standard issue…”

“Crimson armor has been improved ever since they encaged with the Empire forces, this will get me through it.”

Two clacks from the case as I unlocked it, light caught the matte black receiver as I placed my hand on the grip.

“Glad to see someone pull the old AK bits from storage. Been a while since we’ve had to build one from scratch.”

Lightweight steel, 7.62, steady and optimized to work even in the direst of situations. Hard to modify in its stock form but the kits for adding rails being plentiful, that wasn’t an issue. Folding grip on the bottom rail, strobe light on the left, and muzzle brake at the end of the barrel. Hologram sight along the top, the stock felt as if molded to my chassis as I braced it against my shoulder.

Bulletproof vest over my grey jacket and hood over my head, I slung the AK across my chest and loaded up a .45 caliber sidearm. Less than the Phoenix, but I lacked the time to look for it again.

Fully or semi-automatic, the lightweight frame made it easy enough to use with one hand, 25 rounds in the magazine as I placed it in my holster and strapped the magazine holders to my vest.

The blade within my arm was useful, but over the past weeks, I had taken enough risks with it. Akin to a sharpened slab of titanium, the knife procured by the armory seemed to the spec, but Valkyrie stopped me from taking it. She drew a shiv like knife from her vest and placed it on the table next to the Empire variant before turning back to looking over her own weaponry.

One look at the knives and I made my choice. Two hands, why not both?

Back on my hip, the Empire standard edge and on my vest, Valkyrie’s pride and joy, the grip wrapped in wiring and tape, I continued gearing up with a smile on my face, who knows how long she had been holding on to it.

Geared up, Valkyrie chose to run a DMR over her sniper rifle, seeing as we were heading up to close quarters combat, her backup was a PDW similar to the one I had ran on earth. Strange caliber, foldable to use with one hand or unfolded for better accuracy. Pistol sidearm, Nine was equipped with new charges of smoke, fitted with electric particles to either charge up anyone in it or stun them.

Rack a round, keep the safety on, adrenaline slowly building up inside...

Give em hell

#stories #logs of an android #science fiction #sci fi & fantasy #writing #scifi #fiction #story #cyberpunk #cyber

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smitten-miqitten · 5 years

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A Fine Gift

AO3 Link

“Your nameday’s coming up soon, isn’t it Chief?” Biggs inquired, wiping down their latest prototype model of manacutter. Mk.6, or some such.

“Oh yes, the day people get to tell me how ancient I am. Don’t remind me.” Cid pouted, clearly not looking forward to the prospect.

Era looked up from her book, confused. “But you’re not old, and you certainly don’t look it”. He cheered a little at this, flashing her a grateful smile.

“Chief’d look even less old if he’d just shave every once in a while”. Wedge chimed in.

Jessie looked up from her ledger in agreement, “Exactly! We’ve been telling him for ages. The Chief has the absolute worst case of baby face I’ve ever seen. You wouldn’t think it, with how brawny he is. Looks years younger. A trim is long overdue.”

“I’m not shaving it!!” Cid bellowed. It was plainly a subject that had been brought up many a time before, and certainly would be again.

“You know, I actually can’t really recall what you look like without it. I only ever saw the once, with the echo, and the echo is always so blurry”. Era mused, struggling to imagine Cid’s beard bereft visage.

“Should I shave it, then?” Cid asked genuinely, not an onze of his previous vitriol present. He gave his beard an absent minded stroke, trying to decide how long he could bear to part with it.

“N..no! You don’t have to go that far…” Era stuttered, only to be shouted over by an irate Jessie.

“Oh, so you’ll shave for her, but not for us? Time and time again we’ve asked…”

“There are several things I’d do for her I wouldn’t do for you lot”, Cid shot back, a slight smirk growing on his face.

“Cid!” Squeaked the bright red Miqo'te, having caught his meaning.

Cid just grinned, loving how embarrassed she got at the smallest things. “Beard or no, someone will find a way to call me old. The fewer people that remember my nameday, the better I say.”

“Still”, Era argued, recovering somewhat from her mortification, “We should celebrate just a little bit, at the very least. It’s not your nameday every day. Is there anything you want?”

“Peace and quiet?” He suggested hopefully.

Era grinned, “Come now, let’s be realistic”.

“How about a day off?” Biggs offered, tightening bolts here and there on the manacutter.

Jessie snorted, “With the backlog of orders we’ve got going thanks to his wandering about at random? You wish!” She slammed the ledger shut for emphasis. It was true Cid had been out and about a rather lot of late, volunteering to assist the Scions largely for a chance to leave the workshop once in a while.

“A party then? After work, with the Scions and friends?!” Wedge added helpfully as he passed Biggs another wrench.

Cid groaned. “That’s the exact opposite of peace and quiet. If you want an excuse to see Tataru, I’m sure there’s something that needs repairing at the Rising Stones”, he said, having used much the same excuse to see Era on occasion, “I just want everyone to forget it. No nameday, no jokes about going grey the day I was born, just an ordinary day”. He returned his attention to his work, growing deaf to any further debate on the matter.

Nobody was quite satisfied with this, but Cid didn’t seem liable to budge on the issue, stubborn as he was. They all silently resolved to convene in secret, to come up with some way to celebrate.

…………………

Gathered around a small dusty table within a storage room in the Rising Stones, lit almost ominously by handful of dim lanterns, Era, Biggs, Wedge, and Jessie began to brainstorm.

They had a consensus on the small details: a quiet, low energy gathering. A nice dinner, cooked by Bismarck-trained-chef Era, cake again prepared by Era, and gifts. The gift, they decided, had to be good enough to make up for the blandness of the rest of the event. They contemplated each inventing something for him, though the idea was deemed a flop on the basis that it would be nigh impossible to keep them a secret.

Era also wanted to provide him something other than her cooking, as she cooked often anyway. It wouldn’t be special. She wanted to give him something permanent, something he could use. But what could she get him that he could not make better himself? She only knew of a few craftsmen more skilled, and even they were specialists… Oh.

“Looks like little miss has an idea”, Biggs noted, breaking the long silence that had permeated the room in the wake of their combined deliberations.

“Perhaps…I was thinking that Cid might appreciate new tools. Lazy though he can be at times, he truly loves his work. Higher quality tools surely would make him happy. And it could be a group gift, as I know nothing about tools. I’ll need your expertise”.

“It’s a good idea, for sure”, Jessie began, though the ‘but’ was evident. “Tools better than the ones he has would be a small fortune, though. He made a lot of them himself, after all”. She sounded rather disappointed; new tools would be just the thing to get him inspired to work consistently again.

Era nodded; she knew that in any other situation her suggestion would be entirely unrealistic. But she had an ace up her sleeve, or so she hoped. “I may actually be able to get such things free of charge, or for relatively little. I happen to know a master goldsmith who may be willing to make them as a favor to me, as I’ve helped his son out of a number of tight spots in the past. I can’t guarantee he’ll do it, of course, but if you all can provide me with specs for the tools, I know he’ll have the skill to make them if he does agree”.

“Who would that be?” Wedge asked, feet kicking back and forth as they dangled from his too-high chair.

“Godbert Manderville”, she said, shying away from their surprised gasps and shouts, shushing them lest their secret meeting be discovered.

…………………

As the Ironworks Crew gathered up all the details needed to make the tools, Era set to work getting in contact with Godbert. She hadn’t seen Hildy in some time (thank the Twelve), and so had not met Godbert in quite a while. Knowing he often did business with the Fortemps family, she reached out to her adoptive father Edmont, who happily arranged tea for the three of them. Godbert agreed nearly immediately, citing her dedication to his son’s well being (she neglected to point out she often had no choice in her interactions with Hildy), and so the rest of tea was spent regaling both Hildy’s father and her own with tales of her adventures, at their combined request.

With the specs from Biggs, Wedge, and Jessie, as well as the high quality materials Era gathered and provided, it took Godbert next to no time at all to craft a full set of of the finest instruments imaginable. Truly, his craftsmanship was a wondrous thing to behold. Era couldn’t thank him enough, expressing her gratitude profusely until Julyan demanded she hush up already and be on her way. Packed away in a custom case, everything was now ready for the big day.

…………………

Cid’s nameday started, as he had requested so vehemently, as any other. He did, however, take a bit more time that morning to sleep in, indulging in early morning snuggles with his darling Warrior of Light. After stretching with a loud series of pops emanating from his joints, Era teasingly asked after the state of his ‘aged bones’, earning her a furious tickling until she relented and apologized, laughing away. A light breakfast was followed by a surprisingly easy day of work, during which Cid was curiously allowed to work on whatever he pleased with no pressuring about impending deadlines. He couldn’t possibly miss the air of excitement emanating from his employees and sweetheart, and began to brace himself for whatever surprises they had in store for him despite his prior protests. But that’s part of what he loved about all of them; they never truly listened to everything his damnfool ass said, ever insistent whenever they thought themselves in the right, all just as bullheaded as he.

Era prepared a truly marvelous meal and equally marvelous cake, just as he suspected she might. Regardless of the quality of her training, her culinary talent was astounding. It struck him as rather a missed opportunity, that she could not live indulging in her love of botany and cooking. A greenhouse and cafe would be perfect for her, surely to rival the finest establishments in Eorzea. It saddened him a little, but he had little time to mull over the misfortune, as everyone became increasingly antsy, whispering amongst themselves as if he couldn’t hear. Biggs reached into one of the taller cabinets, one Cid often had trouble reaching and thus avoided out of frustration, and pulled out what appeared to be a rather ornate toolbox. It had several bows looped around the handle, cheesily colored in the Ironworks blue.

“Open it!”, they all said in unison, their excitement uncontainable. Chuckling and doing as bade, he opened the box to reveal the finest set of hammers, wrenches,screwdrivers, and myriad other oft used tools he had ever lain eyes on. Surely, a set of this quality must be worth all of Mor Dhona. “How in the seven hells…” Cid started, baffled eyes searching the four staring back at him with baited breath.

“I called in a favor”, Era offered in a hardly sufficient explanation, beaming away.

“Go on then”, Wedge prompted, bouncing up and down in his seat, “give the hammer a try!”

Cid did, finding the grip perfect for his hands, the weight of the implement ideal. Words were lost to him, though by the looks of his companions’ faces, his reaction was more than sufficient. He was positively itching to use the set now, countless inventions springing to mind unbidden. Standing upright, he began to gather up the box, already sketching out plans in his head. The Excelsior would appreciate a tune up, right? Giving Era a loving kiss and the others a mighty hug, he near bolted from the room, followed by their fond laughter. They knew him only too well.

#ffxiv #ff14 #era hess #cid garlond #jessie jaye #biggs #wedge #my self indulgent minifics

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shadowdianne · 6 years

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6th @godandmonsters1996

Well, well Xd You know, you have a kind of gift that feeds on the fun of writing and creating in ways that fuels every desire to keep on moving forward, no matter what. I’m absolutely grateful for our chats, the ones that we start talking about politics only to end up speaking about mythology just because. You have a beautiful, gorgeous mind and I cannot thank you enough for having decided to walk the murky waters of a collab with me. I truly hope this year brings you everything you want and more.

