#this is long and rambly and barely coherent because i just got home after traveling all day and i havent processed anything and i might cry | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

helloalycia · 3 years

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my patient’s neighbour [four] // wanda maximoff

summary: taking Wanda to meet your parents wasn't the best decision in hindsight...

warning/s: none i don't think?

author's note: i’m not sure what to say other than sorry in advance oops

The restaurant my parents chose wasn't too flashy but rather comforting and homely, with an Italian theme and matching cuisine. It was bustling with people, but it didn't take long for Wanda and I to find my parents sat at the back waiting for us.

"You gonna be okay?" I asked, glancing at her with a comforting squeeze of the hand.

"I've got you, haven't I?" she asked playfully, her accent thicker than usual as she spoke. And though she was joking, I knew there was truth to her words which sent the butterflies in my stomach into a frenzy.

"You're cute," I said with adoration, appreciating how lovely her eyes looked in the dimly-lit restaurant. "Come on."

Hand in hand, we approached my parents' table and I had hopes that tonight would go well. My parents weren't exactly intimidating – at least anyone I'd ever known hadn't got that impression – but I still worried for Wanda. Unlike her, I couldn't read minds, so I couldn't tell if she was actually looking forward to tonight or if she was just doing it for me.

"Y/N, you're here!" my mum exclaimed with a grin when she spotted me.

"I am," I said with a nervous smile, before motioning to Wanda. "And so is Wanda, my girlfriend."

"Yes, Y/N mentioned you would be coming," my mum said with a friendly smile, looking to Wanda, before motioning to the table. "Please, sit, sit."

I squeezed Wanda's hand gently before pulling out a chair for her. She smiled at me appreciatively before I took a seat beside her, facing my parents.

"It's nice to finally meet you, Wanda," my dad said with a nod. "Y/N mentioned you plenty of times when we'd call to catch up with her."

"You, too," Wanda spoke politely. "Both of you. Y/N told me that you're travelling the world, is that right?"

I leaned on my hand and glanced at Wanda, who shot me a mischievous smile. Quirking a brow, I mentally applauded her. Getting my parents to talk about their travels was an easy way of bonding with them – they would tell every server and customer in this restaurant about their travelling if they could. She'd cracked them instantly.

I'm just that good, milashka (cutie).

Trying not to laugh as her words echoed in my mind because of her powers, I leaned back into my seat and listened in as my parents went into a ramble about their ongoing adventures. This was pretty much how the rest of the evening went, as the four of us dined on expensive wine and delicious pizza. They seemed to be getting along well, with Wanda asking all the right questions and giving them her picture-perfect smile that impressed all the elders. Heck, she was even impressing me.

Naively, I appreciated how well the evening was going until my parents decided to talk to Wanda about her career.

"So, Y/N mentioned you're one of those Revengers," my mum remembered as we ate.

"Avengers," I corrected her, mildly embarrassed.

Wanda chuckled, glancing at me, before nodding. "Yes, I am. For over a year now, I've been working with them."

"Them being Iron Man, Captain America, the Black Widow...?" my dad asked, looking up as if trying to remember the rest, further embarrassing me.

"Those are the ones," Wanda quipped with a nod.

My mum hummed in response as my dad nodded before leaning back in his seat and eyeing Wanda curiously.

"I can't imagine your job is the safest," he began. "You protect people from threats, right? Keep them safe."

Wanda seemed caught off guard, but recovered quickly. "It's got it's... dangers, yes. But I can handle myself. I've got powers and I know how to use them."

"You do," my dad agreed, before his eyes flickered to me briefly. "But Y/N doesn't. She's just a regular human."

I set my fork down on my plate and looked to him calmly. "Dad, what are you saying?"

"No, it's fine," Wanda said reassuringly, resting her hand on my leg under the table. I grabbed it and held it as she continued to speak to my father. "Y/N doesn't have powers, you are correct."

"And dating an Avenger, I can imagine, must put a huge target on her back," he said with concern, and my mum nodded in agreement. "How can we be certain that she is safe?"

"Dad!"

"Your father is right, Y/N," my mum said, giving me a look, before her expression softened as she looked to a startled Wanda. "We're not implying that you're incapable, Wanda. We can clearly see that you care about our daughter. And you're a lovely person. You're pretty much perfect."

Wanda swallowed hard. "But?"

My mother frowned. "But dating you is bound to put our Y/N in danger. She could get hurt just for being involved with you, with your friends. She doesn't have powers to protect herself. And I can't imagine you're around her all the time to keep her safe."

As angry as I was at my parents for saying this stuff – even if they were saying it out of love – memories of the incident flashed to mind. They were right, but it was a risk I'd accepted when dating Wanda. What good was it doing by bringing this up now?

Noticing Wanda's silence, I spoke up instead. "I appreciate your concern, guys, but I'm an adult. I understand the danger I may be put in by being with Wanda. But I love her and I know that she is here for me if anything were to ever happen."

"We know," my father said, giving me a small nod. "We just thought we'd share our opinion anyway. It's been weighing on us for a while is all."

I sighed quietly. I couldn't exactly fault them for that.

"Anyway, never mind that," my mum said, setting down her fork. "Now that we've got that out the way, let's order some dessert, yeah? Our treat."

Nodding, I let my parents get excited as they perused the dessert menus before them. Instead, I looked to the quiet brunette beside me and saw how lost in thought she was, eyes focused on the table and stuck in a daydream.

With the hand that was holding hers, I patted her hand with my thumb to earn her attention. She looked up suddenly, questioning gaze falling to me. I frowned and quirked a brow, wondering if she was okay. She forced a smile my way, squeezing my hand reassuringly, but I didn't believe her. I also couldn't question it right in front of my parents, so I decided to speak with her later.

Dessert went by quickly as Wanda, suddenly, wasn't very talkative. I didn't know if my parents noticed, but I sure did and I felt extremely guilty. If I had known of my parents' concerns, I never would have brought Wanda to meet them tonight.

After the evening came to a close and we all stepped out of the restaurant, I expected to be going home with my parents since we lived together, but they claimed they had more plans together tonight.

"Wow, you guys have more of a social life than we do," I joked when they told me to make my own way home.

Wanda barely smiled and I felt bad.

"We'll be back in a few hours," my mum promised, before pulling me in for a hug. "Tonight was fun. A great final night before we leave tomorrow."

I returned the hug and as I gave my dad one, I heard Wanda thanking my mum for the lovely evening halfheartedly. After saying our final goodbyes, Wanda led me to her car in silence, giving me time to try and put some jumbled thoughts together coherently.

As she had been for the past hour, Wanda was quiet on the drive back to my place. Whenever I would glance in her direction, she'd be chewing on her lip and focusing on driving, though the blank expression on her face made me think that maybe she was distracted. It didn't take a genius to know she was thinking about my parents' words and I suddenly felt guilty for putting that all on her.

"I'm sorry," I blurted halfway through the journey. "I'm sorry for what they said. It wasn't fair of them, I know that. They just... they meant well, Wanda, they really did." I tucked my hands under my thighs, wincing as their words echoed in my mind. "It doesn't change anything though, y'know? We're still us. We're still okay. I don't want you to feel like anything's changed because it hasn't."

I paused, swallowing hard, and glanced her way. She didn't even look my way, still in the same position as she was before I started to speak. Looking back to the road ahead, I let out a disappointed sigh, figuring she wasn't in a talking mood. I didn't blame her, but I hoped she would have understood what I meant.

The remainder of the drive was like this, Wanda deep in thought and me huddled under an imaginary blanket of guilt. When we finally reached my house, she turned the engine off and I waited for her to say something, literally anything. Her fingers drummed against the steering wheel mindlessly and I figured she was out of words for tonight.

"I'll ring you in the morning," I mumbled quietly, opening the car door. "If you want to speak, that is."

Leaving her there, I grabbed my bag and headed to the front door, but stopped when I heard her get out the car, too. Waiting, I turned around and watched as she approached me, eyebrows knitted in thought.

"Please say something," I said with pleading eyes.

She licked her lips, biting her lower lip so hard I'm surprised she didn't draw blood. Finally, she released it and looked to me with apologetic eyes.

"Your parents were right," she said.

I blinked with confusion. "What?"

She nodded, looking down at her shoes momentarily. "They were right, what they said. My life puts you in danger."

"Yeah, I know," I agreed, crossing my arms. "I knew that when I got with you, but that doesn't change anything."

She gave a disbelieving smile. "Seriously? Y/N, that changes everything."

"No, it doesn't," I told her sternly, growing frustrated. "This is the stuff you sacrifice when you love someone."

She sighed, shaking her head and looking away. "You shouldn't have to."

"But I chose to," I said, clenching my jaw.

"Don't you remember what happened last time?" she asked, stepping forward and holding my hand. "The incident?"

"We said we wouldn't talk about that," I reminded her with a low voice.

"But you remember, right? When they took you and I wasn't there? They could've hurt you!"

"Shut up!" I told her, raising my voice. Pulling my hand away from hers and taking a step back, I continued, "Why are you saying that? You came! You helped me!"

"But what if they did something to you before I got there?" she snapped. "What if I hadn't got to you on time?"

The memories came spilling into my mind, escaping the locked box I kept them in. Tears burned the corner of my eyes as I tried to think about anything else.

"You remember how scared you were?" Wanda asked, frowning at me with exasperated eyes. "You couldn't be by yourself for weeks!"

"Why are you doing this?!" I yelled, clenching my fists. "Why are you trying to frighten me?!"

"Because you should be frightened!" she retorted, stepping closer to me. Her dark green eyes were swirling storms of rage as she added, "It could happen again!"

I shoved her away from me, pinching the bridge of my nose with annoyance. Tears slipped from my eyes at the terrifying memory of what happened, what could have gone wrong, but I ignored them as I swallowed down the lump in my throat. Why the hell was she acting like this? Making me so angry at her for no reason?

"It's not even just that," she continued, jaw tensed. "How many times do I get hurt because of work and you get worried?"

"That's because I care about you," I muttered through stinging eyes.

"This will always be my life," she said, a hint of regret in her words as she looked to me. "I can't change it."

"I'm not asking you to!"

"Exactly! You're not! Which means you'll suck it up and stay with me and will live your life in constant concern for my well-being. It's not right."

I opened my mouth to respond because what she was saying was entirely stupid. But my emotions got the better of me and no words came out. Instead, my bottom lip quivered as I sucked up a breath.

"I need time to think," she suddenly said, anger disappearing from her voice and being replaced with an astute calmness.

My gaze snapped her way and through blurry vision, I watched her step back with her hands on her hips.

"So you can what – think about breaking up with me?" I said bitterly, and despite my anger, I didn't expect her to look at me with a softened expression, meaning my words were correct.

"Maybe it's better that way, Y/N," she said gently, eyes meeting mine.

I squeezed my hands together and tried to breathe through the pent-up anger that she'd caused, but the longer she stared at me, waiting for a response, the more I wanted to explode.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I muttered, scrunching my eyebrows together.

She pressed her lips together, looking away, and it only pissed me off more.

"Are you fucking kidding me, Wanda?!" I yelled. "You're quitting on our relationship because, what, you think I'm in danger? Well, news flash, honey, the worst already happened and I'm still here!"

She barely flinched as she avoided my eyes.

"You're a fucking coward!" I said, pointing at her. "If you needed an excuse to end things, you could have just said so!"

Breathing out, I wiped my tears away shakily. I expected her to argue back, to realise she'd made a mistake and regretted her words, but as I waited, I knew she was certain of her decision.

"Fine," I settled, brimming with rage. "Fuck off, Wanda."

Still, nothing.

Turning on my heel, I stormed to my front door and went through my keys with difficulty, hands shaking with anger. I heard Wanda's car door shut from behind me but didn't bother turning around. I clearly didn't need to as I heard the tyres screech against the road and knew she was gone.

Kicking my door with frustration, I found the key and opened up before heading inside and slamming the door behind me. How dare she break up with me because of something that I chose off my own back! She just gave up like we meant nothing to her, not even bothering to talk things out with me! And selfishly, she left me feeling pissed and resenting her more than I ever thought I would.

"What a bitch!" I shouted into the empty house, throwing my keys to the side harshly.

When they clinked against glass, I looked up and saw the vase of flowers Wanda had given me before dinner.

"The first and fucking last," I said dryly, before grabbing ahold of it and throwing it against the wall without thinking.

The glass shattered on impact, leaving a mess of water, flowers and small shards on the wooden floor. I looked at it, the brokenness resembling how my heart felt. As the adrenaline of my actions and previous angry words wore off, all that was left was hurt and pain and oh God, Wanda was gone. She'd left me. She'd given up.

I sank to the floor, pulling my legs up to my chest, and hugged them tightly. Stifling my cries, I dug myself into my knees and felt a pain in my heart. Why didn't she fight for us? Did she not love me enough? Was I not enough?

—

"You ignored the memes I sent you, I thought you died."

As Natasha pushed right past me and into my house, I blinked with disbelief.

"Sure, come right in," I mumbled sarcastically, closing the front door.

Following after Natasha, I found her making herself at home in the living room, plonking herself on the couch and pulling her feet up comfortably.

"You could have sent an emoji or something," she continued, giving me a knowing look. "They were some good memes."

"Well, forgive me if I wasn't in the mood," I said sourly, joining her on the couch.

Her playful smile faded as she picked up on my words. "How are you doing, sweetie?"

I ran a hand through my hair and leaned my elbow on the back of the couch, getting comfortable. It had been two weeks since Wanda broke up with me and in those two weeks, I hadn't been doing particularly well. I guess you could say I was still in a slump. A horrible, tiresome, angry, sadness-filled slump.

"I'm fine."

She pursed her lips, looking like she wanted to argue, but thankfully, she didn't. I was glad – the last thing I wanted was to prove that I was okay when, really, all I wanted to do was curl in a ball and suffocate under my duvet.

"I'm sorry," she said, resting her hand on mine. "If it's any consolation, I think Wanda made a huge mistake."

"Ah, so she told you," I said with a nod of realisation. I hadn't told Natasha the specifics of why we broke up, but clearly Wanda did. I guess it made sense – they were teammates. If anything, I was surprised Natasha still wanted to speak to me, instead expecting her to side with her friend.

"She did," Natasha answered. "And I think she's an idiot, but that's not my business. I just came here to make sure you were okay."

"Really? I thought you wanted to show me the memes," I said jokingly, trying to lighten the mood with a small smile.

She chuckled, slapping my hand gently. "That, too... but seriously."