- Monsters asked for one and only thing: Smut. That and for the powers of Hell to appear on our doorstep with the completely sexy Madam Satan.

PS: There is spanking involved. In case that’s not your cup of tea feel free to skip this story.

Prickling the pad of her right finger and watching as a weak stream of blood danced in front of her eyes as the silencing spell rush towards the walls of the room, Lilith turned just as quickly with a devious smirk playing on her lips. Eyes dark, she sauntered towards were Zelda was already waiting for her, a brow raised and the smoke of her sempiternal cigarette tinting the air around her fingers greyish white.

The demoness chuckled as she let herself enjoy the dress Zelda wore, the hugging fabric a deep blue that captured the lights twinkling from both nightstands at both sides of her bed in a hazy glow, one that was caught on Zelda’s rings as the witch expelled some of the smoke with one deep sigh, the purring sound that elicited one Lilith wasn’t sure if it was hers or the witch’s.

“The spell is done.” She murmured, rising her right hand and calling for the shadows that were her realm to inhabit, the form of a whip quickly coiling around her extended fingers. “But remember, you are not supposed to scream. Not until I let you.”

She had been doing this for a long, long time and still, the sheer hunger that hit Zelda’s eyes when the pupils zeroed on the leather whip that suddenly waited for her was something she was still surprised by every time the witch asked for it. Chest heaving beneath a neckline so pronounced it would very well have been a strapless dress, the witch let the hovering hand that hold the cigarette fall ever so slightly, one foot already moving, decided to approach the demoness.

Which was something that even if Lilith enjoyed, thoroughly, wasn’t what she had in mind at the moment. Quickly stepping forward and trapping the hand between her free one, she eyed Zelda with half-lidded lips, one hip cocked in what she suspected was just a little “too” dramatic for a move. Lips parting, she lowered her grasp from the witch’s hand to her wrist, her painted nails a striking contrast against Zelda’s pale skin. One that only grew when she dug ever so slightly into the flesh, a gasp escaping Zelda’s lips as she maintained her gaze, chin proudly raised and not a drop of doubt on her quickly darkening eyes.

Slowly, ever so slowly and keeping her eyes trained on Zelda, Lilith rose her other hand, the tip of the whip caressing Zelda’s upper thigh, barely pressing down but insistent enough for the witch to be able to feel it. Moving her hand up, letting the whip travel from Zelda’s thigh to her navel, to her diaphragm, stopping just there, she ducked her head and kissed her wrist, veins pumping blood just a few inches away from her lips.

She maybe not be in Hell anymore but the taste of wanton desire left the same aftertaste on the air, one she was able to pick as she kissed the skin twice, then thrice before she let go Zelda’s hand, cigarette finally falling to the floor. Where she, with one simple movement, quashed it.

“On your knees.” She muttered, channeling her power once again, shadows growing around them both as she spoke, traveling up her body, up the dress she herself wore, tighter than Zelda’s, darker as well and with just enough leather accents to be more than obvious why she had chosen it.

She saw a glimmer of defiance on Zelda’s eyes. One that spoke of how the witch was considering to not follow her order, see how far she would be able to push her boundaries before being rewarded. And, any other night, Lilith would probably have followed that route, but they haven’t been able to see each other much throughout the week, their moments stolen and short and she did not want to hide under the pretense, the roleplay, that she was about to punish Zelda when what she wanted was for her to feel desired.

Which was the reason why she pressed the whip slightly more forcefully down the woman’s chest and arched a brow.

“I want to see you wreathing, gasping, mewling.” She stopped as the witch swallowed and oh, how much she absolutely loved to see her like this, the usually opinionated woman rendered a mess when she was presented with something she usually asked in between growled words that got bitten as soon as Lilith was close enough for her to be kissed. Deepening her voice, making it sweet, thick, she asked the final question, the one that would start the game. “Will you give that to me?”

A nod, one short, quick, but one that made Lilith want to simply grasp the woman’s cheeks and kiss her just like Zelda had done moments before they both had entered into the room, ruining her lipstick, scrapping it from her lips.

She lowered the whip down the woman’s body, stopping just above her sex and, with a lower pitch, asked again.

“On your knees.”

Zelda complied, her movements swift as she did so, never leaving Lilith’s while the demoness stared at her, tongue pressed against the back of her teeth, waiting.

It wasn’t until the copper-colored witch was in position when Lilith asked for the shadows to come up once more, cold tendrils rising to meet Zelda’s body, slowly turning her dress into cinders, letting those fall to the woman’s lap in a myriad of burning specs that disintegrated as soon as they touched the floor. Naked and with only her usual jewels draped around her neck, Zelda looked even more ravishing for the mother of demons.

Standing in front of her, Lilith sighed and rose the whip again, enough for the tip to press between Zelda’s breasts, a small and quickly disappearing mark marring her flesh the second she lifted the whip from there, sliding it higher until it was on the witch’s chin.

“You look gorgeous.” The demoness muttered and she almost chuckled at the way her words affected Zelda, the challenge of not speaking growing more and more difficult with each passing second.

Letting out a shuddering gasp, the witch closed her eyes, squaring her shoulders and presenting herself, hands lax on her lap, back perfectly aligned. The simple gesture made Lilith bit her bottom lip, feasting on the sight.

Walking towards the right side of the other woman, letting the whip rest flat for a moment longer before she moved it away, she waited until Zelda opened her eyes once again, a glimmer of the moment the witch let her submissive side come out to play eliciting a soft growl on her side.

“Do you want this?” She heard herself whisper, a question she knew was important, even after how Zelda had walked her through the house, burning desire hot on her fingers where she had touched it.

A simple nod, followed by the barest of movements from her lips, not enough to drag any sound with them, was everything she needed as Zelda moved forward, hands on the floor now, back slightly arched.

Moving the whip so it touched the skin and muscles just between the witch’s shoulder blades, Lilith marveled at the goosebumps that the caress left on its wake.

“I want you to breathe deeply.” She said, a whisper that felt as if filling the whole room, her own sex clenching. “To feel everything.” The additional note elicited a second shudder from the witch, the feel of power and need to give her everything, anything, pumping through the demoness arm. “And once that’s done…”

“I will take care of you.”

The thought came like a blazing thunder, one that made her swallow a sob as she rose her arm, the sound of the whip cutting through air as it rose and fell, a gasped breath crawling out of Zelda’s mouth.

And then a second, a third.

“Let me feel it. Let me feel you.”

The thought was powerful enough to call the shadows and the night, covering them both, uniting them together as she, no, Zelda, was the one who rose the arm higher, slightly higher before letting it fall once more. Zelda, no, both, bit into their index finger, the bolt of pain running up their hand as her teeth sank, her entire body freezing, pleasure growing with every passing second, the searing pain on her ass burning through her as she wanted, gasped, for more.

PS: Ok, bit of framework here and this is Lucía speaking, not Dianne if we want to play with the idea of internet alter-egos. The story was framed and was pointed out in several instances that Zelda was the one asking for the spanking. I must repeat that here because I would not feel good with the part of me that has been on Lilith’s ends of things. Which is the reason why I took several moments and put more emphasis on the beginning section, focusing on what leads to it and less on focusing on how Lilith in this case carries the roleplaying to a place in which the spanking is not framed as being a punishment. Again, that roleplaying can be both rewarding and hot as hell for the people involved but for this one I choose another route. The one in where the act is not played out like a punishment but something seeked by both, without the play. However, a couple of things: a) always ask, fucking please, always be sure b) if this particular story has made you uncomfortable or wish for this to be remade -and I mean you in the plural not only monsters here- I will happily do several edits out of this one, or expand into it. I’ve both read and played out scenarios like the one described above, and I would not want to play with anyone’s triggers here for the sake of smutty work. Which is the reason why at the beginning of the fic I wrote “spanking” as a warning. Just in case.

Ok, here ends my author’s note. On with the usual schedule.

#madam spellman #OnTheLastDayOfChristmas #prompt #godandmonsters1996

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astromechs · 4 years

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this is the start of an idea i had... i keep telling people it was six months ago, but i actually think it was a year ago that i first thought of this, and i kept sitting on it too scared to write it because i didn’t think i’d do it justice. that being said, i’m actually kind of proud of this excerpt, and since i’m feeling soft about one of my oldest and most beloved fandoms today:

i bring you what is — basically my matrix 4 spec fic.

(i do eventually plan on posting this to ao3 as a complete piece when i finish the other parts that i have in mind, because i have plans for this... oh, i have plans.....)

01.

Like she knows him. And that’s what’s weird.

But even so, there are things that he knows he can’t shake.

No time off to try to clear his head would ever change the fact that this hadn’t been an isolated incident.

Dark tunnels that haven’t seen the sun for centuries. Cold, so cold that no amount of warmth, human or otherwise, can really combat. Running, desperately bounding up the fire escape to the third floor of a rundown motel, three men in sunglasses and perfectly-tailored suits in close pursuit, his heart pounding in his ears so loudly he can barely hear the phone ring from Room 303, the place he has to get to, because everything depends on it. A barrage of bullets in his chest, one right after the other, back slumping against the wall as his heart gives out, vision fading to grey and then to black, but a voice, reaching through it all to call him, tether him….

Neo.

There are things that he knows he can’t shake, and sometimes, he thinks he had another life. Another name.

Another purpose.

He’s haunted by the ghost of it.

He’s just about to stammer out some automatic, awkward apology, but then —

Blue eyes meet his, clear, crisp blue, and a jolt strikes him right to the core.

He thinks — no, he knows, he knows — he’s seen these eyes.

Neo. In the darkest corners of his mind, the voice whispers again.

Behind sunglasses, another pair of eyes watches them from across the car.

“You all right?” Neo.

Just before he makes it safely inside, he catches a glimpse of the old woman on the bench watching him, her smile wider than he’s ever seen it. Maybe, even, almost inhumanly wide.

#* fic #the matrix #neo #neo x trinity #(tagging this with the pairing is probably not a spoiler for the fic lmfao)#(if you're like... following me here you know where i'm going with this)#watch me wake up and delete this tomorrow out of self-consciousness #this is the first thing i've written for this fandom in #at least ten years #probably more #AAAHHHH SHRIEKS #(also i promise i'm getting back to writing prompts!!)#(i just took a little detour....)

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sladvlactia · 5 years

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The Division 2 and Dissonance

No one with a platform seems to be talking about the Division 2, other than a few more liberal or collegiate papers. And what can be said of it that wasn’t already said about the first Division? A fetishistic gun-porn cover based shooter. One that asks you to uphold all that ‘Makes America Great” but not in so many words. A strong game so far as mechanics goes, that has forced me to exist in a state of cognitive dissonance as I enjoy my way through multiple hours of the kind of violence so expertly mocked and denigrated by Spec Ops: The Line. It has the potential of being a masterful story, if they only knew what it was they wanted to say.

But let’s start with the strengths the game has, which to be fair, are many. A tight cover based shooter that incentivizes creative tactics and strategies, a well-balanced progression system for your gear that makes you care more about what you use on a more complex level than whatever has the highest numbers. Excellent level design with environmental puzzles and storytelling that require you to look beyond your next place of cover and allows for a more expansive story as well as smaller, side-stories you can ferret out if your curious and determined enough. In fact, these side stories are generally more well thought out and nuanced than the main storyline is.

With cover based shooters, there’s always the danger of having the game devolve into a stagnant hide and seek punctuated by grenade explosions. The mix of enemy types, various elevations of cover, and the myriad of different skills makes each battle feel unique, even if you are replaying a mission, you’ll need to adapt to the different enemies or the different paths they may take to flank you or catch you out in the open. The result is a fast paced challenge that requires you to constantly adapt to your surroundings. You have to keep an eye out for anyone with specific gear, do they have a grenade bag? Wait for them to be near someone else and shoot the bag, taking out them and those around them. Are they near a breaker box? Shoot the box and shock them, buying you time to line up a headshot, or to reposition if you’re being flanked.

That attention to detail, and the effort made obvious by the positioning of each element in the game world, leads to the first issue for the Division 2. Of the four different factions, each has specific strategies they use to combat you. Military tactics from the remnants of a battalion with the True-Son’s. Fast and Furious kamikaze and fire with the Outcasts, or the chaotic and “street-tough” style of the Hyena’s. To explore what I’m getting at, let’s start with the Hyena’s; a faction made up of either black people or, “inbred” white people. The “animals” of the Division world, specifically likened to “Black-Bloc” in the in-game descriptions. Whereas the other factions will rely on the cover given, or use their various tools to flush you out of cover, the Hyena’s will rush you, They’re designed to be chaotic, to be an embodiment of anarchy. A miss-step at best when they’re all brown or poor people in the game world, but outright racism/classism is more likely. The Outcasts are villains because of what they did in response to being rounded up and put into a concentration camp, because they want revenge and took it too far. Is another uncomfortable portrayal; as a friend put it, “I can identify the most, with the outcasts…” They’ve become terrorists to be sure, but when the alternative is to trust in the same government agencies that left you to die in the first place, it’s hard to judge. Especially when the faction that is more or less responsible for their suffering, is the military remnant known as the True-Sons. A fascist proxy force clearly meant to be the more jingoist aspect of America, and those that just “Follow-Orders” a step in the right direction for acknowledging the dangers of power and following orders, one that seems to be mysteriously missing from the Division agents themselves. Perhaps portraying a faction of almost religious fanatics known for nursing a grudge from being forced into concentration camps by fascists wasn’t the best idea.

The gear itself is balanced and nuanced enough to allow for customizing your play style, and giving you the option of spending hours going through your stash of goods, trying to get the right amount of attack, vs, skill, vs, Defense boosts to make use of your various talents or skill modifications. Something that is enjoyable to a great number of people who appreciate such fine-tuning. (myself included) As I go through each armor piece, I find myself attempting to match my branding, as each brand has specific perks unlocked by stacking pieces together, modifying my weapons with various scopes, or larger magazines. It’s well designed, and each piece carries a benefit and a detriment to the stats of the gun. It’s easier for me to ignore that narrative behind it, the oh so blunt tagline in the beginning cinematic “Did you have a gun?...Did your neighbor?” A Jingoist, refrain that all but screams that all that keeps us from turning on each other is the threat of punishment. Of violence, Of Death and the end of a highly customized and lovingly crafted weapon. But it’s always there, in the back of your mind that everything in this world is solved by shooting it, even locked doors, in most instances. In fact, the only real interaction the player has comes via bullets. A sacrifice for streamlining the work put into gameplay, models and animation of course, but maybe I just want experience this world without destroying it.

Which leads into the beautiful level design, and the amazing work and the evident love that went into making DC. During missions, you can generally tell where it is you need to go through clever use of extension cords, or discarded shell casings, or even blood smears. Letting you know that THIS door, of the many available, is the one you want to open to proceed. Every alleyway, abandoned parking garage, or small nook in the sewers has sleeping bags or tents, discarded food wrappers or even torn pages from a notebook, telling someone to be strong, that the writer has gone to look for food. Taken together, the level designers have obviously put in a staggering amount of effort and thought into their work. You can find small treasures, hidden easter-eggs or simply little oasis of peace or an excuse to put something silly in. Searching the sewers, I found a small room full of plush animals, in front was a turtle with a miniature Hard Hat on it. Looking around you can see several plushy snakes wrapped around the pipes. There’s nothing else that’s important in this room, no reason to go through the effort of resizing a hard hat to fit on a plush turtle, just the knowledge that some players will find this room, feel a small bit of levity, and be encouraged to stop and explore before moving on. At one point, I came across an area enclosed in wood, a place that you cannot access as a player. And I hear a blues harmonica playing from somewhere inside. Again, no real reason that I’ve found, just something nice to put into the world, something to break up the unceasing “gritty-ness��. Which is, perhaps, the most damning bit of cognitive dissonance in the Division 2. Each faction has found footage style “intel” little cinematic clips that illustrate just how capitol “E” Evil they are. It quickly becomes absurd; the Hyena’s leave a child alive after murdering the adults because they think it would be “funnier to watch him starve”. The outcasts ritualistically murder the builder of their camp, by literally beating him to death with a hammer. The leader of the true sons, true to his 80’s villain trope, kills a doctor in cold blood when she dares tell him that they cannot just abandon the victims of the plague. Each video, or audio clip is entirely serious, each faction is irremediably evil. Only the heroes, the good guys are allowed to be morally grey.

Which, all told, is I think the largest issue I have with the Division 2, the narrative. Helpign defend America, to rebuild it, restore what it once was. The settlements you are tasked with helping in the game are closed off areas within the city. Large walls, armed guards and patrolling squads of armed militia keep the area more or less “safe”. Loudspeakers tell anyone nearby that they cannot simply take in more people, than only the worthy are allowed inside. ‘If you stay here, you have to pull your weight” is a literal quote from one settlement. As you help to strengthen each, more American Flags, and colors of red, white, and blue crop up. The sun shines brighter, the guns get bigger. The people inside are kept inside, safe with work rotas, physical training time, clear rules and regulations. A prison to be blunt, one that only allows in those they deem “desirables”. You find recordings and messages from the leaders or residents of the settlements, hear the radio broadcasts from those inside. They struggle with the knowledge that they cannot allow everyone in, that they live the life of prisoners or impose that life on others. Each recording found reinforces that it is “necessary”, that they are simply doing what must be done for now for a brighter future. Commendable, but worryingly fascist in its execution. Especially when the difference between the good guys and bad guys, functionally, is non-existent. The Hyena’s control the drugs, The True-sons have the most guns and the best gear, the outcasts are weaponizing their own infection, ingeniously turning their outcast status into a weapon itself. Each group is attempting to restore control, or some semblance of a reason to continue to live, through demolishing the past, through exacting revenge, through imposing order, or by preserving what’s left of a lost empire. It’s difficult to feel any different from any other faction, when all you do, all you are capable of doing, is killing and destroying. Even the end game enemies, Black Tusk; a clear nod towards Blackwater, are ambiguously evil. The only thing you know about them is that they oppose you. Finding more of the hidden story pieces, through abandoned cell-phones, laptops, and found footage begins to show a clear breakdown of government. The almost saccharine portrayal of congress “putting aside their differences” to help the sick and wounded is shown in counterpoint to how they fled as soon as things got bad. The current president may or may not have seized control after the assassination of the previous administration.

In all, maybe my issue with this game is that it gives me no choice but to accept that America is corrupt, broken, and racist. That we as a society are one bad day away from warring factions. That the “best” of us, people sworn to defend us and rebuild us, or little more than glorified trained killers. Who scavenge colorful sunglasses to snap selfies in front of their slaughter. Maybe that’s the whole point of the Division, America is great for a small group of people, who are only kept safe by murdering anyone and everyone who doesn’t fit. “Good-Job!” You’ll be told. “By recruiting this camps only doctor, you now have a barber!” Good thing you can look good while fighting people who revel in killing those weaker. To bring it full circle, your mission here was to re-activate your magic SHD network, one you managed to complete relatively early on, why are you here now? A question asked hauntingly in Spec-Ops. Not addressed or entertained in The Division.

#video games #the division 2 #the division game #racisim #fascisim #cognitive dissonance #Slad's Rambles

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117--087 · 6 years

Text

‘Halo: Silent Storm’ Speedy Review - Pros, Cons, Etc.

To preface: After the ‘Halo 5′ debacle, I made the decision to no longer purchase Halo media in an effort to “put my money where my mouth is” in terms of my disapproval of 343 Industries’ actions - in regards to their questionable public statements, lies, and mishandling of the mainline story & my favorite characters. This also led to me to stop using the moderate platform I have established with this blog to actively announce/promote new media as well.

That said, I decided to break my streak in order to read the new book ‘Silent Storm’ by Troy Denning. As it would be the first fiction we have gotten in a while to actually have Blue Team whole, plus in a prominent role in the story. And after all that’s happened I simply had to see what came of that.

So here are some of my initial thoughts after reading the book extremely quickly. I was mostly focused on the Spartans and their characterizations, so I know I missed a lot of details about other things. When I have time to go through it more thoroughly I may make another post. But for now, the following is what I gathered...

Pros:

John is perfectly in-character throughout the book - particularly as a young man who is still a bit of a hothead. At no point during my reading did I come across a part where I thought “well he definitely wouldn’t say/do that”. He's reserved but not humorless, and genuinely cares about his Spartans. Plus there’s some very good exploration of his burgeoning experiences as leader/commander in the field.

There’s strong emphasis on the general importance of teamwork to the S-IIs. As well as how their particular dynamic truly sets them apart from other elite units. A good balance is struck between them acting in accordance with their combat training, and acting like a big family. All the Spartans pretty much talk with all their fellows freely, and there is good banter between them from start to finish.

There are a few decent glimpses at some other Spartans we haven't seen as much; such as Daisy, Anton, and Joshua.

Lots of different perspectives are shown throughout the story - from Insurrectionists, to the UNSC, and the Covenant. The cast of secondary characters/OCs are generally well done and interesting (I think this is one of Denning's primary strengths as a writer).

LOTS of technical details. Really, there’s a lot. Which I know fans of the more military-side of Halo will certainly appreciate. This goes hand-in-hand with the battles that take place both in the air and on the ground, with both ships and soldiers.

All-in-all it is a rather straightforward action story that I think anyone who likes Halo could enjoy and get into. With some decent, but not overly complex, intrigue concerning the Insurrection and UNSC navigating their ongoing feud on top of a new war with hostile aliens. And again the Covenant’s side of things is not left out either, which adds variety.