My smile faded as I looked down, my finger playing with my trousers distractedly. "I'm not okay, but I'll get there." I began to glare at my trousers, my anger for the witch returning. "I have to be. Because she doesn't want me anymore... fuck her."

"I'd rather not," Natasha mumbled.

Though my anger was present, making me tense like it had been the last few weeks, I couldn't help but smile at Natasha's words. Then laughter bubbled from my lips and for the first time since Wanda left, I felt momentarily happy.

"I'm glad we can still be friends," Natasha said, making me look to her with a smile. "I know that you and Wanda are over now... but I still like hanging out with you."

"Me, too," I said in agreement. "Thanks for coming to check in. You didn't have to."

"Yeah, I did." She nodded before offering me a small, encouraging smile. "You're gonna be okay, y'know."

I wanted to believe her, but despite how pissed I was at Wanda, I still loved her. And I couldn't imagine stopping, though I knew I'd have to if I was to make it through this.

—

Getting over Wanda was a difficult process. Everything I felt was a mixture of resentment, exhaustion and misery because I missed her. I missed being able to call her when I saw somebody do something stupid in public; I missed kissing her when I hadn't seen her in a long time; I missed hearing her adorable accent first thing when I woke up after she spent the night; I missed her.

Two months followed the breakup and the only time I'd see her was when she'd dodge Anna's apartment upon knowing I was going to take care of her. I guess I was glad in that sense, as it meant I wouldn't have to deal with her awkwardly. But it also made me feel like shit because it meant she didn't care about me at all. Clearly our breakup wasn't affecting her like it did with me.

And it was definitely affecting me.

I was scrolling through Instagram one day when I saw a particular post on my feed from Natasha's account. Yeah, one of the Avengers had a private Instagram account. She gave me her username when she saw me on it one day and I remember being so confused to how she had it.

"I'm an Avenger, not a hermit," was her response, and from that day onwards, we followed each other.

So, I saw a post on her Instagram and it was some goofy photo of her, Tony, Bruce and Wanda. They were posing with exaggerated smiles as Natasha grinned up front; the caption said something about working long days, but I wasn't paying much attention as, naturally, my gaze fell to Wanda.

Just like everyone else, she had a playful, exaggerated smile on her lips like nothing kept her down, but what stood out was the sling around her arm and the cast underneath. It must have happened in a mission or something and it wasn't my business, but I couldn't help but worry. Was she okay? Was she looking after herself? I wanted to text Natasha and ask, but I stopped myself.

She'd broken up with me for this very reason. I wasn't agreeing with it, but for a second, I did see why she'd made her point. It still wasn't fair though. She didn't get to make that choice for me.

We weren't together anymore, I reminded myself. She broke up with me. It had been two months and I needed to let go. If she didn't care about me, why should I waste my time and energy caring about her?

Not letting it get to me anymore, I simply liked the post before continuing my scrolling. Though I knew that deep down, her face was imprinted in my mind and I still worried for her well-being.

—

The fourth month following our breakup was when I properly saw Wanda again, excluding the times she would duck out of Anna's apartment upon my arrival to care for her. It was also the first time since the breakup that Wanda made the effort to speak to me.

I was sat eating dinner on my day off when I got a call from the hospital nearby, interrupting my meal. The nurse was explaining how Anna had fallen over and hurt her back and was now in a hospital room. She was calling me because she thought I'd like to know since I was her registered nurse and carer. I was glad to get the call, immediately pulling my shoes and coat on and rushing over there to make sure she was okay. She didn't have anyone else apart from Wanda and I – it was no question I had to go.

Though, of course, I didn't really think about the fact that Wanda may be there until I saw her there. I also didn't consider the fact that I was wearing my pyjamas when I stepped in the lift and headed to Anna's floor. Too late now.

After asking the receptionist where Anna's room was, I found Wanda hanging around it outside the door. With only Anna on my mind, I approached her and tried to hide my panic. She spotted me instantly, stopping her pacing and looking to me with tired eyes and a frown on her face.

I didn't care that she looked worried, nor that she was holding up well since we last spoke in anger. I didn't care that she'd dyed her hair a reddish-brown colour, nor that she managed to pull off both that and the whole 'loungewear' look in a place surrounded by blinding white and blue. I didn't care that my heart ached when her green eyes found mine, nor that I missed seeing her so close and not in my dreams for once. I didn't care about any of it. Or, at least, I tried to tell myself that.

"What happened?" I cut straight to the point, stopping in front of her. "Is Anna okay?"

Wanda nodded instantly. "She's fine. She tripped over her dining room chair and hurt her back. The doctors just checked her out and said it's nothing too serious, but she won't be able to walk for a while."

I pressed my lips together, feeling the panic wear off at the sound of good news. Anna had always been more than just a patient to me and the last thing I wanted was to hear she'd hurt herself badly.

"Can I see her?" I asked Wanda, quirking a brow.

"Yeah, of course," Wanda said, before looking away awkwardly. "I was just waiting out here for you. The nurse said you were coming."

I chose to say nothing as I walked past her and into Anna's room, seeing the older woman laying on a hospital bed and staring at the ceiling. When she noticed my presence, she smiled at me and motioned for me to join her side.

"It's so good to see you, milaya (sweetie)," she said happily, as I stopped by her side, "but you didn't have to come! I'm not dying."

I heard Wanda enter the room behind me, but she took a seat on the chairs opposite the bed. Ignoring her, I smiled down at Anna and grabbed her hand.

"Don't say that," I told her gently. "Of course I'm here. You're my number one priority. I had to make sure you were okay!"

Anna waved her hand in typical Anna fashion. "I've suffered worse. I'm absolutely fine."

I knew it was best not to question her, so I didn't.

"I'm glad you're both here," she said, looking between Wanda and I, making me swallow awkwardly.

Since breaking up, I hadn't mentioned it to Anna, but she wasn't stupid and she'd clearly noticed that we weren't spending time together anymore. I didn't know if Wanda had told her, but if she had, Anna never mentioned anything. Like now, she simply looked between us both with a grateful smile, unaware of how awkward we felt.

Thankfully, the awkward silence was interrupted when a doctor walked in the room. After introducing herself, I asked if I could speak to her outside about Anna and she happily obliged. She told me about Anna's condition and how it would affect the way I cared for her, especially regarding her new medication, and I asked anything and everything to make sure she was truly okay. After being reassured that she was, I thanked the doctor and returned to Anna's room, only to find Wanda and Anna in a heated a argument.

I couldn't tell what had got them so fussy as they were bickering in Russian, sentences too fast for me to comprehend with my limited knowledge of the language. It got to a point where Anna began slapping Wanda on the arm, looking angrier than ever, so I stepped between them and pulled Wanda away.

"What the hell is going on here?" I interrupted, holding Anna's slapping hand down to the bed and raising a hand to keep Wanda at bay. I looked between them, seeing the frustration in both their expressions, and asked questioningly, "Well?"

Wanda said nothing, eyes avoiding mine as usual, so I looked down to Anna who was glancing between us before spouting off into another ramble in Russian, trying to grab Wanda so she could yell at her directly. To my annoyance, Wanda tried to push past me, yelling back, and I was unfortunately caught in the middle as I attempted to keep them from ripping each other's throats out.

Thankfully, their bickering came to a halt when an unknown voice called into the room: "What is going on in here?"

I looked to the door, following the mystery voice, and saw a young woman, maybe in her thirties, standing in the doorway and looking between the three of us with confusion. I had no idea who she was, though she seemed familiar. Judging from the confusion Wanda had, she didn't seem to know either.

"Sasha," Anna breathed out with surprise, and then I realised. That was Anna's granddaughter. "What are you doing here?"

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

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ravenclaw-questions-gone-writing · 4 years

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Outline # -1 Abandoned Lore (Trinity)

@fanfics-and-fangirling

I have learned my lesson, I will be writing these on Google docs and then copy-pasting onto Tumblr. While I am on GD, I figured I might as well open the docs I used to write the actual fic. Man, I went through a ton of hoops to get where I am. I will be using the most coherent ones for reference.

I can literally track my thought process as I went through writing all the different versions and I still have no idea how tf I went from this to dropping a flaming papermache whale on Ra’s Al Ghul. And I will die mad about it. Which means more meticulous notes in the future I guess.

Also, I’d like to apologize for how long it took to get this out, I have no sense of time whatsoever and as always, there’s a lot more than expected. This was 7 pages long

Original Ramble Post

Like most of my stories, the MC is an OCI - reincarnator brought into a fictional world they once watched. (Because I am obsessed with that trope.)

I now find the original name I had for her cringy and out-of-place given these are norse gods. So, from now on her name is Lokka, which is the female version of Loki

There’s a whole ass backstory about the transition of godly names and power I won’t go into. Just think Thor and female Thor kind of thing I guess. She’s basically seen as a spare Loki but it’s also a respected position.

Was tempted to name her Sigyn since Marvel doesn’t care about actual norse myth relations. No, Idc that there’s a canon Sigyn.

If you’re curious, the original name was Aradia. Yes, like the queen of witches.

MC is an asgardian, the daughter of the librarian in the royal palace and a blacksmith

She managed to get an apprenticeship under Loki and is occasionally taught by Frigga. She also learns under Eir when both her royal teachers are busy.

Lokka found her way into the central plane, probably having found it’s location from Loki’s notes and is unaware that it’s unstable.

So, Lokka is in the central plane, having the time of her life exploring new lands when she stumbles across a crying Marinette who is very lost

Unlike Lokka, Marinette does not know where she is or what is going on. She literally just tripped into a portal and has no way home.

Lokka takes Marinette under her wing and promises to help her find a way home

Problem is, she doesn’t know which of the three universes Marinette is from.

Even if/when she finds out that the girl is from MLB-verse, she still wouldn’t know which one that is because she has no reference to which world is which. Only that Marinette is probably not from Asgard.

At this point, she is unaware she lived in Marvel, she just knows Asgard is Norse Mythology.

So they continue to wander the central plane, Marinette ends up picking up a card guardian for a pet, accidentally becoming a cardcaptor.

Marinette has trouble pronouncing Lokka and Lokka gives Mari permission to call her Cosette (pre-reincarnation name)

Meanwhile, Ra’s sends Damian and Talia into the Central plane for combat experience and resource gathering.

Ra’s might be 700 years old, he might have access to the Central plane but he sure doesn’t know about magic or how it came to be or the current state of it. He might know something’s off because all the inhabitants have been increasingly on edge and the weather’s been stranger than usual but he didn’t deemed it important

Notably, he has never seen anyone other than those who he’d sent in himself in the central planes (CP, from now on bc I am getting tired of typing the entire thing out) so as far as he knows, the CP’s only entrance point is under his control.

Talia and Damian, who’s still going by Hafid, go hunting for resources and training

They separate for a bit for individual hunting/training time

Marinette and Cosette (Lokka) stumble across Damian’s camp

Misunderstandings occur, Damian fights them, more accurately he fights Cosette

Cosette tries to protect Marinette while also making sure not to harm her opponent

It was harder than she expected considering her opponent was a child

Asgardian training pulls through and she is able to do both

Damian’s tied up, Marinette is confused, and Cosette does not want to deal with this

Negotiation time

Marinette can’t speak Arabic, Damian doesn’t know french, and Cosette has all-speak

This means Cosette’s sitting there, having to repeat everything the kids say to each other for translation’s sake

also misunderstandings before the kids realize allspeak is a thing

Cosette is stuck with two kids who don’t like each other, one of which barely puts up with her so she does what most adults do when kids are too troublesome

Distract them: she does magic tricks with actual magic

Damian+Marinette are fascinated, Cosette accidentally gains two magic students

even though she’s still learning herself and all she has for guidance right now are Loki’s and Frigga’s notes

So, the trio end up travelling together

Damian demands Marinette should at least be able to fight so they train her too

They also figure out that Marinette and Damian’s worlds are not the same.

Cosette drills some value of life, basic morals, and feminism into Damian’s head

Marinette and Damian (Hafid) have trouble pronouncing each other’s names

They chose nicknames for each other from Cosette’s bedtime stories

Marinette is obviously angel or Tenko

Damian is gets Kabane, the name of a half demon

Kabane later changes to Kasane, protective blade

Yes, Cosette was/is a weeb and yes, they still mispronounce names which defeats the whole purpose but at least they kids don’t notice now even if Cosette is cringing every time they

They run into another card guardian and this one goes to Damian.

Cosette does not pout about this, it would be very immature

One training montages, several fights, a couple language lessons, and an abandoned (and Cosette-raided) house later, Cosette gets to the part of Loki’s notes where she figures out that the CP is collapsing in on itself and uh-oh

She tells the kids the gist of it but they’re too smart, ask all the right questions, and end up figuring out the important parts of situation that she’s trying to keep from them

Cosette is both impressed and a little put out, mostly impressed because not only did they figure out extremely complex magic, they also mostly remained level headed.

Marinette wants to rescue the card guardians and for once Damian is backing her up so Coestte gives up the notion of returning home and they go collect the guardians.

Remember, DC and MLB universes are closing in on each other

MCU is drifting away

If they don’t collect the guardians, Cosette would have the time to just drop them off at their world collection points and head back to hers

After collecting a couple guardians, they end up finding Talia and explain the situation to her.

Talia joins the gang, she may or may not be plotting a marriage

They raid a couple more houses, collect the 54 card guardians, and complete the power transfer ritual (replacing the Yue’s trial because the cards are the guardians)

The cards end up latching onto the three kids.

Marinette gets the Mistress title, Damian gets Sun Guardian, and Cosette gets Moon guardian.

Originally Cosette was going to be the mistress and Marinette the Moon guardian but because of the way I’ve decided magic works in this world - explaining that will need a whole other post - if Marinette is the moon guardian and gets the Ladybug miraculous, she will - for lack of better word - get sick and possibly die... or not.

Y’know what, it made sense at the time. But now that I think about it, we’re going back to the original idea.

Cosette’s the Card Mistress, Marinette’s the Moon guardian and Damian’s the Sun guardian.

Spoiler alert: that is a plot point for tropes-verse.

The completion of the ritual breaks puts CP deteriorations in high acceleration

Damian and Talia get into their circle, Cosette and Marinette in the other

Damian doesn’t have any cards bc he doesn’t want his grandfather trying to get to them. He and Talia agreed Ra’s would only know about the CP’s destruction. He does, however, have a CP beast that they picked up.

CP beast: magical creature that was born of CP’s magical residue or smth

Damian’s looks like a Teddiursa (Teddy bear pokemon) it is not

They have a notebook from a raided house detailing CP’s deterioration for proof

Cosette goes with Marinette because she can’t make it back to her universe and in the event that Marinette’s also from Cosette’s universe, she won’t be alone

They separate with the promise of meeting again.