Cons:

Sgt. Johnson being such a major character in this book is a pretty huge retcon that I'm not sure I'm okay with. As it really messes with a lot of the tone of 'The Fall of Reach’ & ‘First Strike’ where the Master Chief and Johnson are very clearly framed as not having met each other before then. Their "getting to know/trust you" vibe is a pretty strong undercurrent of their previous interactions - which is hammered in even more when the Chief chooses not to sacrifice Johnson for the data-crystal info after all in the end - meant to set the stage for ‘Halo 2′. And there's really no way to get around that because I seriously doubt that John of all people would just forget the very next “mentor” figure he had in his life after Chief Mendez (especially one as distinct as Johnson). I can see why some people have said using any other ORION subject wouldn't have as much impact; but using Johnson ultimately smacks of simply wanting to have "moar fanservice" at the cost of continuity. Which isn't worth it in this case, in my opinion, because of how defined Johnson's role is in 'First Strike'.**

Kelly and Linda are generally indistinguishable from each other in personality and mannerisms. This is a trend that has gone on in a lot of recent fiction (including Denning’s previous books where they have minor roles), so seeing it again here was rather disheartening. Especially considering how fundamentally different they are supposed to be. Instead here they're largely relegated to playing the part of "token girls that snark on occasion" with different combat specs. Though Kelly's speed is woefully underutilized/under-portrayed in action sequences, in spite of the text mentioning this skill when she is first introduced. Similarly Linda is said to be "quiet and reserved" at the very start, but for the rest of the book she's essentially as chatty and expressive as everyone else. Now I’m not saying Linda can't talk or banter with her peers of course, far from it. But there are ways to portray her interactions with others that don't take away from her toned down and straightforward sort of intensity.

Denning is pretty much sticking with his notion of Fred being the "witty/funny person" on Blue Team (which is also what he did in his previous books). Admittedly this is something that didn’t sit very well with me in ‘Last Light’, and it still doesn’t now. It somewhat clashes with his personality as established in Nylund’s books and, to me, comes off as more-or-less an attempt to morph Fred into diet-Buck - when Fred had plenty going for him already to make him a likable and engaging character. This also bothers me on Kelly's behalf; as I don’t like seeing a distinct trait that was ascribed to a female character for the last 15-ish years suddenly be passed off to a male character for seemingly no reason.

While the Spartans’ team/family interactions are very well done overall (as I noted in the ‘Pro’ section), nothing and no one in particular truly stands out either. Meaning I feel like no one reading this book (especially people not already very familiar with the Spartans as characters) would know the difference between John and Kelly's dynamic, his and Joshua's, his and Daisy's, etc. And there are differences thanks to the particular histories going on here between the various teammates - such as John and Kelly being mutual best friends with Sam, John’s sort-of leadership rivalry with Kurt, etc. Granted John and Fred’s interactions do stand out a little bit, because this book does firmly establish him as the "next in line" Blue Team leader. But Fred also has the second most amount of "screentime" of the S-IIs on top of being given his humorous personality - so that makes him stand out more on principle.

I would've really liked to have seen the other Spartans actually do more. For example, Grace is present for this op; but she's only name-dropped once or twice, and never uses her best known skill (explosives ordinance) in a way that we can "see" in the text. Same goes for Anton and his ability as a scout, and so on. Maybe if the “main 3″ of Blue Team had been better defined in their roles it wouldn't matter. But as it stands there are several points where the others could've played more prominent parts. Again as an example, there is a moment in the story where Linda is tasked with setting a bomb to go off - but why was this not Grace instead? At least that would've lent itself to what we already knew about her.

...So with all that in mind, I would like to emphasize that the negatives don’t necessarily outweigh the positives. I’m just taking this time to explain my particular grievances in detail. Whereas the positives I think are best experienced first hand, and also require more overt plot-spoilers to explain. In the end the book was better than I thought it would be (granted I was prepared for the worst). And while not a great story for getting a deep understanding of Blue Team specifically, it is certainly great for getting a firm grasp on John himself and how S-IIs operate as a whole.

Though I find myself almost more puzzled than ever about something. Because while the author proved to be able to really dial-in to John’s established characterization and expand on it in ways that made sense even though this is Denning’s first time writing for him, on the other hand Kelly, Fred, and Linda were still all over the place compared to what we’ve seen of them in the past - in spite of this being his 3rd outing with them now. And not just in a “oh well they are teenagers in this book so there will be differences between this and how they act as adults” sort of way. However I have hope this issue can be cleaned up in future works, if Denning writes them. So I will forward my thoughts through established avenues for constructive criticism and keep my fingers crossed that they might help.

So while I can’t say I recommend this book wholeheartedly, it’s definitely the first Halo media in a while I can say I do recommend in general as being worth the time & money investment. 👍

(**This can be reconciled with some good headcanon/fanfiction that add just a few sparks of recognition between Chief and Johnson during the events of TFOR/FS. Though for obvious reasons I still prefer that continuity issues simply be avoided in the first place.)

#Halo #Silent Storm #S2BlueTeam #Master Chief #John 117 #spoilers #opinion post #books

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dawne-sharlotte · 7 years

Text

My Heart in Your Hands

Hi @isaacdowney here is your gift for the @ffxvalentines exchange! I hope it meets the bittersweet criteria. It got a little angsty, sorry about that. I hope you like it!

No trigger warnings. SFW. IgnisxGladio, CorxIgnis.

Gladio couldn’t concentrate, his thoughts filled with a certain green-eyed advisor.

“What’s with you?” Nyx landed another hit. “You’ve been distracted the whole time.”

“Sorry. Let’s call it quits today.”

Nyx tossed him a towel. “Don’t tell the Marshal I let you off easy.”

The bigger man wiped the sweat from his face. “I won’t.” He sat and chugged a bottle of water.

“Got a date for the Fire and Ice ball?”

Gladio flinched. It wasn’t that he didn’t have his pick of people. Several men and women had asked him every day for a month. He’d turned them all down in hopes of asking Ignis to the ball. Now, there was less than a week left and he didn’t have a date and he hadn’t seen Ignis around either. “Not yet.”

Nyx nudged him with his foot. “All the good ones will be gone if you don’t get a move on.”

Gladio grunted in response. “Who’d you con into going with you?”

“I didn’t have to con anyone. Crowe is going with me willingly. My first pick turned me down politely.” Nyx grinned.

He frowned. Nyx was right. If he didn’t ask soon, Ignis would be snatched up. But even thinking about it made him break out in a cold sweat. He could face down a behemoth, but asking the guy he liked to a dance gave him hives. “Who’d you ask first?”

“Ignis. He said he was on duty and it would unfair to take a date.”

Gladio laughed to mask his disappointment. “Sounds like Iggy.” Of course, Ignis would be working. The man was married to his work. Maybe he could ask Cor to be assigned to guard duty. At least he could be with Iggy and keep him company. The idea made Gladio feel better and he went to take a shower and change.

On the way to Cor’s office, Gladio bumped into Noctis, knocking him onto the floor. “Sorry, Noct.” He offered the prince a hand up.

“It’s alright. You should probably pay attention where you’re going.”

Gladio rolled his eyes. “Advice to live by. Where are you headed?”

Noct stuffed his hands in pockets and looked away. A faint blush painted his cheeks.

“I’m sure Prompto will be thrilled to go with you to the ball, Noct.” Gladio chuckled and ruffled Noct’s hair.

He pushed the older man’s hand away. “Well if Specs can take the night off, I should be able to ask Prompto out.”

“Wait. What? I thought Ignis was working the ball.”

Noct shook his head. “He has the night off. All he has to do is make sure I get to the party in one piece.”

Gladio was completely confused. Ignis wouldn’t lie just to get out of a date. Maybe the night off was a recent development or maybe Nyx was pulling his leg. The only way Gladio would get to the bottom of this was to ask Ignis himself. He mentally prepared himself. Time to man up. “Thanks, Noct. I’ll see you around.”

The shield hurried to Ignis’ office. He wouldn’t put this off any longer.

Felicia, Ignis’ secretary was packing up her things for the day when he arrived. “Oh, Lord Amicitia. The Marshal just went in there. I’ll buzz and let Mr. Scientia know you are waiting before I leave.”

“Thanks.” Gladio sat in the lobby to wait. His leg bounced, an outlet for the nervousness that started to set in. He wiped his hands on his pants as a way to get rid of the clammy feeling.

The door to Ignis’ office opened and both men stepped out. Cor nodded in parting and Ignis walked over to Gladio.

“I apologize for the wait. Did we have a meeting today?”

Gladio stood. “No, I just wanted to talk to you real quick. More like ask you something. About the ball. You know the Fire and Ice ball coming up?” He snapped his mouth shut when he realized he was babbling.

Ignis smiled. “Of course, Gladio. I am in charge of the preparations.”

“Do you have a date,” The tattooed man blurted out. “I’d like it if you’d go with me. I’ve liked you for as long as I can remember.”

Ignis’ eyes widened before they softened into a sadder expression. “Oh. I’m sorry, Gladio. l can’t.”

Gladio rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. “It’s ok. I should’ve asked you before now.”

It was Ignis’ turn to be flustered. He shifted his weight a few times. “I thought you knew-“

“Are you not into guys?”

“I am. It’s just...I’m in an established relationship.”

Gladio took a physical step back. I’m in an established relationship. The statement felt like a punch to the gut. Why wouldn’t Ignis already be taken? He had a slew of admirers.

Ignis grabbed Gladio’s hands. “I’m sincerely apologize if this comes as a shock. Noct found out, even though we tried to keep it under wraps. I was sure he told you. Please forgive me for the hurt and disappointment I’ve caused.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. I’m fine. It was just unexpected.” Gladio gave the other a reassuring squeeze. “He treats you ok?”

“The best.”

The small smile Ignis gave him broke his heart. Of course he was happy for the other, but it hurt to know that another man put that look on his face.

“Then that’s all that matters, Iggy. I hope I haven’t made things awkward.”

“Absolutely not. You’re my best friend. I’m happy you’d even consider me. Believe it or not, I had a crush on you for years, as well. I never said anything because I knew I couldn’t possibly be your type and I didn’t want to ruin our friendship.”

Gladio nodded. The knowledge that he’d waited too long to overcome his fear beat against his already battered pride before another thought crossed his mind. He was willing to lay their friendship on the line and hope it survived, but Ignis tried to protect it at all costs. He knew the bespectacled man didn’t have many friends or a lot of people he felt it he could talk to. Gladio felt a little guilt for even putting Ignis in that position. There was one thing that bothered him about the whole thing. “Why keep it a secret?”

Ignis tilted his head. “It wasn’t a secret per se. Neither one of us wanted to be featured in the Citadel rumor mill. Fledgling romance dies a quick and painful death that way. Soon, it just became a way of life.”

They chatted a bit more before going their separate ways.

Over the next few days, Gladio threw himself into training to drown out his pain. He hung out with Ignis, but he was so focused on trying to be more of a friend, that he couldn’t enjoy himself.

Ignis noticed and asked that Gladio just be himself.