At this point, I have had several differing ideas

They all go into DC world because they aren’t sure of Marinette’s world

Child trio goes into MLB world and Talia tells Ra’s Damian died

Everyone goes into MLB and Ra’s finds out about the collapse when he tries going in himself and finds out he can’t and just assumes they died

Y’all, I’m starting to see why I can’t do one-shots…

One of the things I forgot to mention in the rambling post is that while Marvel-verse was pulling away, it also messed with the time regulation thing, a day in the Maribat-verse will

Time in CP was very messed up

Kind of assumed readers could piece it together but I figured might as well make it obvious and straight up say it

MLBU: Cosette and Marinette arrive safely

Marinette is delivered home and Cosette has to figure something out

They find out Marinette has only been gone for a week

Marinette has some separation anxiety for about three days

Cosette slowly realizing this is an MLB universe and having a crisis

Cosette gets adopted by the Dupain-Chengs and starts working at the bakery

I have not figured out ages for Cosette

MLB goes like most Maribat fics pre-gotham because I’m lazy

Will likely be adjusted if I ever actually write this fic

Except Cosette steps in when things got too far and Paris has 3 heroes

Cosette is the known as the Sorciere or Lokka

Her uniform is just her asgardian armor

Good but misguided Adrien, Cosette probably adopts him too

Love square goes platonic and Cosette is glad this rom-com is over

Magic tutoring continues

Cosette is neutral with Fu and fascinated by the miraculous

You remember those ghost interactions? Those are filtering in

One of the first things to merge is the internet, because it doesn’t have a physical body and it’s just waves of information

News and discoveries between the world are being swapped

Given what I remember from DC and dimension travel, it wouldn’t be surprising if they figured out universes were merging.

The news about JL and Paris’s situation are causing all kinds of confusion

Cosette beings looking for information on Damian

As the physical world begins merging, there’s pockets of space where you can slip from one world into another; not quite portals but close

Eventually the trip to NY became a trip to Gotham because their plane slipped between planes (sorry, I saw the chance and I had to take it.) but yeah, that happened.

There’s quite a few details I’m forgetting

DCU: Damian and Talia arrive ok and report bare basics to Ra’s

It has also only been a week

Ra’s is displeased to find them back until they report the state of the CP

There’s the whole coup not long after and Damian is sent to Bruce

Damian is much more innocent looking when he’s bringing what appears to be a teddy bear with him

It’s name is Abd and it has grown wings by now. Actual name pending.

He gets teased about it, but under Cosette’s teachings, he has learned the virtue of patience, underestimation, and getting revenge with a side of entertainment

He does not try to kill Tim either

He also has to make the choice of bringing Abd with him as Damian or as Robin

He choses to make a side company for WE making toys based off creatures from the CP so Abd wouldn’t look too out of place

It takes two weeks for the bats to realize there’s something off about the Abd

They are convinced it’s haunted and Damian is very entertained

Abd only moves in daytime when no one - Damian excluded - can see it

Movement can expel magic that interferes with recording tech

Alfred is the first to figure it out and surprise, surprise, he has some magic books for Damian to learn from

It’s from the Wayne family library and they just assumed the language was lost to time. At least three are from Alfred’s own family.

Bat brothers spend the next 6 months trying to convince Damian his magical pet bear is a haunted doll.

Damian sort of getting along with Poison Ivy because his Sun magic is very compatible with plants and they love him

On an unrelated note, the plants seem to refuse to attack the new Robin

Damian randomly, unconsciously humming to songs Cosette and Marinette sang

Damian just vibing with the magic users of JL and Teen Titans

No one took him seriously at first but he pointed something out during a conference

“Robin, stand down and let the magic users handle this” - Green Lantern, probably

Constantine who actually knows what he’s talking about “No, no, let the boy talk.”

The plan was twice as efficient after Damian was through with it

Now Constantine’s trying to adopt Damian as an apprentice, he’s failing bc the bats are protective and possessive of what is theirs

Reminder that Damian brings Abd with him everywhere and he’s still getting teased about it from anyone who is not a bat (still convinced the thing is haunted)

The only thing the magic users have picked up about Abd is that he’s a magical construct which could mean a number of things but they brush it off as just a doll.

No one is prepared for the thing to come to life, multiply in size, and start spitting ice, sleep sand, and illusions. (Hiccups bubbles and can also turn into a cloud.)

They are also not prepared for the thing to quadruple in size and for Damian to ride it like a horse into battle. Reminder that Abd has wings and can fly.

Confusing talk about what’s going on in Paris and some other parts of the world

JL slowly figure out the universal merger that Damian already knows about

Damian is not impressed, it took him and Angel about 2 hours as 9 year olds

Somehow, Damian still has the ice prince image, less demon spawn though, that goes to Abd

Time moves on and one day, a plane from the other world arrives in Gotham

There’s a bit of confusion but it’s not exactly the first time something like this has happened at this point

WE steps up and offers jobs and a tour and all the usual Maribat plans (not just for the kids but all the other people on the plane)

Given the merger of the internet, MLB class and crew have some idea who the Waynes are and they accept.

Estimated about 6 months for full merger so people from MLB world are kinda just stuck there until then

Lila literally cannot lie about knowing the Waynes personally but she sure can lie about other things.

Dick and Damian are sent in to monitor the group

The reunion is awkward given they can’t freely interact and are not supposed to know each other.

While Dick is talking, there are just wide eyed staring between Marinette, Damian, and Cosette. With something a little extra between Marinette and Damian.

Cosette is torn between laughing and groaning at another rom-com trope coming in fast.

She ends up filming it bc blackmail is always good to have

Adrien is confused and quite frankly, he’s really just there to cover for them

The tour begins and about five minutes in, the trio breaks off and exchanges stories and names.

Cosette hears about Batman and has a dawning realization of what this world is, mentally nopes out, later digests that they are going into Maribat verse

Starts checking off Maribat tropes they’re coming across bc she might as well have fun with it

They continue to meet up

Batfam thinking Damian somehow managed to get two girlfriends

Damian choking on his breakfast when it is brought up

The girls are invited to dinner and Damian is just dying inside

Cosette blatantly hitting on all Damian’s brothers in the first 5 minutes

Damian screaming internally while Cosette cackles

Dick is awkward until he realizes it’s a joke, Jason plays along, Tim has an awkward bean crisis

Tim x Cosette? Maybe.

Cosette does that sit and repeat thing at least three times out of habit

Batfam gets full explanation about how they met and everything

I have played with the idea of Cosette getting fear gassed a couple times and Idk how it would go tbh.

That’s as far as I got with this version, so shenanigans ensue

Pretty sure they used the cards and magic throughout even if I didn’t mention it

Absolutely would be useful for being in two places at once

I later changed so the merger happens and then Paris’s heroes meet the Justice League

Damian immediately recognizing Cosette but not Marinette bc magic

still effective but weaker because of Damian’s magic type

He later recognizes Marinette later when she pulls off a move he taught her way back in CP

Nickname confusion for everyone else

Cosette vs Constantine on who gets to teach Damian magic

Damian goes to Paris. They beat Hawkmoth and then go to Gotham.

Also had a general idea of a plot with LoS that never got fleshed out past existing

If we’re going for the rebound version: Cosette reunites with Thor and Loki during the Avengers movie

Also, poor Heimdallr. He probably had a lot of headaches with the universe crash

Accelerated merger because of the convergence in the dark world.

I wanna go with 2012 Avengers towers shenanigans. + Loki and his sort-of but not really daughter

Cosette vs Antman, shrinking/growing, science vs magic.

And then there’s the whole Ironman vs Batman vs Arrow rich boy fight

Hammer x Luthor or Hammer vs Luthor?

Also, Cosette just staring at her home universe in betrayal and being insulted she didn’t think of it earlier because classic Nordic myths had Loki as Odin’s brother and not his son among other things but still

Fight against Thanos is a bit anti-climatic when you give a gremlin murder child magic and a sword that can through anything, including magical artifacts.

this baby boy can and will fight God and Cosette’s not really the kind to hold him back

If I actually wrote this, a lot of things would probably change because I’d actually have to put more thought into logistics and how things work

#Maribat #Daminette #multi-crossover #Ven's ideas #Ven's rambling #Abandoned Lore #Ven's idea outline #feel free to ask questions #maribat x CCS #mlb x dc x marvel x ccs #I gave up editing #I only have vague recollection of what is actually written here

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blancheludis · 5 years

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Tagging: @tokky231

Fandom: Marvel, Avengers Characters: Tony Stark/Steve Rogers, James Rhodes, Pepper Potts, Bruce Barton, Steve Rogers Chapters: 27/?, Words: 152.012

Summary: Tony meets his soulmate under the worst possible circumstances. It is not just a kidnapping gone wrong. It turns out Steve and his gang picked him on purpose and they want some personal revenge. If only he had managed to say the words written on his soulmate’s arm before they threw him back out into the streets.

—

It smells fantastic in the kitchen, throwing Tony back immediately to their college days, Back then, Rhodey’s cooking skills had still been unrefined, but they spent a number of holidays and summer breaks at the Rhodes’ home and it had seemed to be Rhodey’s mother’s single mission in life to fatten her two boys up. And to teach Tony that he is loved. She has had partial success in both those things, but since then Rhodey has taken seamlessly over.

Tony walks up to the counter to glean at what Rhodey is making. A pan is sizzling on the stove with an ungodly amount of garlic, just as they like it. Next to that sits a plate with neatly cut vegetables that Tony is sure cannot have come out of his kitchen.

Before he can say anything, Rhodey turns to look at him, eyes travelling over Tony’s form as if he thinks Tony managed to get himself injured again in the few hours they were apart this morning. Tony knows how he looks. The suit jacket he put on to appear at least somewhat collected for his meeting with Coulson does not hide the bags under his eyes or the fact that he walks with his shoulders slumped, almost bowed as if something is pulling him down to the ground.

That something is Obadiah, of course, and has been for weeks. Ironically enough, Tony thinks he might have preferred dealing with the mental toll of the betrayal alone, instead of adding its inglorious end to the mix. He cannot get the way Obadiah crumpled to the ground out of his head. How he kept sneering until the pain took over. How that last look in his eyes resembled hatred more than anything else.

“Are you ready to talk yet?” Rhodey’s voice interrupts his thoughts, cutting right through them and catapulting Tony back to the present.

He is in his kitchen with his best friend. Food is on the stove. Nobody is out to kill him anymore. He is safe. It is over. Obadiah is dead.

Tony killed Obadiah.

“About?” Tony asks, not bothering to make his tone innocent. This is straight-up denial and they both know it.

Rhodey’s expression does not change much, but Tony is practised in seeing the small signs of disappointment.

“Don’t do that, Tones,” Rhodey says, his voice unbearably calm. “Tell me if you need time, but don’t pretend nothing happened.”

Tony could run. That is what he usually does when things become uncomfortable, when he does not want to answer questions. JARVIS could put the workshop on lockdown and keep everybody out until Tony feels more collected – or until they stop trying.

Instead, Tony sits down on the counter, feet dangling, and stares at the pan. Rhodey must take that as sign enough that Tony is willing to talk because he turns back to the food, cutting with precise strokes, completely in control.

“It’s –” Tony shrugs. Fine. Over. Complicated. A myriad of entirely inaccurate words. “I’m not sure what to say.”

That, at least, is the truth. He is barely able to think about it in an even remotely coherent fashion without landing back in that warehouse, his mind running away from him but the gun steady in his hands.

“Stane is dead,” Rhodey says, echoing the constant choir in the back of Tony’s head. “How about you start with that?”

Heartrate picking up, Tony does not meet Rhodey’s eyes. “I already told you –”

He stops talking when Rhodey huffs. “I don’t exactly consider your feverish rambling from last night telling me anything.” Despite the words, Rhodey’s voice is gentle, as if he could ease Tony into this conversation. “Do you even remember what you said?”

Tony remembers surprisingly much of the night before, mostly in flashes but it is there. Steve brought him home, helped him lie down, and kept his distance while making sure Tony felt protected. He stayed when Tony asked him to. He made sure someone called Rhodey.

After that, things get more blurred. Rhodey had put him into the bathtub when he could not stand long enough for a shower. There was tea, and a mostly one-sided conversation full of mindless, soothing things.

Tony has talked too, in random bursts of information that can probably all be boiled down to two facts: He does not understand why this has happened. And it hurts.

Even now, it is hard to put into words. Years of Tony’s life turned into a lie that he happily believed as long as he was handed what he considered freedom to do as he pleased.

“Obie killed my parents and now he wanted the company for himself,” Tony says, not reacting when Rhodey winces.

Since he does not look very surprised, this is one of the things he must have let slip the night before. It is the most pressing thing, too, because they already knew that Obadiah wanted Tony dead. They just were not aware that this was not the first time he decided to remove his problems in a permanent manner.

“He told me – everything was a lie, you know.” Tony’s lips turn into a bitter caricature of a smile. “Encouraging me to build, helping me out when Dad got mad, letting me grieve after they died. It was all part of some scheme to make more money. He did not care about me one bit. He – Dad said they were best friends and it was all a lie.”

Rhodey stops cutting for a moment to look at him, a sigh on his lips that Tony does not want to hear.

“It’s just impossible to wrap my head around,” he continues quickly, unwilling to linger on this. “I mean, you and Pep always tell me I’m terrible with people. That I always choose to trust the wrong ones and push away the ones who are good. But how could I have been so blind?”

A multitude of examples come to mind. Ty Stone and Sunset Bain being the most prominent of them. Rhodey had warned him away from them. If he had trusted his best friend more, he might have avoided those heartbreaks. Nobody knew to suspect Obadiah, although that does not help him at all to cope with the aftermath.

“We never meant it that way, Tones,” Rhodey says quietly, his eyes turning sad. “We all fell for it. Stane – he did not fool you because you are naïve. He’s –”

Tony knows what Rhodey is going to say and he does not want to hear it, so he cuts Rhodey off, his voice a wounded monotone.

“I killed him.”

The knife clatters loudly on the counter as Rhodey stares at him. “What?” He looks like he has understood perfectly well what Tony said but wishes he did not.

Last night, Rhodey had reacted with unconcealed satisfaction at hearing about Obadiah’s death. Now, his expression is dampened by shock.

Unable to stand the scrutiny, Tony looks down at his lap. Rhodey will not judge him, but he still feels the recoil almost ripping the gun out of his hands after the first shot. That would have been enough to keep Obadiah down, and yet he steadied the gun and fired again.

All of the reasons and justifications have fallen away since then, leaving him to feel like nothing more than a murderer.

“He tried to run and we had to decide what to do with him,” Tony explains in a flat tone, flailing to keep calm. “Rhodey, I – I could see it in his eyes that he would never leave me alone. It does not matter that they would have locked him up. He would have somehow managed to make me miserable even from prison.”

He wanted to be left alone, but now he is not so sure anymore it was worth the price. Tired and hurting, with a mind eager to replay all the bad memories from the night before, it is like he has lost a part of his soul without any hope of making up for it.

“So you,” Rhodey beings but trails off. It is not clear whether he does not know what to ask or is simply not sure whether he should. He has by now completely abandoned the food.

The silence between them is, for a moment, only interrupted by the sizzling of the pan.

“I took a gun and shot him. Twice. I –” Tony takes a deep breath, surprised that his lungs allow it despite the weight on his chest. “I watched him die.”

Every long second of it. Every shuddering gasp, every new drop of blood, every twitch, every glare. Tony watched and did nothing. He merely waited until it was over and wished he was anywhere but there.

Obadiah might have betrayed him, but this was a betrayal in return. Not so much the bullets themselves because that night demanded that only one of them would leave the warehouse alive. But Tony pulled the trigger. He asked to do it himself and he did it. Coming back from that is impossible.

Rhodey is saying something, although Tony cannot hear a single word over the rushing in his ears. He sees Rhodey’s mouth moving, his lips turned down in sympathy. It must be something soothing, some kind of promise that Tony will be all right, that he only did what had to be done.

“How do you do it?” Tony asks, talking right over Rhodey. “Kill people?”

He has been wondering that since he was first kidnapped by the Avengers, really. That ready violence between people does not make sense to him. Where does the thrill of hurting or killing strangers come from? They are all human. They are all the same. And yet something primeval allows them to draw each other’s blood.

“It’s not –” Rhodey starts, but Tony knows his best friend’s expression when he wants to shower him in platitudes.

“I swear I’ll throw you out if you’ll tell me it’s not easy,” Tony counters, rousing himself a bit from his stupor. “Obie deserved it but I can’t get his face out of my head.”

That is what he tells himself, that Obadiah deserved to die. He cannot even believe that, however, much less that he should be allowed to regain some inner peace.

Rhodey picks the knife back up and, without any semblance of a plan, throws everything he has cut into the pan at once, too thrown to stick to whatever recipe he chose.

“I am still seeing the face of the first person I ever killed,” he then says, dragging his eyes back to Tony with some reluctance. To Tony’s surprise, there is shame lingering in Rhodey’s face. “I still sometimes wake up from him asking me why in my dreams. I didn’t even know him. He was just some unlucky sod on the other side of a battlefield. You’re not supposed to shrug this off, no matter whether Stane deserved it or not.”

The thing is, Tony remembers Rhodey coming home on leave after that happened. He never told Tony about the nightmares, about how hard it is. It makes him feel like a bad friend. Like an egocentric, selfish man-child who does not like to take responsibility for anything ever. He should have known about Rhodey’s struggle. Perhaps Rhodey knew that there are no good answers to the questions simmering inside Tony now.

“So what?” Tony asks, still thrown but needing to make some sense of this. “I shouldn’t have done it? Is that what you’re telling me?”

The thought of Obadiah being alive hurts more than reality. He could just now be sitting in a holding cell, planning Tony’s further downfall, or talking in excruciating detail about all the things Tony did over the years that were hushed up. Drunken misadventures, bringing dozens of people into his bed, seemingly not caring for anyone but himself. Between that and the dutiful COO of Stark Industries, who would the police believe?

“I wish I could have been there to do it for you,” Rhodey says, and the sincerity in his voice breaks Tony’s heart further. “But I understand why you had to do it yourself.”

Tony thought it would help. That it would be a mercy. Just another pair of lies.

“It doesn’t feel like it’s over,” Tony admits, wishing Rhodey would give him reassurances, no matter how empty they would be.

“No, I can imagine,” Rhodey says instead. Then, however, he reaches out and puts his hand on top of Tony’s where they lie clenched in his lap. “But I’m proud of you.”

Immediate warmth floods through Tony, but he stamps down on the feeling, trying to expel it from his chest.

“What’s there to be proud of?” he asks, tasting bitterness on his tongue.

Somehow, Rhodey finds the strength to smile. “You’re stronger than you think.”

If this is strength, Tony is not sure he wants it. Someone has to take responsibility for his life and, more often than not, he left that job to others, and this is the reason why. He is feeling brittle, like one wrong word or touch will be enough to shatter him.

“Thank you,” Tony says quietly. Nothing is resolved. He is still raw, but Rhodey’s presence always helps.

“One day I’ll manage to make you believe that I’m not going anywhere,” Rhodey replies, his tone too serious to match the lightness of his smile.

Tony knows what he is saying. He is still working on not doubting it.

---

They have just finished their lunch, having turned to easier topics so that they could finish cooking and manage to keep the food down, when JARVIS speaks up.

“Sir, Dr Banner has entered the tower and asks to come up.”

Tony’s mind immediately jumps to new possible problems. Perhaps Thor’s state worsened since they saw each other this morning. Perhaps Coulson lied and brought in the Avengers anyway. Perhaps some more of Obadiah’s men have surfaced to give them more trouble.

“Let him in, J,” Tony says, his mouth dry. He swallows and he tries to convince his shoulders to straighten and his head to stay up to meet whatever is coming head-on.

“Dr Banner?” Rhodey asks. He, too, looks affected, although that might just be because he would prefer to wrap Tony up in a blanket and not let anyone ask something of him for the next seven years.

“He’s a friend,” Tony replies immediately. Whatever else happens, he does not need Rhodey and Bruce to argue. “He’s also the Dr Banner whose papers we’ve been gushing over, so don’t embarrass me.”

Rhodey’s lips twitch, even while his eyes remain serious. He is undoubtedly trying to figure out how Bruce fits into this. How, between all the bad things of the past few weeks, Tony made a new friend.

“Are you telling me you had an actual scientific celebrity in your home before and didn’t invite me?” he asks as he gets up to clear their plates from the table.

Tony takes overly much care as he gathers their cutlery and glasses to avoid looking at Rhodey. He cannot help the small grin, though. “You’re here now, right?”

Huffing, Rhodey replies, “We’re going to talk about that.”

That feels almost normal, the banter between them, the easy way Rhodey lets Tony be himself. If not for Bruce and his likely bad news coming closer, Tony might have even relaxed a little.

They just manage to clean the kitchen enough to let a guest in it before the door opens and Bruce comes in. He looks tired but not like he is in a hurry. His supplies bag is slung over his shoulder.

“Tony,” he greets with a smile that appears unstrained. “And you must be Colonel Rhodes.”

He does not get the change to offer his hand because Rhodey crosses his arms in front of him and asks, “Who are you?”

Tony rolls his eyes, mostly for Bruce’s benefit. Rhodey has a habit of mistrusting everybody Tony meets. He would prefer they skip that here since Bruce has proven himself to be an ally.

“I told you he’s a friend,” Tony says, a warning in his tone that he knows will be ignored. It should be more annoying, but even after years of friendship, Rhodey’s protectiveness soothes him.

“And I’d like to hear it from himself,” Rhodey rebuffs him before turning towards Bruce with a grim expression. “Are you with that mob?”

They have not yet talked about that. Only in fragments the night before.

Bruce takes the glare in stride and nods. “I am, although I’m not here as one of them,” he says as if that could restore Rhodey’s favour. “Now, if you would excuse me. I promise I’ll let you yell at me later.” Completely ignoring Rhodey’s flabbergasted expression, he puts his bag down on the kitchen table and says to Tony. “Did you have anyone look you over?”

“I’m fine,” Tony says before he even fully realizes that Bruce has come here to make sure he is all right. That last night did not leave him with more injuries he refuses to have looked at in a hospital. The thought makes his throat constrict. Although, for once, in a good way.

“We took a while to get to you,” Bruce says. He knows Tony well enough by now to not believe him about his health. “And you were bleeding when we arrived.”

Tony has catalogued his injuries in the shower this morning. Split lip, a cut over his eyebrow, sore ribs, and a multitude of bruises. That is it. It could have been much worse.

“Truly, Bruce,” Tony insists, even though Bruce and Rhodey are now looking at him with obvious doubt. “I’m fine.”

They do not believe him. Tony probably would not either. He has seen his face in the mirror this morning. He knows he takes every movement with exaggerated care, at least when nobody is watching him.

Compared to the weeks before he is fine, however. Nobody is trying to kill him anymore, he can concentrate on the future. If hie ignores the emotional toll of last night, he is doing well. He is free.

“What are your ribs doing?” Bruce asks, skipping the pretence completely.

Tony just barely keeps himself rolling his eyes. “I guess I refractured them again.” That happens when people keep kicking him in the ribcage. By now, he has almost gotten used to being constantly in pain with every breath he takes.

“You guess?” Rhodey pipes in, sharing a look with Bruce as if they have always known each other, always banded together over Tony’s inability to take care of himself.

A small part of Tony feels flattered. Bruce should not be here. He has a soulmate to care for and the Avengers to go back to. Since Obadiah is dead, he does not need to look in on Tony. It would probably be safer for all of them to keep their distance lest Coulson changes his mind about covering up for them. And yet Bruce is here.

“I appreciate your concern, but I’ve been worse,” Tony says. Bruce is too kind to just leave if Tony does not give him an out. “They didn’t torture me. It was just a couple slaps to remind me of who’s in charge. The worst thing was Obie’s monologuing.”

He keeps his tone light but cannot quite hide how the mere memory makes him wince. His mother’s face keeps flashing in front of his eyes, the way she used to smile. how she never gave up on mediating between Tony and his father.

“Take off your shirt.”

Tony is already halfway through nodding his head when the words register. He expected Bruce to accept his rejection of medical care and leave. Or possibly to ask more questions about what transpired between Obadiah and him the night before. People never just stay for his sake, Rhodey being the glorious exception. Even Pepper and Happy had been on his payroll before becoming his friends.

“What?” Tony asks, raising his hands in front of him as if he has to bodily keep Bruce from tearing his shirt off. “No.”

Identical glares meet him from both Rhodey and Bruce. He does not want to show them the new mess of bruises on his chest, even though Rhodey must have noticed them the night before and Bruce has seen him in a worse condition already. This time, it feels more like a personal failure than a violation done to him.

If he keeps the bruises on his skin tucked away and breathes shallowly enough to avoid his ribs hurting, he can almost feel like everything that happened is long behind him. There is no hiding from the scars inside his mind, of course, so perhaps his reluctance is moot anyway.

“I’ll make it quick, but I am going to have a look at you,” Bruce counters, unimpressed by Tony’s refusal. “I can’t believe you’re this stubborn. You were kidnapped.”

Tony knew what he was getting into. Theoretically. Bruce can do nothing for his broken ribs. The bones will heal and so will Tony’s heart. It just needs time.

“And I’m –”

“Lose the shirt, Tones,” Rhodey cuts in, not stern enough to mask the worry on his face. They are all just trying to look out for each other.

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” Tony mutters and lowers his hands, clenching his fingers around the hem of his shirt without lifting it.

“I am,” Rhodey answers solemnly, not moving even an inch. “And I like this one.”

With great reluctance, Tony takes off his shirt. He does not meet his friends’ eyes as he leans back against the table, preferring to look down at himself. Several big patches of skin are discoloured. Vibrant blues and violet, misshapen or vaguely reminiscent of fists. The pain increases immediately, just from looking at the bruises as if all his brain needed was a confirmation that they are still there.

Next to him, Rhodey stares intently for several long seconds before turning away. He is clenching his hands, muttering curses under his breath. Perhaps he regrets not having been there the night before as Tony is glad that he was not. It would have been impossibly harder to keep himself together with his best friend there.

Bruce’s face does not show what he is thinking, although his jaw twitches with distinct displeasure. He reaches out and palpates each of the bruises. The touch stings but Tony remains where he is, knowing Bruce does this as carefully as possible.

“Despite knowing I’ll be ignored, I’ll tell you now that you should take it easy for the next weeks,” Bruce says as he turns to get the tape out of his bag.

“I’ll make sure he does,” Rhodey says, still sounding like he wants to go out and deal some damage of his own to the people who did this to Tony.

Wisely, Tony keeps his mouth shut. He has no time to rest. Now more than ever, he needs to be present in his company, needs to build and pave the way for the future. If pressed, he can tell them that he will have DUM-E do all the heavy lifting for him in the workshop, but Rhodey knows better than to expect him to stay in bed.

Thankfully, there are no open wounds to clean or stitch up, so Bruce is done very quickly, applying the tape as if he rarely does anything else. It has Tony wondering how often he needs to patch up the Avengers this way. Tony did not register much of the fighting in the warehouse but the entire thing seemed rather headless, swarming in without much of a plan other than attack. That might be Tony’s preferred mode of action, but as professionals, they should surely do things differently.

When Bruce is packing his things back up, he looks up at Tony, lips dipping down for a moment as if he already regrets what is going to say. “I guess you’re not seeking help for your mental health either?”

Tony’s first instinct is to ask What for? He knows. Of course, he knows. He has been kidnapped twice in mere weeks, and has almost been killed three times. His godfather betrayed him. His parents were murdered. He can see how that could warrant seeking help. He is fine, though. Exhausted and still somewhat in shock but fine.

“Don’t tell me you’re offering to do that too,” Tony asks lightly without outright rejecting the idea. He would never hear the end of that. Already, he is afraid that Rhodey will pick it up later.

“Hardly.” Bruce snorts, although he does not sound very amused. His expression is pinched but clears again quickly. “I would just recommend it.”

Bed rest and therapy. Other people might have the luxury of taking care of themselves first, but Tony has found that a few hours – or days – in the workshop do the same job. The art of creation is the most potent medicine he knows.

“It’s over now,” he says dismissively.

Bruce’s eyes linger on Tony’s torso, running over the bruises and the accurate lines of tape. Suddenly self-conscious, Tony reaches for his shirt and pulls it back on.

“Is it?” Bruce asks, no trace of pity in his voice. “Did you sleep tonight?”

“Yes.” Well, he passed out when the exhaustion finally pulled him under. Nobody has to know he woke up mere hours later because he dreamt of Obadiah looming over him. Rhodey might have noticed but did not comment on it.

Bruce does not believe him. To be fair, the bags under Tony’s eyes do not exactly back his answer. With a sigh, Bruce turns towards Rhodey. “Is that something you can talk sense into him about?”