The ballroom was beautiful. Fairy lights decorated the walls. Blues, reds, whites, and oranges, intertwined. Vases of flowers sat on every table. Even the food matched the theme.

The ball was for Citadel and Royal Staff. It was a good opportunity to visit with people he hadn’t seen in a while.

Gladio mingled for the first half of the ball, chatting with a few of the Glaive and keeping an eye on Noctis and Prompto. Even if he wasn’t working, he still felt the pull to watch out for the younger ones. He eventually spotted Ignis.

The Advisor was stunning. His black suit pressed and tailored to perfection. He’d styled his hair differently. Gelled back with a few stands gracing his forehead. He and Cor were speaking to the king. Gladio could see the bright blush on Ignis’ face from where he stood across the ballroom. But it was the adoration on Cor’s face that took Gladio by surprise.

Cor only had eyes for Ignis. The Marshal’s features bore a softness that Gladio had never seen before. He pulled Ignis in and kissed him on the temple. Cor, the Immortal, had been felled by love.

King Regis signaled for the music to stop. He stood and cleared his throat. “I’d like to propose a toast. Today, one of my closest friends finally found the person he wants to stand by him, to walk tall with him. My most heartfelt congratulations to Cor and Ignis. They have given their lives to my family and nothing makes me happier than to see them happy together! To Cor and Ignis!”

The cheers were deafening. The crowd surged forward. Everyone wanted to offer their congratulations and best wishes.

One lone figure hung back. He swallowed his champagne and wiped at the tears that wouldn’t stop before surreptitiously exiting the ballroom. Gladio would congratulate them both tomorrow with a smile, but that night would be dedicated to putting his heart back together.

Green eyes followed the Shield out of the ballroom. Ignis prayed desperately to any Astral that would hear him that he could salvage his friendship.

#ffxvalentines #sfw #ffxv #ignis scientia #gladiolus amicitia #cor leonis

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sopherfly · 7 years

Text

Made for the Drift (Chapter 2)

((Winteriron Pacific Rim AU))

Summary: It doesn't take our boys long to realize that keeping things professional isn't going to work. Bucky and Tony get called into combat, and then they finally get some alone time.

A/N: This chapter contains smut. If that’s not your thing, skip past the scene immediately after Bucky says ‘yes.’ Many thanks to @folklejend for beta reading this chapter.

Bucky can’t sleep.

It’s a problem he’s never had before. The Asset knows how to shut everything down, and while Bucky's a light sleeper - the smallest noise and he's immediately alert - he’s always been able to sleep. At least, until now.

It's almost midnight. Bucky's room isn’t big enough to pace, not really, but he does it anyway, back and forth and back and forth until he’s worried he’ll wear a hole in the floor.

It’s nothing, he tells himself. Just a drift hangover. It'll be gone soon. Drift hangovers always go away; they just take time. The thought isn't comforting at all. Knowing the empty feeling will end doesn't make it ache any less. It feels like knowing you’ve forgotten something important but not being able to remember what. It's like a lost limb that still hurts even though it’s gone.

“Fuck.”

Bucky rubs his face with his hands. He can do this. He can. He can force himself to sleep, and when he wakes up, he’ll feel normal again. The buzzing in his head will disappear. All he needs is a reset.

Of course, he’ll never get to sleep if he can’t stop pacing. Bucky huffs in frustration. The pacing isn't really optional. He has to keep moving, or the terrifying emptiness might consume him. He's going to be up all night, walking the length of the room over and over. Back and forth. Back and forth. He has no idea how long it's been when a knock on his door shocks him out of the trance.

Well. Whoever it is, they'd better not expect much. Bucky's not quite up for company. At least, no company but Tony's, and Tony has already gone to sleep. Finally breaking his back and forth pattern, Bucky heads to the door.

“Hi, gorgeous.”

Bucky’s heart jumps against his ribcage at the sound of Tony’s voice. Not asleep, then. Very much awake, standing in his doorway.

“I, uh - I couldn’t sleep. And I was wondering if maybe you couldn't either.”

Damned if you do, damned if you don't, Bucky thinks. He can send Tony away and leave them both to handle their restlessness alone, or he can invite Tony inside and risk ruining everything if he can't keep himself in line. This from the man who prides himself on discipline. Something about Tony makes everything Bucky knows about himself unravel.

“Haven’t even sat down,” Bucky says finally. He can't help but drink Tony in, his eyes catching on that little wrinkle between Tony’s brows. Still there. Bucky wants so badly to reach out and make it vanish. “D’you wanna come in?”

There it is. Too late to take it back.

“Sure.” Tony smiles a little lop-sidedly before stepping inside.

(Read the rest of the chapter below, or check it out on ao3.)

“Your room is smaller than mine.” Tony offers Bucky a look of apology. “Sorry. Sometimes I don’t have a filter.”

“S’okay,” Bucky says, closing the door behind them. “You’re a genius inventor. Figures your room would be bigger.”

“Don’t forget ‘irresponsible playboy.’ And Jaeger pilot, thanks to you.”

There isn't much to look at, but Tony seems intrigued anyway, glancing around the room with curious eyes. Tony crosses to Bucky's desk and picks up the first book on the pile, flipping it open. “An Illustrated History of Jaegers. This a first edition?”

“Yeah. Steve got it for me.”

“Nice of him. First editions take ages to find.” Tony flips another few pages, humming to himself, and Bucky doesn’t miss the way those lips purse in fascination. “These are really beautiful.”

Bucky nods in agreement. The book is full of tech specs, but it's the art that Bucky loves. Sketches, paintings, beautiful photos, all of Jaegers. It seems like it captivates Tony just as much. Bucky sits down on the side of his bed, watching, his eyes trained on Tony’s hands as he flips the pages one by one.

“I’ve been staring at the ceiling for an hour trying to find a way to describe what this feels like,” Tony starts, not looking away from the page. “This thing. My reaction to the drift, I guess. It’s - I don’t know - it’s like I could keep reaching and reaching and never find what I’m looking for, but whatever it is, I need it. Does that make any sense?”

It makes all the sense in the world. Bucky nods. “That’s how I feel, too.”

Tony sets the book down slowly, then turns to meet Bucky's eyes. “Is there a way to make it better?”

“Only one thing that's ever worked for me.”

“And what is that?”

“Contact.”

Tony breathes out, and that line between his brows grows more pronounced. “Is that… Would you want to - ha. Why is this so hard to say?”

“Isn’t exactly a normal thing to ask.” Bucky pats the edge of the bed. “C’mere.”

Bucky scoots up onto the mattress, leaving room for Tony to sit back against him. Tony searches his eyes, unsure, then follows Bucky onto the bed, sitting just far enough away that they aren’t actually touching. Bucky shifts forward, and finally their bodies connect. Tony’s back presses into Bucky’s chest. Bucky’s legs are on either side of Tony’s. Bucky’s arms slide around to Tony’s waist, one hand resting on Tony’s abdomen, the other on his chest.

“This okay?”

“Yeah,” Tony says, his voice soft. “Yeah, that - that helps a lot.”

“Good.” Bucky lets his chin rest on Tony’s shoulder, and Tony sighs, his body relaxing.

Hell. Tony is so warm and pliant. He fits perfectly in Bucky's arms, snug and safe, like he's always belonged there. This is the only way they work. Together. Bucky can't help it; with Tony up against him, it's so easy to imagine a world where they're never apart. Of course, that's ridiculous. Unrealistic. But the more hours that pass, the more their connection solidifies in Bucky's mind. Two halves of a whole. For the first time since the simulation, Bucky doesn't feel empty at all.

“Why is it like this?” Tony shifts closer, and Bucky swallows down the satisfied noise that tries to rise in his throat. “I know the drift is powerful, but I’ve never heard of anyone having this kind of reaction before.”

“Dunno.” Bucky closes his eyes, the smell of Tony’s shampoo licking his nostrils. That might actually kill him, but there's no way he's letting go, not when he's finally found his balance. “Strong connection, I guess. Does different things to different people.”

Silence engulfs them, and then he feels Tony's weight sag against him. Bucky smiles. Tony is asleep on him, and damn if that doesn't make him like Tony more. Must've been tired. Come to think of it, Bucky's tired, too.

Bucky doesn't remember falling asleep; but when he wakes, he's lying in his bed, and Tony is wrapped up in his arms.

Shit.

They’re still dressed, Bucky in his pajamas and Tony in his sweats, and as much of a relief as that is, Bucky still wishes for several more layers of fabric between them. He can feel the heat of Tony’s body under his palms. His nose is buried in Tony’s hair, and Tony smells so good, that scent tugging at something primal in Bucky’s back-brain. There’s an uncontrollable part of him that wants fewer layers instead of more, because wouldn’t it be incredible just to feel skin on skin, to touch and kiss and-

Stop it.

Tony shifts just slightly in his sleep, and Bucky suppresses a groan. Having Tony this close is intoxicating. Overwhelming. More than a little arousing. Bucky tries to pull his arms away, but Tony doesn't budge.

“Tony,” Bucky says in Tony's ear. Tony moves, and Bucky manages to slide his arms out from around Tony, sitting up. “Tony,” Bucky says again, louder this time.

Tony stirs, rolling onto his back and blinking slowly awake. “Hey, Buckaroo.” That rough voice sends a shiver up Bucky’s spine.

“Hey.” It’s all Bucky can get out at first. His body is practically screaming at him, the compulsion to keep touching almost too powerful to tolerate. He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “We fell asleep.”

Tony looks around and sits up. “Oh. Shit.” He drags a hand through his hair, and Bucky loves that, loves the way it makes a few strands stand on end. “I - were we sleeping together? I mean, not sleeping together, but - you know what I mean.”

“Yeah.”

Tony frowns, covering his mouth briefly with his hand. “I think I liked it.”

“Tony.” He can’t say things like that, not when Bucky’s working so hard to pretend that he didn’t like it and doesn’t want to do it again.

“I’m serious. I haven’t slept that well in - I don’t know if I’ve ever slept that well.” Tony stretches his arms above his head, then ruffles his hair a second time. That's just too much, too adorable and sexy. Bucky forces himself to look away.

“Hey. What’s the matter?”

Tony asks it like it’s not a big deal, like they haven’t just woken up accidentally tangled up in each other.

“Nothin’,” Bucky says, hating how unconvincing it sounds. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Tony scoots closer, and for some incomprehensible reason, he rests a hand on Bucky’s cheek. Bucky reaches up a second too late to stop him, grabbing Tony’s wrist only after Tony’s hand touches his skin.

“Tony.” Bucky holds Tony’s gaze for a tense moment, but Tony doesn’t let go. He strokes Bucky’s cheekbone with his thumb, and Bucky clenches his jaw. Slowly, Tony’s other hand comes up and tucks a strand of Bucky’s hair behind his ear. That whisper of sensation undoes all of Bucky’s tension like a quick-release knot, the whole structure of the thing collapsing with a single pull. His shoulders go slack; his jaw relaxes, lips parting softly.

“Serious question,” Tony murmurs, searching Bucky’s face. “Does being drift partners mean we can’t be anything else?”