“I will certainly try,” Rhodey promises without missing a beat. It sounds vaguely like a threat.

Straightening, Tony glares at them. “Could you please not conspire against me?”

To himself, he can admit that he is glad for it. Considering the way Rhodey had raged against the Avengers, it is a small miracle that he is now standing in the same room with Bruce and has an entirely amicable conversation with him. Tony has no illusions that the rest of the team would get the same treatment, but this is important to him.

Rhodey smiles at him, something predatory in the line of his lips. “That depends on how well you take care of yourself.”

Which means Rhodey will talk JARVIS into throwing Tony out of the workshop at a sensible time, and they will force him to eat three meals a day and limit his coffee intake – all for his own good, of course.

Already feeling the future lack of coffee, Tony pushes himself away from the table to get himself another cup. They are welcome to stop him – and Bruce does, although not with medical advice.

“Thank you, Tony,” he says suddenly, his voice firm. That stops Tony right in his tracks. He has done nothing that warrants gratitude from Bruce. On the contrary, considering he got Thor shot. “I’m not saying it was smart what you did or that you should ever do it again, but thank you for getting Thor out of there.”

Oh. Bruce is thanking him for giving himself up. Which Rhodey and Pepper yelled at him for. And Thor. And Steve too. Compared to that, Bruce’s words should not weigh more, but Tony’s chest fills with unexpected warmth.

Still, Tony is aware of Rhodey in his back, and of how most people think he should not be so lax with his own safety.

“It’s not as if he went to the hospital as he was supposed to,” Tony says, attempting to wave the entire matter off.

“I already yelled at him for that,” Bruce says, his eyes narrowed. That conversation apparently went very well.

“So it’s my turn now?” Tony quips and starts walking to the coffee machine again. He just knows that Rhodey and Bruce are sharing a glance behind his back, but he does not mind. Things worked out well.

Bruce sighs. The sound is practised, long-suffering. “If I thought for a second that you wouldn’t happily sacrifice yourself the next time the opportunity arises, I might try.

It takes effort not to laugh at that. Howard tried for years to cure Tony of his undesirable character traits and had never any success. His friends will not either, especially not if it is about something that ultimately benefits them.

Once the coffee machine is running, Tony opens the cupboard and turns around, gesturing vaguely in question whether he should get out cups for them too. Rhodey nods with the quiet resignation of someone knowing they will need all the energy they can get to survive Tony’s madness. In turn, Bruce hesitates but declines.

“What are you even doing here, Bruce?” Tony blurts, then immediately scolds himself for it. Bruce looks like he wants to leave but, at the same time, like he is not sure where to go. “I just mean, I thought you wouldn’t leave Thor’s side.”

Tony does not want Bruce to think he is not welcome here. To hide the blood shooting into his cheeks, Tony hides his face in the cupboard as he gets out two cups and arranges them neatly next to the coffee machine.

“He sent me back to the base when Coulson wanted to talk to you two,” Bruce replies, nothing offended in his tone. Quietly, he adds, “He worries.”

Coulson could still be a danger to all of them, especially the Avengers. This story about having worked with Natasha and Barton before sounds too convenient, leaving them with the sudden possibility for a happy ending that none of them could imagine before. There has to be a catch.

“And you didn’t go?” Tony asks instead of opening that can of worms.

He glances over his shoulder and blinks when he finds Bruce’s normally amiable expression twisted into something annoyed. “Oh, I did go,” he bites out, his displeasure tangible in the air. “But my team continues to be full of idiots who take offence to anyone having a private life, so we yelled a bit at each other before I came back here.”

Tony hides a sigh of relief at not being the reason for Bruce’s anger. It also makes him wonder how the Avengers have managed to stay together for years if they are so prone to bickering amongst each other.

“I’m sorry,” Tony says and turns to pour the coffee to escape Bruce’s reaction.

“What for?” Bruce asks, already sounding gentler again. “It’s not your fault.”

In a way, though, it is. He has had no hand in Thor becoming a bodyguard or in Stane deciding to get rid of him in the first place, but Tony is still the axis this entire mess revolves around.

“Without me, they wouldn’t have found out about Thor,” Tony offers. He does not know Bruce’s reasons for keeping his soulmate secret, but it is out now.

He uses the coffee as an excuse to keep his eyes down as he carries the two cups over to the table. Rhodey and Bruce are still standing, making the entire scene look as if they are all ready to run at a moment’s notice.

“I’m not angry about them finding out but about how they handled it,” Bruce says firmly. He does not elaborate, but Tony has an inkling how that conversation went.

“Do you want water, at least?” Tony asks Bruce, unwilling to get deeper into the topic of the Avengers dealing with emotional matters. He could not offer an objective opinion anyway.

“I shouldn’t even be here,” Bruce says but trails off, perhaps wondering where else he could go while arguing with his friends.

To Tony, the solution to that is obvious. He does not blurt it out like he almost wants to do, but sits down and pointedly gestures at them to follow suit. There is no reason they cannot have this conversation in a civilized manner.

Rhodey is the first to sit, while Bruce appears conflicted. He must worry about Thor. Finally, he caves and sinks into a chair.

“You’re welcome to stay here, you know?” Tony says. He should perhaps not blurt that out like that, but he is not sure he will get another chance.

This interlude with the Avengers is over. Luckily, of course, because that means he is not in any particular danger anymore to get beaten up again by Barton or Barnes. It means his name is cleared and nobody is attempting to kill him anymore. It means he can distance himself from their little mob and get on with his life.

Regret has no room here. Tony likes Bruce, and he feels safe with Thor. Wanting them to stay close does not mean he is betraying himself or forget his treatment at the hands of the Avengers. He will not allow Steve close without reservations.

Bruce smiles at him, little more than a slight twitch of his lips. “Thor said as much. Thank you, Tony.”

That sounds like a rejection. Not as if Bruce does not want to stay but like he thinks Tony is simply offering him a hiding place for a few days. Tony wants him to stay for good, though. Thor too.

He has learned anew how important it is to surround himself with people he can trust, who are good at heart. If Bruce accepts to stay, Tony could offer him a better life. They could work together. With both their minds applied to a project, they could change the future.

“I mean long-term,” Tony corrects quickly, wondering whether he is out of place. They do not know each other that well, after all. “I don’t presume to tell you what to do with your life, but you’re brilliant and a friend. I could have a lab ready for you in no time. You could – stop running.”

Tony bites his lips and looks down at his coffee. He feels Bruce eyes on him. Worse than that is Rhodey’s staring. All Rhodey knows is that Bruce is part of the Avengers. Whether he patched Tony up or not, he is still the enemy. Bruce might very well think the same about Tony.

“I –” Bruce trails off. He does not look offended but almost embarrassed. “I appreciate the offer, but it’s not as easy as that.”

That is not a no, Tony realizes with relief. Bruce is not refusing outright and his reluctance might not have anything to do with Tony at all. No matter that they have spent little time together, Tony knows that Bruce has no qualms to speak his mind. He would not hesitate to tell Tony no if he really does not want to stay here. Which leaves one more, glaring option.

“Because of Ross,” Tony states calmly, fighting to not sound too excited.

He throws a guilty glance at Rhodey who perks up at that, connecting Tony’s manner to the topic at hand.

“General Ross?” Rhodey asks, always able to read Tony – and Tony would not care about Rhodey’s presence if they were talking about a Ross he does not know. Involving Rhodey could make things much easier but also more complicated.

“Nasty business,” Tony replies with forced cheer. There is no going back now anyway. “I hope you don’t like him because I have half a mind of making sure he’ll never set foot on a military base ever again.”

Rhodey has questions, but Bruce looks positively green around the nose, so Tony twitches his head just so that Rhodey notices. They can talk about this in more detail later – Tony would not go against a general of the US military without Rhodey anyway.

“Nobody likes Ross,” Rhodey says, drawing out the words in a way that tells Tony they will have a long conversation about this and why Tony is talking about taking on another powerful person after just escaping the machinations of Stane.

“Great,” Tony says with a careless grin that has to be grating on his two much more sensible friends. “Do you have some dirt on him?”

Rhodey looks at him, rather unimpressed. “That depends –” he starts but cuts himself off when Bruce clears his throat uncomfortably, looking at them like he regrets ever having sat down.

“You don’t have to do this,” Bruce says, his expression closed off. A note of hope is clearly audible in his tone, however, which is certainly involuntary, considering the way Bruce ducks his head the moment the words are over his lips.

Tony looks at Bruce for a long minute, taking in the tension in his shoulders and the way he is hiding his hands under the table where they are surely clenched. He wants Bruce to know that he sees him, that he knows this will not be easy. Stopping to run never is, especially not when it is all one has done for years.

“I know,” Tony says, aiming to sound confident without being dismissive about it. “But you also helped me when you didn’t have to. And I like you.” He shrugs, trying to take the weight out of the words. “It’s just an idea, but I’d like you to think about it.”

Some of the tension drains out of Bruce’s posture, and while he does not appear surprised, he is not entirely convinced this is a good idea. Which is good, Tony supposes, because he is not either. Liking Bruce is one thing, but going to war against Ross for him is another. They have been through an ordeal together, though, and that is a first good step to trusting each other.

“I’ll need to see where Thor is going,” Bruce says after a moment of silence. As far as answers go, this is neither acceptance nor refusal. Of course, he will have to talk this through with his soulmate.

“I will talk to him too,” Tony says before he knows what he is doing. He does not want to put pressure on Bruce. If they do not accept his offer, that is just proof that he might have been wrong to make it in the first place, so he should not dig himself any deeper than he already is.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Rhodey moving as if he has to say something to that, but Tony does not look at him, intent on catching Bruce’s reaction. And Bruce leans back in his seat. Tony is smart enough to not read that as a sign of sudden acquiescence, but it is a start.

“Why?” Bruce asks, carefully neutral.

The why, for once, is comically simple. “Because I’ve just been shown that the number of people I can trust is even smaller than I thought,” Tony says, his mouth turned up in an estimate of a wry smile. “And platypus here tells me that I have a habit of pushing people away the moment I risk being vulnerable with them. I think it’s time to change that.”

He is not really ready to change that, of course, but he is willing to make an exception. Bruce has proven himself trustworthy several times, and Thor is steadfast in ways that stabilise Tony.

Bruce smiles, looking wistful for a moment. “You’re a good person, Tony, you know that?” he says, nothing but honesty in his voice. And Tony barely knows what to do with that.

Being a good person never really featured in the plans other people and he himself had for him. He is supposed to be brilliant and innovative, to generate jobs and a lot of money. He has to be good at things. Building, leading the company, socialising. He has no idea how to be good just for the sake of it.

“Nope,” he replies with fake cheer. “But I’m working on it.”

Bruce opens his mouth as if to argue, and Tony just knows that Rhodey will have to say something about it. They both stay silent, though, until Bruce nods.

“All right,” he says, not showing either way whether he thinks about accepting Tony’s offer. That is all right, they have time as long as Bruce and the Avengers do not disappear without a word. “I’ll go and try to wrangle Thor back into bed. I suggest you get some more rest too. If you’re feeling dizzy or are in pain, call me.”

JARVIS is here to keep an eye on Tony, but he appreciates the offer. Even if he knows he is not going to call for Bruce when he is feeling unwell. Thor needs Bruce more and he has done enough to them.

“You should get some sleep too,” Tony says instead of making any promises. The past weeks have been long for all of them.

“Look at that,” Rhodey drawls to the side. “We’re all being adults and taking care of each other. Miracles do happen.”

He looks at them appraisingly and makes his words sound a bit like a threat. In a way it is. After wrangling the mess Tony was at MIT, he knows exactly how to push Tony into compliance to take care of himself. He has never stopped guiding Tony’s hand when necessary.

“Ignore him,” Tony says, shooting a glare of his own in Rhodey’s direction. “He thinks he’s funny.”

Once again, Tony is beyond glad that Rhodey is here, that he has someone at his side whose motives he never has to doubt anymore.

Bruce looks at them, his expression warm. “Well, I see you’re in good hands,” he says and, without further ado, gets to his feet.

It does not feel like a goodbye, but Tony still fears he will never see Bruce again if he lets him just go now. Still, it is not his place to cling to either Bruce or Thor. Heaping his expectations on others does not end well, as Obadiah has shown.

“Thank you, Bruce,” Tony says, trying to convey everything he feels in these few words.

And Bruce smiles, softening further. “Any time.”

The answer is the same as Steve’s has been and it appears just as honest. Tony has never doubted Bruce, of course, but it makes him feel better about Steve. He hopes there will not be a next time, but it is good to know that he has people around who will have his back.

They watch Bruce go, his back straight and his steps light. He has barely disappeared out the door when Rhodey says, “Just because I like him doesn’t mean the rest of that mob is off the hook.”

Unable to help himself, Tony laughs. It is not particularly funny, and he does not feel either that the situation with the Avengers is resolved, but life goes on. And Tony does not have to walk that road alone.

#stony #marvel #fanfiction #slow burn #angst #hurt comfort #mostly comfort #tony stark #rhodey #bruce banner #soulmates #mob au #leave the gun on the table #ao3 #my writing

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rivetgoth · 5 years

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Okay, the verdict is out, I finally got to watch THREE FROM HELL after anticipating it for ages and I got some thoughtz.

First, some full disclosure, so y’all know where my biases are:

1. I genuinely adore House of 1000 Corpses and I consider The Devil’s Rejects one of my favorite movies of all time. In general I really adore a lot of Rob Zombie’s work — I also loved 31. That being said, he’s been hit or miss in the past and there’s some stuff of his I really detested too, but overall he’s not only impressed me but stood out as the creator of some of my absolutely favorite films. I wanna clarify this because I’ve seen a lot of people write up scathing reviews for this film that literally start with “I HATE ROB ZOMBIE’S MOVIES!!!!!” and that just seems like a really unfair way to approach a review specifically for a sequel. Idk what you’re expecting to get out of it.

2. Speaking of that, I love good horror sequels and some of my favorite movies of all time are specifically sequels. I fall in love with characters and concepts and I love seeing them expanded on in fun ways. I have no inherent negative feelings towards sequels at all.

I say all this to point out that I was genuinely looking forward to this movie without any unfair biases, it didn’t have to change my mind on anything larger than itself, like “convince me that Rob Zombie is a capable film director after all” or “convince me that sequels have artistic merit” or anything like that.

My overall thought, before I explain anything else, is pretty much that I feel like the first half of the film is extremely promising and fun, and the second half of the movie is so bad that I more or less wish I’d just turned it off halfway through and pretended that was the whole film. And, given the fact that so many of the developmental issues with the film that led to its shakiness came from Sid Haig’s declining health, I almost feel like this wasn’t a movie that had to be made at all — at least in this form.

I read one review that pretty much said that for Rob Zombie to revive this series he needed a damn good reason, and he never managed to make that reason clear. And I feel like that’s exactly what my overall takeaway was here. The ending of Devil’s Rejects is pretty much perfect. In order for that to be retconned and expanded upon, something really mind blowing had to happen. In general, even when you’re not taking the risk of retconning an ending of such epic proportions, if a sequel is made to something I want to see it do something new and uniquely memorable in its own right. Devil’s Rejects itself is a perfect example of this; one of the things I completely adore about it is the fact that it expanded upon the very classic retro slasher feel of 1000 Corpses to center the attention on the killers and recreate them as antiheroes with an entirely different tone. Similarly, Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 stands out to me as one of the great horror sequels, partly in the way it so fearlessly completely shifts it’s tone away from the total frenzied isolation horror of TCM 1 and does something entirely different. Other series try less for “perspective/atmosphere shift” and more for “just go bigger” and that can work too — I think the increasing extremity of gore and complexity of the traps in the Saw series (which I love) is a good example, especially through the first three films which are by far the best as a coherent trilogy.

The WEIRD thing about Three From Hell is that Rob Zombie has clearly proven that he 1) understands the idea of sequels that build upon original films in unique new ways 2) has no qualms being increasingly and shamelessly extreme and shocking and horrific. But instead, I felt like Three From Hell is... jarringly tame, actually, compared to what we got from Rejects. And I mean, in some ways that’s fine, I didn’t necessarily miss the way-too-long graphic rape scene in Rejects, which is a miserable chore to get through in just how sickening it is. But there’s no moment where I felt that we get anything more extreme or intense than what’s seen in Rejects. It all feels like it’s been toned way down, which is bizarre to me. The victims aren’t people we’re sympathetic towards like the traveling musicians we meet in Rejects, and their deaths aren’t particularly gruesome - The majority of the deaths in this movie are “shot in the head” or “stabbed.” That’s it. The climax of the film is extremely similar to the opening shootout of Rejects, with significantly lower stakes and less memorable artistic direction, meaning that one film’s introductory scene is able to create a more intense moment than this one’s entire two hour duration.

The thing is, I feel like the first half of the movie really has potential. There are things I could nitpick — for example I love Richard Brake and I feel like Foxy is fun but flat — but the majority of my complaints would be things that, if the movie had a stronger second half, could easily have been further developed and solved. In fact, the first half of the movie feels like it’s gearing up to pretty much be exactly what I’d want out of a Rejects sequel. It’s weird and engaging and markedly different from its predecessors. It focuses on Otis, Spaulding, and Baby’s survival and arrest after the ending of Rejects, the subsequent trial, and then Otis’ escape and attempt to save Baby (after Spaulding is given the death penalty; more on that later). There’s a ton I love here, mostly Otis and Baby’s relationship being given more time in a really interesting way. The stakes are high and Otis clearly cares about his sister to a degree that feels like a fitting continuation of Rejects’ attempts at showing sympathetic or relatable aspects to these characters that makes them very three dimensional and complex. Bill Moseley is the fucking greatest and his ability to make Otis so completely depraved and unrestrained while also clearly caring about his family is one of my favorite things about the series and this played it up really well. You get the feeling that Otis is genuinely concerned for Baby, even after she’s freed, although it mostly comes out in yelling and deadpan snarking. Baby, meanwhile, gets the beginning of a completely fascinating character arc that included my favorite dialogue and scenes through the entire film as we’re shown that after a decade in prison she’s gone completely off the deep end. She rambles on about being Snow White and saving kittens and cries while hallucinating ballerinas with cat heads. By the time she’s free even Otis is expressing vocal concern for her. We get to meet the first half of the film’s main antagonist, Warden Virgil Harper, who was memorable and fun and felt right at home in the Rejects canon. We got the chance to see him developed into a character you almost start to feel sorry for; he’s cocky, but he clearly has no idea how in over his head he really is. On top of this, the scene when the clown shows up at Harper’s house while Otis and Foxy are torturing him and his friends and family is the best torture scene in the film in the complete absurd awfulness of the clown trying to put on a funny show while everyone is sobbing and a man is bleeding out.

At this point, the movie is going in a direction I totally dig. By the time Baby is finally free and able to reunite with Otis and he’s picking up on how fucked up she’s become, I’m genuinely excited to see how things will develop. It feels like Rob Zombie was setting up a film where we get to explore the siblings’ dynamic in a way that’s new and intriguing but developing from the things people loved in Rejects, which is that perfect blend of “utterly irredeemably despicable people” and “genuinely likable, oddly human characters.” Baby and Otis only really have each other at this point (Foxy is there, but even in the movie itself they allude to the fact that he really barely matters — a bit of a copout of a running gag, but whatever), and Baby actually voices this. It hit me at that moment how all of their family has died, and considering how much family has been a driving force for these characters, they were literally initially introduced in 1000 Corpses as the classic murder family and that’s all been taken from them, it’s genuinely sad. Spaulding’s death feels like it could be the final catalyst for... something to come from this, as that was Baby’s father and such a hugely important member of the Firefly family. We have Otis and Baby, alone (well, accompanied by Foxy) in the late 1980s (also a COMPLETELY not utilized detail), on the run as the country’s most wanted serial killers and trying to cope with the weird scenario of being merciless murderers who’ve had their entire family taken from them.

But we don’t get any of that in the second half. At all. Instead, we have Baby suggesting they all run away to Mexico. They do, winding up in a little hotel in the middle of nowhere full of prostitutes and alcohol. Baby wins a knife throwing contest against some big misogynistic guys. Then Danny Trejo’s character’s unmentioned son shows up (oh yeah; Danny Trejo was here for about 5 seconds, he died early on), has about 3 lines of dialogue, sends in 20 masked luchadors to kill Baby and Otis, they have an extremely long low stakes shootout, and with the help of the second half’s most interesting but still underdeveloped and shockingly unironically sympathetic character they burn Danny Trejo’s son alive and the movie ends. And that’s it. The characters regress even further backwards than their Rejects counterparts. They don’t really do... anything, actually. Otis fucks some women and then lays in bed flirting with them until the luchadors show up with their machine guns. My favorite moment was Otis’ attempts at saving Baby’s life by telling Aquarius (Danny Trejo’s character’s son) to let her go because he was the only one responsible for his father’s death, and they share a brief exchange about family. But that was one interesting moment amidst an extremely stale and low stakes plot separate from anything I care about after the intensity and high stakes present in the previous movie’s climax, and even this movie’s first half. A lot of things are recycled here, like the revenge plot driving the antagonist, but Sheriff Wydell’s descent into righteous insanity in Rejects was given way more time to develop, or a character betraying the Fireflys’ trust, but instead of the extremely memorably shocking, selfish betrayal from Charlie who was a longtime acquaintance clearly considered family (plus he actually attempts to “redeem” himself in the end), this is betrayal from a random hotel owner we do not know or care about. When the credits roll and we see Otis and Baby and Foxy driving away to... somewhere, I don’t even know where they’re going, I’m not even really sure what I’m supposed to feel. I chuckled a little at Baby being allowed to drive after an earlier argument where Otis asserted she shouldn’t, but that was it.

I hadn’t read anything about this movie before watching it, because I didn’t want anything to be spoiled for me. I was really excited for it! I learned that Sid Haig, who of course passed on only very recently (RIP), was dealing with very serious health issues that made him unable to film the movie, when originally the film had been written with the original infamous three - Otis, Baby, Spaulding - as the leads for the whole thing. Rob Zombie wanted to honor him with at least a cameo, knowing that the movie wouldn’t be the same without the Captain, but aside from a brief few minutes of screen time he had to rewrite the whole rest of the film with Spaulding removed. I feel like that’s where a majority of the problems with the movie lie. It’s why Foxy is as flat as he is and it’s why there’s an awkward uncertainty in how to deal with the loss of the Captain as the patriarch and why the whole idea of Otis and Baby’s aloneness is so awkwardly glossed over, like Mr. Zombie noticed the elephant in the room enough to address the turmoil but didn’t want to rewrite the entire movie from scratch to account for one of the most important characters in the franchise (maybe THE most important) being unexpectedly killed off.

Now, I LOVE some films that have been to developmental hell and back and came out as solid movies. In fact, there’s an extremely special place in my heart for films that fought tooth and nail to be made. It inspires me as a creator myself and it’s why indie low budget horror is my favorite genre of movie. I absolutely love seeing creators fight to bring their artistic visions to life against the odds. There are fantastic sequels out there where major actors either died or refused to/were unable to return and the stories were reworked or the actors replaced. I feel like something went wrong here. The moment he realized that Sid Haig would be unable to return, Rob Zombie should have set the whole thing aside and done a total rewrite. Right now, the knowledge of what was going on with Sid Haig behind the scenes makes the movie’s shortcomings go from “poor writing and storytelling decisions” to “genuinely extremely sad.”

One of the things I totally love about the writing of Devil’s Rejects is the way Rob Zombie inserts seemingly random moments that do nothing but add to the overall atmosphere and tone of his world. Random arguments, random character quirks, random shots of random things that simultaneously add a gritty “anything goes” realism as well as a surreal absurd humor. I’m also ALL for disjointed, nonlinear, or otherwise experimental and strange plots with a lot going on in them, I don’t think a big genre shift halfway through a movie is inherently bad. In the past, it’s been Rob Zombie’s fearlessness with experimenting with strange, often shameless storytelling decisions that have made his films so memorable and enjoyable and even inspiring to me. But in Three From Hell, there’s just a sense that everything feels kind of... disconnected and unfinished. It feels like two different movies were trying to be made and neither were fully developed. It just ends up sort of feeling like a kind of sad mess.

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squirrel-moose-winchester · 6 years

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Chapter 15

Title: Falling for the Holidays

Pairing: Dean x Reader AU

Word Count: 2520

Summary: With October ending and the holidays underway, that only meant one thing for Dean Winchester. It meant returning to his childhood home and spending time with his family. It meant listening to his parents, especially his mom, ramble on and on about when he was going to find himself a nice girl, bring her home for the holidays, and then eventually get married and have children. However, Dean wasn’t ready for that sort of commitment, so in order to get his family off his back, he comes up with an elaborate scheme! But like the saying goes, “sometimes lies become truths.”

Chapter Warnings: Smut, Angst, Alcohol Consumption.

A/N: This chapter I decided to give you guys a little treat, however the angst is still there. Thank you all again for being so patient. This series is dragging, but I just like the drama. I hope you like it too. Enjoy! xx

Series Masterlist

After Dean had agreed to stay, he had managed to get you changed out of your dress and into your sleeping clothes, which consisted of one of his old Henley shirts and a pair of comfortable black panties, which you changed into with his back facing towards you. He was even surprised that he was able to get you to brush your teeth and drink a whole glass of water. It certainly wasn’t an easy task, but he survived it.

Now Dean was sitting at your vanity mirror, his back leaning against that counter as he watched you sleep, a glass of whiskey in his hand and the bottle on the table. He was already on his third cup. He would have left if he could, but it was like you had some sort of psychic ability to sense when he was trying to leave the room. Every time, you’d wake up begging him to stay. Eventually, Dean had give up, thus his third cup of whiskey.

As he sat there watching you sleep, his mind became restless, thinking about everything that had happened so far. He thought about how his family quickly took to you, how you effortlessly made him smile, laugh, and he thought about how good it felt when he held your hand, held you in his arms, and how much he wished he’d kissed you all those chances he had. He wanted you.

He thought about the time at the restaurant, when you came in, tears spilling from your eyes. The memory was still vivid and the more it replayed in his head, the more he realized… it was real. When you said that it was all according to plan, you lied… and he couldn’t believe he fell for it. Then he turned around and left you to go back to Lisa! What a fucking douche move!

Dean downed his third drink, quickly filling his cup right after.

He also thought about the moment when he found out you had left. He cursed at himself for taking too long to chase after you. He thought about when he stopped by your apartment and found Ketch instead. Dean should have barged in and demanded an answer. Then he remembered that time he called you a slut…

Dean swallowed all the contents in his cup again.

Lisa and Ben came to mind as well. He wondered how he was going to make all this work. He knew that he didn’t have to be with Lisa in order to be a good father to his son, but Dean wanted a real family. He wanted to be married to a woman, and have children with that woman, and be a happy family. He didn’t want an unconventional family dynamic – not that he wouldn’t give it a shot. No matter what, he’d love his family no matter how it came. It was just that… he wanted what his parents had.

Instead of pouring himself another drink, Dean opted to drink directly from the bottle, having no patience to be civil, or as civil as he could be while getting hammered.

The kiss. He thought about the kiss. The kiss in the middle of the crowded town. It was your first kiss together. He remembered the way your lips felt against his, soft, plump, and tasted of strawberries from the lip balm you applied religiously. The way you fit in his arms pressed up against his body had him yearning for more. He didn’t want to let go; and he wished he didn’t, because when he did, you ran off. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice and was about to chase after you, but Lisa stopped him. She stopped him before he could even take one step. She was always stopping him, always interrupting, always showing up. Every time he though he could move on, there she was.

What a fucking coincidence?!

Dean took several large gulps of the poison liquid in his hands. He was drunk. He was drunk off of booze, drunk off of thinking about you, and needing to be drunk to deal with all his terrible choices and careless actions.

Setting the bottle down on the counter, next to your assortment of make up stuff, he got up from his seat, about to leave when you woke up. “Dean. Don’t go.”

“Y/N, I gotta go. It’s late… and I’m tired.” Dean groaned, the alcohol hitting him like a freight train. “And I’m drunk,” he added.

“Then sleep here. Please, don’t go.” Dean stood there in silence, staring at you staring at him. “Please.”

Dean let out a deep and heavy sigh, stripping out of his shirt and pants, his socks slipping off with them, before trudging over to the empty spot on your bed. His spot.

When he laid down, he settled on his back, feeling you shift beside him. Right as he closed his eyes, you scooted closer, grabbing his arm furthest away from you and tugging on it. Dean’s body turned, and he found himself being guided into hugging you from behind. Him being the big spoon and you the little one.

Your warmth immediately overwhelmed him, spreading through his body like a wildfire. Your scent was invigorating, smelling the sweet scent of your shampoo. He could also smell the faint hint of your perfume. He breathed in deeply, allowing himself to take it all in. He also noted just how small you were in his arms. How you were the perfect fit in his arms. God, he wanted you.