“I don’t know.”

Tony’s expression changes, and Bucky can tell he’s about to argue with him. Bucky heads him off.

“Tony, we ain’t known each other more than a couple days.”

“So what? There are people I’ve known for years that I still can’t stand.” Tony runs his thumb along Bucky’s cheek again, and Bucky sighs, leaning ever so slightly into the touch. “That doesn’t seem like a good enough reason to me.”

That’s because it isn’t. Bucky has seen inside Tony’s head. He knows Tony’s mind, knows what he hates, what he loves, what he wants more than anything else in the world. Bucky and Tony aren’t strangers, not really. Argument invalid.

“You sure it’s not just the drift? You sure I’m what you want?” It sounds so stupid to Bucky’s ears, so vulnerable, but he has to ask it, has to know that it’s a choice and not just something Tony has fallen into.

Tony shakes his head. “I’ve been interested in you since the first time we met. And we’re so compatible. It can’t just be a coincidence. It has to mean something.”

Bucky doesn’t disagree. But there’s still a part of him - maybe a part that HYDRA put there - that questions whether or not something like this can be anything but bad. “This doesn’t scare you?”

“Honestly? It’s terrifying. But so was the first time I stepped into a Jaeger, and that turned out to be pretty incredible, right?”

“Right.” Bucky stares, heart pounding, skin on fire where Tony is still touching him. He breathes in as if to speak, then stops himself, because suddenly he can’t remember the words. All he knows is what he feels. He wants, and he hopes, and he yearns, his whole body charged with it.

Brown eyes flash with impatience. Tony’s fingers slide to the back of Bucky’s neck, thumbs tight against Bucky’s jaw, and then Tony pulls him down, sealing their mouths together in a kiss.

Fucking hell.

That’s what a kiss is supposed to feel like; not perfunctory or forced, but necessary, like the world will stop if Bucky pulls away. Tony’s lips are soft and insistent, that edge of impatience just barely there. Tony’s tongue traces the seam of Bucky's mouth, and Bucky opens to him, groaning at that hot, slick slide. Damn, but Tony tastes good.

Tony crawls up onto Bucky’s lap and straddles his hips, tangling his hands in Bucky’s hair. Shit. Tony’s body plastered to Bucky’s makes it difficult to breathe, and damn near impossible to think. All Bucky can do is press tighter and kiss harder. His hands slide up under Tony’s shirt, finally touching skin, the heat impossible, the contact sending sparks through his fingers. Tony’s hips arch forward, and Bucky moans into Tony’s mouth, his hands suddenly grasping and needy-

From the corner of the room, the alarm bell shrieks, shocking them apart.

Tony pulls away first, breathing hard, his hands not moving from where they've landed on Bucky’s shoulders. Even with the bright blue strobe light flashing, it takes Bucky several seconds to process what that alarm actually means, because his lap is still full of Tony, and if only they could just keep kissing.

“Shit,” Bucky huffs, moving his hands slowly down Tony’s back, lingering on Tony’s skin before drawing away. “That alarm for us?”

Tony looks like he really doesn't want to answer. He bites his lip, letting out a frustrated breath. “Yep. That's for us.”

It takes another minute for Tony to move from Bucky’s lap. Bucky mourns the loss of contact, but somehow resists the urge to pull Tony back onto the bed.

“I should go grab my tech gear,” Tony says, hovering near the door. “I’ll, uh. I’ll meet you there?”

“Alright.”

Tony hesitates, then turns and leaves. Bucky drops his head into his hands.

Called into combat. Of course.

Bucky trundles into the bathroom and turns on the sink, splashing cold water onto his face. Get a grip, Barnes. Focus. He rifles through his dresser until he finds his clean tech gear. He doesn’t need more than thirty seconds to change - twenty of those are spent adjusting the fabric, making sure it’s seated right on his arms and legs - and then he slips on his socks and his boots, marching quickly out the door.

He beats Tony to the control room, the lights already on as he steps inside. A tired-looking Bruce Banner sits at the control booth, and an agitated Nick Fury drums his fingers on the table near the windows. Natasha stands off to the side. Footsteps behind him - Steve files in along with his new partner, Sam Wilson. Clint Barton trails behind.

Bucky knows Barton, even though they've never officially met. He’s had his picture in the papers, always alongside Natasha’s. Best sharpshooter in the Jaeger program. Originally based in South America. Partnered off early. Five kills, with limited Jaeger damage. Bucky assumes that sling he's wearing is a leftover from his last fight.

Wilson is still mostly a mystery. His previous experience comes from the Military, that much is easy enough to guess just by the way he walks. Bucky can't help but make snap judgments; it's just part of his programming. And his snap judgment on Wilson is that he's under-qualified.

Still. If Steve has agreed to be his partner, maybe there's more to him. Maybe there's something else that makes him an asset to the team. Fury always has his reasons for choosing people. Bucky just hopes they're good ones.

Tony finally walks through the door, bright-eyed and sharp. His beard is perfectly trimmed, his hair freshly-washed - how had he had time to shower? - and styled. There’s no evidence at all that fifteen minutes before, he’d had Bucky’s tongue down his throat. Bucky wonders if he looks as composed by comparison.

Tony crosses the room to stand next to Bucky, and Bucky tries hard not to let the smell of that shampoo distract him.

“Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep,” Fury starts, his voice reverberating off of the tile floor. “We have a situation that needs your immediate attention.” He inclines his head toward Bruce, who pulls up the holo-screen.

“Half an hour ago, we got a signature in the breach. Seemed normal. The Maximoff twins were next in rotation, so we deployed Igor.”

“But it's a category four.” All eyes land on Tony. “What? Don't look at me like that, of course I checked before I came up here. Not like I didn’t predict it anyway, if you all would listen to me for once.”

“Stark, now is not the time-”

“He's right,” Bruce interrupts. “It's our first category four. This thing is - well. It’s a monster.”

Bruce pulls up the Kaiju’s specs. Head and shoulders taller than the last Kaiju. Heavier, too, with a skull shaped like a hammerhead shark. It looks mean. Mean and enormous.

“Igor isn't big enough to take that on alone,” Natasha says.

"I agree." Fury stops, clasping his hands together behind his back. “I’m low on personnel, and Barton is still recovering.”

“I’m fine,” Clint growls.

“You’re injured. And Rogers and Wilson are untested. I won’t put you in a machine when I don’t even know it’s going to stick.” Fury’s single eye swivels to stare them down. “That leaves us with Stark and Barnes.”

Bucky’s muscles tense, adrenaline filtering quickly into his veins. That’s the Asset, or as much of him as still exists. Always ready for a fight. Bucky glances over at Tony.

“What do you think?”

There's hardly any point in asking. They both want this. They're both ready.

Tony grins. “I think we should go kick some Kaiju ass.”

Fury sends them straight to the changing room to get suited up. Everything is automated now; Bucky steps in front of the mirror and mechanical arms appear out of nowhere, putting the armor together around him in less than a minute. It’s brand new, similar to the old design, but never been worn. Most people say that's better. No use in carrying the bad luck of old armor with you.

Bucky stares at his reflection, moving his arms, then his legs, testing the range of motion. It's perfect. Protective and sturdy, but still flexible. It doesn't look half bad, either, almost sparkling as it catches the light. Nothing like the plastic shit from the simulator.

“Wow.” Tony appears behind him, dressed in the same chrome-colored armor. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen the pictures, I knew it was going to look good on you, but… Wow.”

Bucky meets Tony’s eyes in the mirror. He's not sure he deserves that kind of praise. He doesn't look good so much as lethal. Armor always reminds him of the Asset. And even though he's killing for the right reasons, underneath it all, Bucky's still a killing machine.

Tony, though - Tony looks like a knight ready to slay a dragon. He ought to be on a poster the way he wears that armor, his jawline and cheekbones even more pronounced, his dark eyes alive and dangerous.

“Do you not like it?” Tony asks.

Bucky shakes his head. “It's better on you.”

Tony steps forward, circling around Bucky, scrutinizing him from every angle. “Huh. You really think so? Because this is the most badass thing I've ever seen.”

“It ain't all that.”

Tony's face grows serious. “I respectfully disagree.” He moves directly in front of Bucky, and something stirs in Bucky's veins at the stubborn set of Tony's jaw. “It suits you.”

Bucky wants to argue, but he's distracted by the unexpected press of Tony's lips on his. It doesn't last longer than a few seconds, but it's enough to make him forget all of his protests. “What was that for?”

“Luck,” Tony says easily. “That's what they do in the movies, right?”

“Right.”

Bucky's lips are still tingling as he follows Tony up the spiral staircase, helmet clutched in one hand as they make their way to the Jaeger’s head.

It’s been over a year since Bucky has actually set foot inside a Jaeger.

It's bigger than he remembers. Cavernous. He cranes his neck, looking up with what he's sure are admiring eyes. Heartbreaker isn't Howler; but damn if she isn't beautiful. She has her own aura. She has a presence, one that hangs from the walls and the ceiling. She's powerful and agile. She wants so badly to succeed.

Perfect. She's perfect.

Planting his feet in the boot clips, Bucky can't help but feel nervous. Technically, he and Tony are compatible. They've drifted. But there are still so many unknowns. Things change when you’re inside a real Jaeger. The connection is stronger. The feedback is louder. The drift is deep and fathomless, darker than the ocean, the current fast and dangerous. When it works - when two pilots connect, perfectly in sync - it’s the most incredible feeling in the world. He shouldn't worry. With their connection, the chances of it not working are slim to none.

The way this dome is built, Jaegers have to be transported in pieces. The head drops from far above and connects with the body, and part of a pilot’s job is riding all the way down. Bucky and Tony are just waiting, and once they're set, it's a free fall.

Natasha checks the cords behind them, making sure the armor and the Jaeger are fully joined before tapping their helmets in turn. The mechanical door groans shut behind her as she leaves.

“You ready?” Tony asks.

“Yeah.” Bucky's more than ready. He needs this. His body aches for it. Finally back inside a Jaeger… It’s all he's ever wanted. “You?”

“Born ready.”

They're silent through the initiation sequence, and Bucky watches the panels light up one by one. His legs tremble in anticipation when he hears the hatch open, giant metal pieces creaking aside to give them a clear path straight down.

It's a long way. There are over a thousand feet between the hatch and the body of the Jaeger. Bucky braces himself as the bottom drops out from underneath them. Five seconds of weightlessness. Seven. Ten. Gravity kicks in, and there’s a jolt when they land, the head rotating around just once before Bucky hears the thunk of the locking mechanism securing them in place.

“Pilot-to-pilot protocol engaged. Initiating neural handshake.”

Bucky only gets a split second to think before the switch flips. Memories flash in front of him like slides on a stereoscope, moving faster and faster until everything’s a blur of color and noise. The entire world rushes past in the blink of an eye - and then, suddenly, Tony’s mind is anchored to his, and the drift opens up and swallows them whole.

“Neural link established. Connection successful.”