With his intoxicated morals and thoughts, Dean held onto you tighter, pressing his nose in your hair, right next to your ear. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t realize it, but he was grinding his hardening member against your ass. A soft moan escaped your lips and you couldn’t help but grind back into him. Your brain wasn’t at it’s 100% either. The two of you were too drunk to think coherently. All either of you wanted was each other and to be close to one another. And without a sober mind, the two of you were allowing the sexual tension to take over.

“Dean,” you moaned his name.

“I’m sorry. It should have been you,” he confessed, his hands traveling upwards, under the shirt you were wearing. His hands smoothed over your silky skin, eliciting goosebumps to cover your body, until they were cupping your bare chest, squeezing handfuls of your fleshy mounds.

“Dean,” you breathed, your hands finding his over the fabric. “I need you.”

Dean growled at your admission. He wasn’t expecting those words to come out of your mouth, but he was glad that they did. His lips skimmed against your neck, trailing feather-light kisses along your hot skin, craving more. He latched onto the skin between where your neck and shoulder met, sucking and licking, leaving his mark and making you moan.

You grabbed onto Dean’s hands, which was still under your shirt, guiding one of them back down your torso, all the way to where you wanted him most. Where you’ve wanted him for so long. He cupped your sex hard, pulling you closer, earning a breathy gasp from you. “Please,” you whimpered.

“Shit, you’re so hot down here,” he commented, now rubbing your pussy with the palm of his hands, making sure to add a little more pressure when rolling over your clit. You could feel his warmth of his shaky breath against your neck.

You were breathless, relishing in his touches however, you needed more. You slithered your hand between your bodies, instantly feeling Dean’s length through his underwear. He was hard, long, and think in your hands. The new discovery sent chills down your spine, and made you slick more between your legs.

Dean moaned at your touch, the sound deep and rough. It was music to your ears and you wanted to hear more of it, so you slipped your hand into his briefs, making skin to skin contact with his cock. Dean purred as you began to stroke him bare. God, the sounds he was making only made you more wet and needy.

“Fuck,” Dean hissed, “I need to taste you.”

Suddenly, you were on your back, Dean hovering over you, your legs already wrapping themselves around his hips. Before your eyes had time to adjust in the darkness, Dean’s lips were on yours, making any coherent thought nothing but dust in the wind.

You moaned into his mouth, tasting the whiskey he’d been drinking not long ago. It was intoxicating. Dean groaned loudly when you lifted your lips, needing more pressure on your hungry cunt. “Dean, please,” you whined, breaking the kiss. “I need you. I need more.”

Dean gave you a quick peck, parting from you and pulling your shirt over your head before returning to your throat, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses down your body, taking each nipple into his mouth for one quick suckle on his travels south. Your body was covered in goosebumps, loving the feel of his lips all over your body. Soon, Dean’s head was between your legs, your black cotton panties the only barrier between him and the prize he’s been thinking about almost daily.

This moment had ran through his mind quite a few time when he was in Kansas with you. He wondered what you’d smell like, taste like, how you’d react when he’d devour your sweet flower. Now that he was here, he wanted to take his time, but he was too eager to have you. Too needy.

Using his index finger, he easily found your clit under the cotton fabric, pressing on the bud and making your body twitch and moan his name. He traced the line of your pussy lips, groaning at how soaked your panties were. “So wet,” he breathed, pressing his nose against your core and inhaling deeply. “Fuck, you smell amazing.” He opened his mouth sucking on your heat through the fabric before using his teeth to scrape over your clit.

“Dean!” You cried, completely at his mercy, even if he had barely done anything. Your drunken state only heightened everything, both mentally and physically. “Just fucking eat my pussy,” you snapped, lifting your head up to watch him. Your eyes met instantly and without losing eye contact, he pulled down the offending article.

Once your underwear was off, you willingly spread your legs as far as they could go, giving him complete access to your smooth slick cunt. You needed him so bad. “Shit. That is one gorgeous pussy,” he complimented breathlessly. “Fucking beautiful,” he moaned just before he dove into you.

His thick tongue spread your pussy lips wide open, running over your slit before reaching up and flicking over your clit. You yelped and your body jerked at the sensation, Dean’s hands settling on your inner thighs in attempt to keep you still.

The noises he was making were beyond sinful, driving you closer to your release. When Dean felt your body tremble, your legs tensing, he pulled his mouth away, sucking your clit with one final pop of his lips. Your head dropped back onto the soft pillow as you shouted with frustration. You were so close.

“Y/N—” the way he said your name made your heart flutter. It was soft, calm, yet you could still hear the desperation in his tone. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—” the words took a while to process, but when they did, tears started to swell in your eyes. “I was an idiot. I only want you. Just you. You and me just like this.” At that point, you were crying. You have been waiting to hear those words since Kansas. Hearing them now was overpowering, spreading warmth through your heart. “This is what I want. It’s just…”

You wrapped your legs around his back, using them to pull him forwards. Dean allowed you to guide him until he was laying on top of you, his elbows being the only thing keeping him from fully crushing you. His eyes swirled with confliction: want, need, desperation, sadness, regret, and so much more that it was overwhelming. You could no longer keep in your emotions.

“I love you,” you murmured, the confession quickly sobering the both of you.

“What?” Dean questioned, unsure if he had heard you correctly.

“Dean… I—I love you.”

Seconds went by, as he soaked in your words… those three words he thought he’d never hear from you. The three words he didn’t deserve from you, but you went and said them. Swelling with a whole knew wave of emotions he never knew he could feel, Dean captured your lips in another bruising kiss. This time there was so much more behind it. It was rough, deep, tongues wrestling together as if they were having their own love making. When he pulled away, you were practically incoherent, and your chest heaved viciously for air.

Your body flinched so subtly, that Dean wouldn’t have noticed, when wet droplets hit your cheeks. Focusing your eyes, you realized that Dean was crying. The strongest man you’d ever known crying for the first time in front of you. Vulnerable right before you.

“I love you,” you repeated, your voice hitching in your throat.

Dean reconnected his lips with you, both your hands feeling each other. The only time he disconnected was to allow you to take off his shirt. He kicked off his pants and boxers swiftly after. Once the two of you were completely naked, Dean sneaked his hand around his cock, guiding it to your entrance, but he didn’t move. Instead, he looked at you for confirmation, and in response, all he got was a desperate… “please.”

You needed him. You needed to feel him. You needed to be close with him. You needed Dean.

One slow thrust was all it took and he was fully sheathed within you, making you feel extraordinarily full. Your back arched off the bed, your chest smashing against his, as your lips parted in a silent scream. He felt amazing. He was perfect.

“Fuck,” Dean puffed. “So tight,” he gritted his teeth, breath ragged as he tried to keep his composure. He had never felt this good before.

“God. I’m so full,” you managed to choke out.

After a few seconds of just feeling each other, Dean pulled out just enough to leave the tip in, before gliding back inside you to the hilt. Each thrust making your back arch and toes curl. After that, everything was a blur of hands, teeth, pushing and pulling, moaning, groaning, and begging. Despite the all the alcohol you consumed prior, there was no way you were going to forget your first time with Dean.

Dean knew just as well, that he wouldn’t be able to forget his first time with you even if he wanted to. And although this was going to complicate things in the morning, he was going to take advantage of the now, and make love to you until you both passed out.

Say Something Nice Here!

Falling for the Holidays Tags: @hannahindie @pinknerdpanda @winchesterprincessbride @amanda-teaches @dancingalone21 @a-winchester-fairytale @dolphincliffs @oneshoeshort @brewsthespirit-blog @jerkbitchidjitassbutt @atc74 @natasha-baggins @heavymetalhauswife @linki-locks11 @spnwoman @veevm @chameleah86 @kdcollinsauthor @claitynroberts @roonyxx @rainflowermoon @ladylaylo @closetspngirl @mirandaaustin93 @salt-n-burn-em-all @flamencodiva @fangirlanotherjust @winchest09 @shamelesslydean @couldabeenamermaid @alexwinchester23 @algud @gracefultrenchcoat494 @prettyinplaid94 @shhhs3cret @cookiechipdough @justkending @adoptdontshoppets @screechingartisancashbailiff

#dean winchester x reader au #dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester au #dean au #dean winchester #reader insert #dean smut #dean winchester series #dean winchester smut #falling for the holidays #squirrel-moose-winchester

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lokikingofasgardslover713 · 6 years

Text

Stray Dove 7: Jilt, Mercy, Forgiveness

Masterlist

Stray Dove Masterlist

Thor Odinson x Plus!Size Reader

Warnings: Angst!

A/N: Here we pickup after the Dark World and head straight into Ragnarok!

Words:+1,800

Jilt, a hasty emotion that can make one suddenly reject or abandon something or in this case someone at the discovery of utter betrayal, in this case such as faking ones death. Though when accompanied by mercy, mercy that is the ability for one to show compassion or forgiveness to once betrothed that is well within the gods ability to punish or harm, though he never stopped loving her. Thor forgave Y/N, though he wondered at times it felt that he was to readily able to do so at a moment’s notice, even impairing the love that he tried to force for Jane, but the god could never replace the love he still held for HIS fate with that of a mortal.

To be honest, fake dying hurt, it really did, but the pain didn’t in no way make it worth the effort, the second Thor left with Jane Y/N swore her soul bled, especially at the begging and pleading the god rambled into her ear as he held lifeless body tightly to him. Thor even snarling at Jane to stay back as he cradled Y/N close, carrying the lifeless fate to lay next to the body of Loki. Lying in soul crushing agony, screaming for the spell to be over to go hide, hoping the use of said spell would have given time for troubled mind to clear & accept the fact there was no going back to HER Thor after this.

Sitting up in the waste of the dark elves homeward, guts twisted painfully tight, Y/E/C orbs falling on Loki who had been watching her close, wondering if Y/N was about to break & leave him to do what he had planned alone. Watching the god get to his feet to help her up quickly & not expecting the fate to fall into his arms with black dust covered arms wrapping around lithe torso. In shock Loki finally returned the sentiment, dirty hand smoothing down disheveled hair & allowing the fate her second of insecurity, fists wrapping tightly in leather long coat.

Both returning to Asgard as einherjar when Y/N calmed enough to follow through with the plan Loki had outlined, the god asking kindly of the fate to accompany Odin to Midgard to assure he was safe. Y/N disguised as his private aid, that stood close to the aging gods side, giving Strange a run for his money when he came to them in the retirement home.

The sorcerer explaining, he had another place that he believed the older king would enjoy especially since he was regaining coherence, which had a lot to do with Y/N who slowly began to unwind the spell that Loki thought was fool proof, agreeing to accompany the old man to Norway.

“Sorry for condemning you Y/N,” the old king admitted to the fate both walking through the field, he had been saying that the past few days leading her to believe that he was possibly…

“I told you yesterday your majesty,” Y/N began before he cut her off.

“Odin, little fate, call me Odin,” he smiled, reaching to take sun kissed hand to lay in the crook of his elbow as they continued to the rock that he loved to sit on & look across the sea to reminisce on the old days.

“Odin, then,” Y/N smiled, enjoying having him coherent & able to hold a conversation.

“I hope you are ready for company,” the old man began as they took a seat, Y/N felling the energy coursing through the air knowing that this was what she had sensed for a long time coming staying close to Odin, both turning to look behind them to watch Loki flop on his belly & Thor laughing at least until recognizing Y/N & his father.

It was tense, the brawny god starting for them, the fate becoming nervous for the first time in a long time as she helped the old king get seated as his sons came forward, Y/N sure to step away from Thor because of the betrayal in his eyes & wasn’t wanting to suffer his wrath. Knowing they needed time with Odin because he didn’t have much longer a secret that she had purposefully kept from Loki.

“Y/N! Why didn’t you tell me that you two where moved,” Loki berated the fate who stepped away from Odin glaring hard at the god of mischief who was quick to calm himself, remembering her temper.

“Mind your tongue Loki,” Y/N snarled under her breath, eyeing Thor closely as it seemed he wasn’t about to let her back away as he pushed around Loki to look her over, noting skin was no longer pale, sun kissed & looking like the maiden he had fallen for all those centuries ago.

“Dove, you….,” Thor began, reaching to take a hand, warm, soft hand that sat lightly in his calloused hand relishing in the feel before Y/N slowly took it away.

“Don’t be so surprised… I'm not her anymore,” Y/N murmured as the two locked gazes before pulling away to allow them to all speak to one another, but the gods sight barely left the thick framed fate that stood close to Odin.

The appearance of Hela just moments after Odin turned to golden ash had the god pulling Y/N close to him making sure to keep the fate safely between he & Loki. Y/N herself dropping her illusion to be clothed in black battle armor the god remembered from when they used to ride into battle. Odd that a memory such as that was making him forget about the impending doom that was now materializing in front of them as the goddess of death.

Nothing going as planned, screaming at Loki along with Thor to not call for the Bifrost all too late as they were sucked into the white light, a bruising grip around the gauntlet that still carried Thor’ seal. The god quick to pull Y/N in front of him & holding tight as they traveled the wave of light strong arms wrapping around thick middle as a dagger was flung at them. The two looking down in time to watch Loki retaliate only for the younger god to be pushed out of the Bifrost & Hela coming straight for them.

“I’ve got you dove,” Y/N heard whispered in her ear as they were pushed out of the Bifrost & into nothing.

Shocked that they both bounced on a hard surface seconds later that made both lose breath, the fate rolling out of the gods arms to get to shaky feet to survey the junk heap they had landed in. The fate quick to stagger out of reach of the god that got to his own shaky legs, he was reaching for Y/N even after all the Hel she was sure to put him through.

Why did the god cling to her so blindly, hadn’t she hurt him enough with all the Hel her tortured soul had inflicted on him? Shattered heart crushing to dust as the god reached for her blindly once more, to protect her & watching features falter as he realized Y/N truly cringed from him.

“Y/N, please, don’t fear me, stop fighting US to protect me,” Thor bellowed, impatience & anger getting the best of the god that was trying to cling onto the last bit of familiarity.

“NO! Why want you let me go,” Y/N snarled out as the two stood off, fingers twitching to run around the nape of strong neck to pull his lips to hers.

“Because I love you,” the god roared before they were distracted by the landing craft, Thor hurrying to protect Y/N who called her swords in preparation for the fight.

“You still have your seidr,” Thor began getting her attention as the doors to the craft opened but the fate looked at him in puzzlement of the statement.