Bucky hears the words thunder in his ears, the echo strange and far away. The machine whispers inside his body. The arc-reactor thrums, energy warming him from his core all the way out to his heels and his fingertips. The simulator can't compare. There's heft and power underneath him, underneath them. There’s nothing else like it, nothing in the world.

Bucky looks over at Tony, and Tony blinds him with a dazzling, cheeky smile. God. Tony was made for this. Even inside that suit, he looks like this is exactly where he's meant to be. He fits.

“You look good,” Bucky finds himself saying.

“So do you.”

Threads of attraction and desire tug at him from inside the drift. He meets Tony's eyes, and Tony doesn't back down.

You look really good.

“Doors opening,” Bruce says over the comms. The massive doors in front of them start to part, water rushing in around the Jaeger’s feet as Bucky and Tony run through the calibration. Left hemisphere. Right hemisphere. “Okay, Heartbreaker. That ocean is all yours.”

Being inside a Jaeger is incredible. Bucky’s suddenly tall enough to walk across the ocean, powerful enough to fight the biggest threat to humanity. That invincible feeling can be dangerous, especially for new pilots; they get too wrapped up in the strength of the machine, forgetting that Kaijus are just as big and just as dangerous. But Bucky and Tony have fought Kaijus before. They know the risks. They don’t have any illusions about how badly this kind of fight can end. And somehow they still want it more than anything.

“Igor,” Bruce says over the comms, “you have Heartbreaker inbound.”

Bucky and Tony spot the arc-reactor at the same time, glowing blue against the dark ocean and the sky. The Kaiju is still invisible from this distance, but with the enormous stride of a Jaeger, it won’t take them long to reach Igor’s position.

“Good of you to join us,” Pietro says, his voice sounding taxed.

“Sorry,” Tony replies, and Bucky sees him calculating the distance to the Kaiju as he speaks. “Took us a while to get dressed.”

“He’s dodging all our punches,” Wanda growls. “We’re holding our own, but we can’t bring him down ourselves.”

Good thing Fury sent us out, Tony thinks. They’re closing in, just fifteen paces from the fight. The Kaiju spots them ten steps out.

Shit.

The Kaiju isn’t just big. It’s fast. It comes barreling at them full speed, and Heartbreaker just barely blocks the hit.

“Repulsors,” Tony says, and Heartbreaker’s left hand comes up, blasting the Kaiju back. It squeals, a terrible, high-pitched sound, then rounds on them again. This time they’re more prepared. Heartbreaker’s fist lands squarely on the Kaiju’s jaw, the impact rattling through its body. It makes that horrible sound again, then ducks down, plowing its head into Heartbreaker’s stomach. The Kaiju knocks the wind out of them, pushing Heartbreaker backward along the ocean floor. Shit. They can’t win with this thing using its size against them. Bucky brings Heartbreaker's right arm down, elbow slamming into the Kaiju’s head, and that forces the Kaiju back long enough for them to break free.

Suddenly Igor is in range, grabbing onto the Kaiju’s tail. The Kaiju turns on them, gigantic claws swiping at Igor’s chest. Bucky knows how much that hurts. A pilot feels any damage done to a Jaeger; it’s unlike any other pain, made worse for the fact that you’re connected to the Jaeger through the drift. The Kaiju’s claws rend the metal, but thankfully the arc-reactor stays intact. Igor fires repulsor blasts in quick succession, like a machine gun, hammering the Kaiju hard. Bucky watches, waiting for the smoke to clear.

The Kaiju’s scaly skin is barely burned.

Repulsors aren’t going to work, Bucky thinks, concerned for the first time that they might not win this fight. They’re not doin’ any damage.

You’re right. They’ll overheat before they even come close. Tony growls in frustration. This thing’s too big. We can’t just beat it dead, not even with two Jaegers.

Bucky closes his eyes for an instant, trying to think. He’s supposed to be the expert on Jaegers. Maybe not as much of an expert as Tony, but he knows enough, and in the fight, Bucky’s the more clear-headed of the two of them. Does he know anything that can help them? Igor is older, third generation; but that still means she’s equipped with modern weapons systems. Repulsors, rockets, cannons. Nothing so medieval as a spear or a sword. But Heartbreaker is old. First generation, rebuilt but fairly well preserved. Old enough to have her original set of weapons.

“Does Heartbreaker still have a sword?” Bucky asks aloud.

Tony perks up, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah. She does.”

“Let's use it.”

Tony grins. I love the way you think.

The sword emerges from the left arm, metal pieces slotting into place. It’s not quite as long as Heartbreaker’s arm, probably to make it easier to wield, but it’ll definitely do the job.

“Hey, Igor,” Tony barks into the comms. “Can you give us an opening, here?”

“With pleasure,” Wanda says.

The Kaiju is still circling, looking at Heartbreaker like she’s something to eat. It’s almost as if the monster has forgotten all about Igor. Good. That gives them the advantage. Igor swings up from behind, metal arms sliding underneath the Kaiju’s arms and gripping hard, hauling it upward. The Kaiju twists its neck back. It struggles, but Igor holds fast, and that’s exactly the opening they need.

Bucky and Tony draw the sword back and strike.

The blade cuts into the Kaiju’s neck, brutal and precise. The metal goes straight through. It cleaves scale and flesh and bone, opening the Kaiju’s enormous neck, driving through its skull and splitting it down the middle.

The Kaiju drops, and the ocean drags it down.

Holy shit. Tony’s eyes are wide, and Bucky watches those lips curve into a smile. That was fucking incredible.

Bucky’s not quite sure what happens next. The drift explodes, and Bucky can’t make sense of it all, but there’s satisfaction and adrenaline and pride and so much more that it carries Bucky away.

“Confirmed kill. Heartbreaker, Igor, come back to the dome.”

Bruce’s voice is a faraway echo in Bucky’s ears, nothing compared to the roar of sound and color coming from the drift. It overwhelms him, and Bucky tries and fails to focus, his mind pulled in too many directions. Somehow, Tony’s still sharp, and he responds for them, his voice resonating through the drift, setting Bucky on fire.

“Copy that.”

The debrief takes no time at all. Bucky can't quite pay attention, still too high on the drift and the fight to comprehend much of anything. He can't track the conversation, except that he hears Tony say something about Kaijus learning Jaeger fight patterns, and then he gets distracted by the flush on Tony’s cheeks and the deep red of his lips.

When they're finished, Bucky follows Tony to the changing room, thankful that he doesn't have to remove this armor himself. Even so, it somehow takes Bucky longer to change; he struggles with his civilian clothes, the fatigue pants refusing to fit over his feet, the sweater catching on his hair before he can tug it over his head. Finally, he's presentable, and he opens the curtain, finding Tony waiting for him.

Tony is dressed in worn jeans and a hoodie that's a little too big. Bucky's first impulse is to use those oversized pockets to drag Tony closer, and damn if the drift doesn't shoot his impulse control straight to hell. He slips his hands into the pockets and tugs, pulling Tony toward him.

Tony rests his hands on Bucky's forearms, looking up at him with dark eyes. “That was one hell of a fight, gorgeous. We make a good team.”

“Yeah. We do.”

Tony tilts his chin up, and Bucky can’t force himself not to see it as an invitation. He leans down before he can stop himself, bringing their lips together, and Tony lets out a small noise. Damn. Bucky’s never felt anything like this. Tony’s lips fit against his like they’re made for it, silky and soft, the connection electric. It’s perfect, and Tony is so good at it; his tongue steals inside Bucky’s mouth, and Bucky starts to lose coherent thought, his blood racing south.

“Hmm.” Tony bites down on Bucky’s lower lip, making Bucky groan. “You taste really good.”

“So do you.” Bucky moves his hands to Tony's waist and kisses him again, gradually walking them backward until Tony is up against the wall. Bucky braces his weight on either side of Tony, palms against the concrete, then leans forward to let their hips slot together.

“Oh.” Tony arches up into the contact and tries to pull Bucky closer, hand on the back of Bucky’s neck.

Bucky gives in, letting their lips meet, rocking his hips gently into Tony’s. Even with all that fabric between them, Bucky can still feel Tony’s hard length against him, and that small amount of friction is incredible.

Too soon Tony pulls away. “Come back to my room with me.”

There’s no doubt in Bucky’s mind exactly what that invitation means. He drops a soft kiss at the corner of Tony’s mouth.

“Okay.”

Tony's right. His room is bigger than Bucky's. He has space enough for a queen bed, and there are shelves upon shelves lining the walls, showing off little robots and pieces of tech. It looks like an in-between place, like Tony probably doesn't spend much time here.

“Do you want some coffee or anything?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Too much adrenaline today. Don’t think my heart could take it.”

Tony smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, I’m way too wired for coffee. I just wanted to offer because - well, honestly, because I’m nervous as hell and I didn’t know what else to say.” Tony bites his lip, looking suddenly more serious. “I don’t want to jump into this too fast… Except that I really, really do. It’s-”

“Conflicting?”

“Yeah.” Tony takes a tentative step closer. “Is this how it’s gonna be? Are we already an old married couple finishing each other’s sentences?”

“That’s sort of how the drift works.”

There it is again, that frown line between Tony’s brows. Bucky reaches out, tracing it with his thumb, finally erasing the tension with a gentle touch. Tony’s eyes flutter closed.

“Been wantin’ to do that for ages.” Bucky lets his fingers trail down the side of Tony’s face, then slides them into the hair at the nape of Tony’s neck, drawing him forward. This kiss is soft, gentle, sweet enough that Tony sighs against Bucky’s lips.

Bucky could do this for hours. Every time he kisses Tony, it’s something different, a new exploration of the same territory. It makes his nerves sing, his toes and his fingertips lighting up with sensation, his cock growing hard with the barest hint of Tony’s tongue in his mouth. Tony is intoxicating, overwhelming. Bucky’s been high on him since that first kiss.

There’s such a fine line between sweet and hot, and they cross it without meaning to, Tony’s hands tangling in Bucky’s hair, Bucky reaching around to palm Tony’s ass. That brings their hips flush together, and Bucky’s sure Tony can feel how much Bucky wants him, how ready Bucky is. Tony pulls away, hands sliding down to Bucky’s shoulders, fingers gripping gently at Bucky’s sweater.

“Come to bed with me?” Tony asks, less sure than he’d been when he’d invited Bucky to his room.

The breath leaves Bucky’s body, and he nods. “Yes.”

It's not hard for Bucky to track what Tony's thinking as he steps back, unlacing his boots. Clothes are a hindrance. Better to start without any.

That doesn't make Bucky any less nervous as he works on his own boots, leaving them in a pile with his socks next to the door. He blinks when Tony dims the lights, and then Bucky stops, mesmerized, as Tony peels off his shirt and drops it to the floor.

Damn, but Tony is beautiful.

Bucky's gaze wanders over the planes of Tony's chest. That scar is striking, captivating Bucky's attention. The center looks like a brand that hasn't quite kept its shape. Thin white lines extend out in every direction, crisscrossing each other until they fade and disappear.

Bucky looks up, meeting Tony's eyes. “Can I touch it?”

Tony’s voice is barely a whisper. “Yeah.”

Bucky steps up close, metal palm coming up to rest on the white knot of skin, and Tony’s eyes flutter closed. “Does it hurt?”

“No.”

Before he knows quite what he’s doing, Bucky leans down and replaces his hand with his mouth, dropping slow, soft kisses on Tony's chest. He grazes the damaged skin with his teeth, then soothes it with his tongue, feeling Tony’s body shudder.

“Ah. Okay, I really need us both to be wearing a lot less.”

Bucky can’t help but imagine what that looks like. He wants to see more, wants his hands on as much of Tony as Tony will let him have.

“Come on, gorgeous,” Tony says, eager hands finding the waistband of Bucky’s fatigue pants, making quick work of the fastenings and sliding them to the floor. That’s enough to make Bucky move again, and he reaches back, grabbing at the collar of his sweater and pulling it over his head. This time, when Bucky looks up, Tony is naked, and the sweater slips from Bucky’s fingers, because damn if that isn’t an incredible sight.

“Off,” Tony insists. Bucky smiles at Tony’s impatience, his lips parting when Tony relieves him of his boxers in a single fluid motion.

“Oh.”

Tony steps even closer, their cocks bumping together, and that’s a sensation Bucky hasn’t felt in a long time. Bucky moans, almost entirely soundless, but Tony doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes darting over Bucky’s metal shoulder.

“Does it hurt?” Tony asks, looking up into Bucky’s face.

“No.”

Tony’s hand moves tentatively, his thumb touching one of the many scars on Bucky’s side. The angry marks sweep toward Bucky’s shoulder, and Tony follows this scar all the way to the place where flesh and metal meet. “Wow.”

Bucky breathes in, then sighs, shaky on the exhale.

Tony pauses. “That okay?”

“Yeah.” Bucky swallows, turning his head to watch Tony’s hand. “Feels good.”

“I’m gonna need another name for you. Gorgeous doesn’t do you justice.”

“You’re sorta biased.” Bucky manages to say it without his voice breaking. “Tech turns you on.”

“I promise, it’s not just the tech.” Tony tilts his chin up and seeks out Bucky’s lips, leading him into a languid kiss that starts out too soft and ends with Tony hooking one leg around Bucky's waist. Bucky's hands slide down to Tony's ass, and it's almost too easy for him to lift Tony up, letting Tony wrap both legs around him as he leads them back toward the bed.

Bucky draws the moment out forever. He lays Tony out on the mattress, Tony’s head the last thing to drop back onto the sheets, metal hand still cradling Tony’s neck. Bucky pulls back, letting Tony shift further up toward the pillows, and then Bucky’s eyes take him in, admiring the way that lithe body looks spread out underneath him.

Damn. Everything about Tony is beautiful. His legs. His hips. His cock. Feeling a sudden need to touch and taste, Bucky leans down, nuzzling at Tony's navel. He travels lower, lips finding Tony's hip, then his inner thigh. Tony shifts, whimpering, and Bucky gives in, leaving long, soft kisses along Tony's cock, then licking a stripe from base to tip.

“Oh shit. You're gonna make me come like a teenager if you do that,” Tony gasps.

Bucky lifts his head, moving further up Tony's body to kiss along his jaw. “Lube?” he asks softly.

“Bedside table drawer.”

Bucky grabs the lube, then shifts his attention to Tony’s neck, nibbling at his pulse-point, sucking at the sensitive skin.

“Do you - um. God damn it, that's distracting.” Tony laughs nervously. “Sorry. I'm sorry, I don't-”

“D’you want this the other way around?” Bucky asks, suddenly worried he's made the wrong assumption.

“No,” Tony says, emphatic enough that Bucky pulls back to look at him. “No, it's not that. I really want you to top. It's just… It's been a long time.”

“Been a long time for me too.”

Tony surprises him, tucking a strand of hair behind Bucky’s ear, the gesture almost tender. Bucky holds Tony’s gaze, and something passes between them, but Bucky isn’t sure what. He only knows that the look in Tony’s eyes makes it hard to breathe.

Bucky drops the bottle beside them on the bed, and then his hand is between Tony's legs, one finger circling Tony's hole, gently breaching his entrance.

Tony arches, eyes closed, mouth open. “Mmh,” Tony groans, looking goddamn near perfect with his hair falling into his face.

Bucky gives him a minute to adjust, then eases a second finger past that tight ring of muscle. He waits for Tony to relax, the tension slowly leaving Tony's face, then moves both fingers in tandem, gently scissoring him open. Tony’s breath catches, and then brown eyes open, heavy-lidded.

“Okay?” Bucky asks.

“God, yes.”

Bucky slips a third finger inside, feeling Tony tighten around him, watching the rapid rise and fall of Tony’s chest.

There's a needy edge to Tony's voice when he speaks again. “Ahh. Gorgeous, that's so good.”

Bucky moves his fingers in and out, spreading and stretching, watching Tony’s expressions shift. Hell. That’s enough to make him come right there. He's not sure how much longer he can-

“Okay, okay, that's good. I'm good.”

Bucky draws his fingers out of Tony slowly, groaning, clinging to the remains of his shredded self-control. Fuck, he's so hard, he's worried he’ll go off like a shot after two seconds inside that tight heat. What comes after this? Arousal clouds his mind, but his body remembers, reaching back into that drawer. Condom. Right. And more lube. He just barely manages both, his fingers fumbling and unsteady.

“Bucky. You okay?”

Bucky’s eyes flick up, and he nods, not sure how to explain that he’s rapidly losing his capacity to think. He sets the lube aside, metal hand steady even when his flesh hand trembles, then lines himself up, swallowing hard when his cock presses up against Tony’s entrance.

“Oh, fuck,” Tony whispers, lifting his hips and spreading his legs wider as Bucky leans over him.

Tony’s fingers curl into Bucky's hair, and Bucky braces his hands against the mattress, bunching up the sheets as he pushes slowly inside. Tony exhales beneath him, then takes in a shaky breath; Bucky feels him struggling to relax before giving up and arching greedily, forcing Bucky in too hard and too fast until his hips are flush with Tony’s ass.

“Fuck,” Bucky wheezes.

His whole body is tense, taut as a bowstring; his thighs quiver, biceps flexing hard as he gathers more fabric into his hands, half worried he’s going to tug the sheets all the way off the bed. He drops his forehead onto Tony’s, breathing out slowly through his nose.

“Need a minute,” he says, because damn it, Tony is so tight and so perfect, he almost can’t take it.

Tony whines, hands tugging lightly at the roots of Bucky’s hair. After another deep breath, Bucky’s body starts to settle. He pulls halfway out and presses in again, and Tony gasps. “More. Please.”

Bucky nods, powerless to argue. He sets up a slow rhythm, and Tony breathes out on a small, soft noise with every roll of Bucky’s hips until his impatience gets the better of him.

“Gorgeous, I need - I need you to go faster.”

“Okay.” Bucky holds Tony’s gaze and thrusts hard and fast, burying himself even deeper. Tony cries out, and Bucky takes hold of his jaw, his touch gentle, not letting Tony look away. “Like that?”

“Yes. Yes, please - oh fuck.”

Bucky draws back and snaps his hips forward, and this time Tony screws his eyes shut, a keening noise pulled from his throat. There are tears in Tony’s eyes when they open, and one hand moves to grip Bucky’s metal shoulder, the other still tangled in his hair.

“Do that again.”

Bucky takes Tony’s hand and pins it down to the bed, metal fingers closed loosely around his wrist. “Ask nicely,” Bucky whispers, watching Tony’s eyes grow wide and dark.

“Please,” Tony begs. “Please please please, do that again. Just like that. Please.”

Bucky laces metal fingers with Tony’s, still holding his hand against the mattress, and then he’s driving into Tony like his life depends on it, the punishing rhythm dragging him quickly toward the edge. Sweat beads on his brow, pleasure radiating outward from the pit of his stomach and crawling up his spine.

Damn it. He's already too close. He should slow down, he should-

“Don't you dare stop,” Tony says hoarsely.

“Tony. I can't-”

“I know. I know. I can't either. Just - ah - please don't stop.”

“Okay,” Bucky agrees, his voice an octave too low. He thrusts again, changing his angle just slightly, and Tony all but howls.

Bucky can't help himself, not when Tony makes sounds like that. The pressure builds, and it barely takes four more strokes, hard and deep, before Bucky's trembling with the effort of holding back. “Tony.”

“Fuck. Oh fuck, Bucky, I'm so close.”

“Me too.” It's all Bucky can manage, his hands gripping hard, his rhythm starting to falter.

“Oh my god,” Tony gasps, tilting his head back. “Bucky. Please. I need-”

Bucky wraps his metal hand around Tony’s cock, and Tony cries out, arching into the touch.

That's it - that's all Tony needs, and suddenly he's coming in spurts, nails raking over Bucky's shoulders, Bucky's name tumbling from his lips over and over and over until it's too much. The blissed-out look on Tony's face, the sound of his own name echoing in his ears - fuck.

Bucky makes a desperate noise low in his throat, because he's so close and damn if Tony isn't the most fucking beautiful thing he's ever seen. The heat around him grows impossibly tight, and Bucky chokes on a moan, thrusting just once before he comes undone, his world reduced to one man and one word as everything explodes.

His orgasm shudders through him, each spasm wringing a cry from his throat until he’s hoarse. Bucky empties himself into Tony, his muscles shaking, lips parted, eyes shut.

It takes Bucky a long time to catch his breath. He rests his forehead against Tony’s, opening his eyes. “You okay?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah. You?”

Bucky nods.

Tony leans up and kisses him, threading his fingers through Bucky's hair. “You can lie on me, you know. I promise you're not too heavy.”

Bucky lifts his head, stretching into Tony’s touch. “How about we switch, instead?” Bucky shifts, pulling out slowly, trying to be as gentle as he can. He ties the condom off and tosses it into the small wastebasket, then rolls over onto his back. Bucky smiles as Tony curls into him, Tony’s head resting on his chest, covering some of his scars.

“You smell good,” Bucky murmurs, nuzzling Tony’s hair.

Tony presses closer. “Hmm. Glad you think so.” Tony kisses Bucky’s chest, and one hand comes to rest on Bucky’s abdomen, calloused fingers tracing absent circles over Bucky’s skin. “I don’t want to say something and ruin it, but… This is sort of perfect.”

“Doesn’t ruin it,” Bucky says.

“Thank god.”

Bucky gets the impression that Tony’s thankful for more than not ruining the moment. There’s so much profound relief in that statement, but Bucky doesn’t want to read too much into it, doesn’t want to let himself get carried away. He closes his eyes, comforted by the steady rise and fall of Tony’s chest against his side.

Tony’s right. This is sort of perfect.

#winteriron #pacific rim au #winteriron au #tony x bucky #fic #sopherfly writes

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