“Of course I do… Thor…,” Y/N began anxiously watching the gods face over taken by a smile at the realization his name passed her lips, “I can’t leave you. You are…”

“I am your king & I command you to go find Loki. If we are here chances are he is to! Go,” Thor barked out the order in a manner the fate wasn’t allowed to ignore, a quick nod left the god alone in the group of mismatched creatures that were laughing as they came closer.

Cocking her head at how she found the god of mischief, standing at what appeared to be an extravagant bar reaching for a drink that was placed in front of him, in blue leathers & looking well considering how she & Thor had been tossed out of the Bifrost. Having conjured an elaborate gown to make herself fit in & hated it but it was a necessary evil. Sidling next to the raven-haired god to run a smooth hand around taught side & under the cape as if a whore looking for attention. Looking up into emerald orbs that quickly widened in shock that Y/N was standing next to him, leather clad arm falling around satin covered shoulders to pull her close protectively.

“Where did you come from pet,” Loki hushed, taking the drink in free hand to pull her away with him to a quiet corner.

“Out there in the waste, Thor & I both….,” Y/N began but he cut her off.

“How long have you been here,” Loki asked, looking around as if keeping an eye out for someone.

“An hour at the most? How long have you been…”

“An hour? I was pushed out weeks ago & you just arrived,” Loki sputtered, spotting someone & tugging the fate with him to take a seat on a shiny couch.

“I need you to listen to me close. Not a word,” Loki began.

“Not a word, Loki this….,” Y/N began, growing irritated with the god that continued to hold her close.

“As your ruler, not a word,” he bit out quickly, the fate cocking lose curled Y/H/C head at Loki pursing pale lips tightly together glaring at the god.

“No, you don’t get to pull that on me, I answer to one king & I am already following HIS order to come find you, so we can stop Ragnarök,” Y/N hushed/yelled, but it seemed Loki was prepared for what she had to say.

“Then as the rightful crowned prince & your charge I order you to hush & follow my lead,” Loki snapped back, obvious he hated to command Y/N like a servant but hadn’t a choice as the room began to become crowded, emerald gaze falling on a man in a long robe that mead her think of Hugh Hefner.

It seemed seconds later keen hearing picked up on the voice of Thor, quick to turn to look at the god sitting in a chair rigidly with the one explained as the Grandmaster looking him over like a prized fighter. The fate pinching Loki hard to get his attention, to which was quick to excuse himself with Y/N in tow.

Tags open! And re-blogs are ALWAYS welcomed!

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#thor odinson #thor #thor x you #thor x reader #thor x plus size reader

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anthropwashere · 8 years

Text

of all the things that might have been: ch. 7

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

AO3

FFN

(Later than I meant it to be because I fucking swan-dived into ~30,000 words worth of FMA WIPs, honestly just save me from myself. I’ll be doing Camp NaNo in April so don’t expect another chapter ‘til May, sorry and thank you!)

It's such a relief to be around the familiar again. Cars and houses and restaurants and streets, all of it almost exactly as he expects Amity Park to look. Sure, he might have ended up in the year he was born, but with how far he's traveled a couple decades is barely worth noticing.

With familiar territory, it’s so much easier to set up shop. There’s plenty of food that’s plenty easy to steal, decent enough medical supplies, and good clothes are an invisible flight through a department store away. Most importantly of all, there’s camping gear. Big, practical, brightly colored camping gear. And it’s fall now, just cool enough to warrant cozy layers but not cold enough to regret sleeping out in the woods like the homeless freak he is.

He can almost pretend like he’s on vacation!

There’s cause for all this, of course. He remembers this year, these two months living on the outskirts of his home town. Normally he prefers to hop from hotel to hotel, overshadowing clerks long enough to mark a room taken and paid for so he can sleep as long as he likes. Clean sheets, hot water, all the garbage continental breakfast he can eat-- an errant time traveler’s paradise. And here he is, stuck with sleeping bags and canned food instead. Ugh.

Past him better be grateful he’s doing all this for him, if he has anything to say about it.

In the failing afternoon light, he appraises his little camp built for two and nods, satisfied. It’s not the prettiest or most high tech setup he could have gone with, but then, pretty and high tech isn’t what he’s aiming to teach, is it?

He grins. Him? Teaching? This’ll be good for a laugh-- on this side of things, at least. He doesn’t remember laughing much, the first time around.

Him? Teaching? Ha!

Crouching, he stokes the campfire with a branch stripped of its yellowed leaves. He hasn’t started up the stew yet since it’ll just boil over once he has to rush pell-mell into the forest. He’ll have time, later. As he feeds dry twigs to the fire he thinks of FentonWorks, and of the young couple that’s only a few years older than he is now. He hasn’t even been been born yet, in this timeline. He’s still not used to it; unable to step foot in the house he grew up in.

Not for the first time he misses his mom’s cooking, his dad’s boisterous laughter, his sister’s coddling. He misses coming home-- after beating up the ghost of the day, more often than not-- to the smell of burgers or pasta or the dreaded Leftover Nights. Good, hearty meals he didn’t have to make himself from stolen ingredients, shared with a family that he could still call his.

He laughs, tossing the branch aside. Now isn’t the time to get all wistful. He’ll have his hands busy with blood and tears soon enough, but after-- yes, after he’s handled his past, he can look to the future again. He’ll fix this, no matter what his future self had to say about it. For now, he’s waiting--

“Nngh!”

Sudden pain cuts through him like a knife, taking his breath with it. He staggers back from the campfire, gasping, clutching at his aching chest. For one terrible instant he thinks he’s wrong after all, that he’s doomed to die here, that no younger self will appear after all. But-- no. No. He has to be right. He knows.

He stands tall, his sternum clicking its protest, and he waits. His past self will show up far from him, that’s fact. There was no way for him to recognize where his past would appear, so he’d just picked a clearing near the stream and called it home. What’s one fallen tree in a forest, right? He evens his breathing, waits for the smallest flash of blue light to leak through the undergrowth--

There!

He’s off at once, running so quickly he doesn’t quite touch the ground. It’s long, awful seconds before he hears the first scream, bitten ragged with pain. He forgoes the pretense of running at all, blurs away from one second to another, and then there he is.

One look and he regrets not grabbing his first aid kit. Distracted, anxious, not thinking clearly. Idiot. He knows-- remembers-- that it isn’t as bad as it looks, but it’s still a worrying amount of blood.

Past Him is fetal in a burnt-black clearing, the smell of vaporized dead leaves and rainwater and pine smoke heavy in the air. Past Him is younger, years younger, and he’s wearing brand new clothes and there’s a bulky bag beside him that must weigh as much as he does-- not saying much, since god, but he’s skinny. His face is a twisted mess of snot and tears and pain, which makes sense, considering he’s got a tree branch stuck right through his forearm. Phased, rather than pierced, and all the more brutal for it.

“Hey,” Danny calls out over his past self’s screams. And again, “Hey!”

Past Him hiccups shock, twitching away from the tree and only succeeding in wrecking his arm a little bit more. He goes white as a sheet, mouth yawning for a scream that gets tangled up in his throat. Danny winces in sympathy, holding up his empty hands to get the kid’s attention.

“It’s okay,” he says, trying to speak calmly though his own heart is racing. “It’ll be okay. I’m here to help you. I just want to help.”

It takes Past Him a few tries to make a coherent sentence. “W-who-- hhgk-- are you?”

“I’m you,” Danny replies patiently, and rolls up his sleeve to display his own forearm. It's been years now, but he still has two faint circles there, noticeable even at this distance. Ghost healing speeds everything up, but scars still take a long time to fade.

Past him is too distracted by pain to really react to that, which is fair. He just huddles a little closer to the log and looks like he’d love nothing more than to never move again. Danny sighs.

“Okay. We can call this lesson number one. When you time travel, you always, always, always need to phase. It’ll be a pain in the ass until you get used to doing it, but the alternative is getting stuck in a log. Enjoying this so far?”

“Nnn-- hhfh-- no....”

“Yeah, I figured as much.” He kneels beside his past. It is, briefly, very weird. He remembers this moment from when he’d been fourteen years old and shredding his nails against dry bark, jaw clenched so tight his teeth should crack. He remembers the scraping and tugging of the branch in his arm, muscles rigid, his hand spasming. He remembers looking up at a young, leanly-muscled man with wild eyes and a menacing grin. He remembers being so certain that this was how he was going to die.

Flash forward and now he’s the menacing stranger looming over a defenseless, injured kid in the middle of a forest.

Hmm. Awkward.

“Okay,” he says, “I’m not gonna yank you free. I’d do more damage, and you’ve already pulled some muscle out like a champ-- no no, don’t look. Trust me on this. Just-- hold still, okay? I’ll try not to make this any worse than it has to be.”

Well that wasn’t menacing or anything. So sue him, he’s nervous. It’s weird, meeting himself like this.

“I’m gonna cut the branch instead of phasing you off it for now, because we’re about a mile from camp and I’d like to minimize your blood loss as much as possible. I’ll fly us back so it’ll be easier on you. That all sound good?”

“Hhh-- hhgn-- yeah--”

“Awesome, I love it when I'm on the same page as myself.”

Past Him’s eyes are starting to get a little glassy, which means it’s time to shut up and move. It’s quick work to rip his unrolled shirtsleeve off-- he really should have grabbed the first aid kit, way to drop the ball there, Fenton-- and tear it into strips to staunch the bleeding and tie the branch in place. A quick slash of ecto-energy cuts the branch free. Past Him writhes, clawing at the still-smoking ground and his leg both, a shriek scraped through his bared teeth.

“Sorry, sorry!” Danny says hastily. Probably should have warned him, oops. “Sorry. I’m gonna pick you up now, so hang on.”

“My buh-- bag,” Past Him gasps.

“Got it.” Another flare of energy to summon the bag, and he swings it over his shoulder, absently adjusting the strap to fit his broader frame. He remembers this bag; remembers a Sam who knew what to expect, and knew what he’d benefit most from. Sturdy quality, nondescript color, lots of pockets. Past him is gonna lose it before his sixteenth birthday, if he’s lucky. “You just came from seeing our Sam and Tucker, right?”

“Muh-- hhgh-- hh-- month ago.”

Danny scoops him up bridal style, wincing when this earns him another strangled cry. Past him curls like a pill bug, glaring daggers. “I warned you, sorry!”

He flies for camp, talking as he goes. He remembers that too, now that he’s here again. How he’d latched onto the rambling voice of his weird future self as a distraction from the fucking hole in his arm. The memory makes him ramble more. “Once you’re stitched up I can give you something for the pain. It’s just over the counter stuff, but it’ll take the edge off for now. If you need something stronger I can steal some tomorrow, okay? I’ll need to go into town for more supplies anyway, so don’t stress it. All you need to think about right now is not passing out, okay? You’re gonna be fine. This isn’t so bad. I know it hurts right now, but you’ll be okay soon. Just breathe, nice and steady, yeah, like that. I’ve got you. You’ll be okay. You’ll be just fine.”

Back at camp, Danny lays him on the spare blanket he’d laid out just for this. “Keep pressure on that,” he orders. “I’ll be right back.”

He doesn’t hear the weak reply, already rifling through the tent for his trusty kit. It’s been through hell with him-- if you want to call bouncing around the infinitude of forced trans-temporal hopscotch “hell,” which hey, some days. It’s dented and stained and the red cross on its lid is just about scratched gone. It still closes though, which is good enough for him. Kit in hand, he drops his past self’s bag near the edge of the blanket and kneels down beside the boy.

“Hold still,” he says, and hands him a piece of old leather. “Put that in your mouth. I don’t need you biting our tongue off, okay?”

Field surgery done by an amateur is, as expected, kind of a disaster. It’s easier than it would be if either of them were anyone else; it’s useful, sometimes, to be a couple of freaks. Past Him is too much of a ghost to bleed out from something as minor as this, and Danny’s too inured by years of stitching himself back together to allow his hands any hesitation.

“It’s kind of nice to be the living proof I don’t fuck this up and kill you,” Danny remarks lightly as he prods and massages the twisted muscles back into place.

Past Him gives him a look of deepest loathing.

Eventually, the wound is sewn and cleaned and bandaged, and it’s over. Past Him sprawls out on the least bloody corner of the blanket and just lays there and breathes. He’s gray-faced and shaking, skin cold to the touch. Danny gives him a bottle of water and a bag of trail mix and, as an afterthought, pulls another blanket out of the tent to toss over him.

“Sip slow, eat slower,” he says. “I’ll get dinner started once I’ve cleaned up.”

Canned soup takes basically zero effort to heat over a campfire, so he keeps one eye on Past Him and makes lists as he stirs. What will need to be stolen, priority versus indulgence. Medical supplies, obviously. More bandages. Ice too, for the swelling and for storage. It’s kind of weird, having perishables around. Fresh fruit, definitely. Red meat, for the iron and protein-- or would that fall under an indulgence? No no, Past Him needs it. Well, in a few days. For now he should probably stick to chicken broth. He’s had a hard time of it; too much rich food will just make him sick. Yeah, alright. That’ll do, for now.

He ladles out two steaming bowls and plops down on the blanket. Past Him twitches like it’s a habit. Danny doesn’t blame him. He remembers the first year like a bad dream, memories springing unbidden that still make his heart race over nothing. Trauma, Jazz would say if she were here. No shit, Danny would retort. He doesn’t have the looping scars on his arms and legs anymore, but they’re still a raw pink on Past Him. He remembers, even if his skin doesn’t.

A flicker of green energy levitates the bowls, leaving his hands free to gather up a pile of soft things to prop Past Him up. “Hope you’re hungry, because I’m not letting you sleep ‘til the bowl’s empty.”

Past Him stares. “How-- how are you doing that?”

His voice is weak. That should pass soon. It has to. Not like either of them can risk a trip to a hospital. “Doing what?”

“I can’t make stuff float.”

“Oh. Practice,” Danny nods at one bowl, setting it down beside Past Him and plucking his own out of the air. “We’ll get to that.”

“Um. We will?”

“Course we will. What do you think I’m doing here? Well, apart from saving my own life by proxy, I guess.”

Past Him hesitates, his spooning halfway to his mouth. “You’re... really me then?”

“Yup.”

“Then--”

“Shut up and eat, okay? We’ll talk once you’ve had some sleep.”

Past Him is too worn out to put up much of a fight, which is just fine with him. There’s time now, to put things off until tomorrow. There’s time a-plenty for them, for now.

In the morning Danny wakes to the patter of a light rain against the tent, and Past Him is gone.

“...Idiot.”

He floats out of his sleeping bag and gets dressed, shivering when the cold air nips his chest. On his way out of the tent he grabs a second hoodie with a grumble. It’s barely raining, really more of a fine mist if he’s gonna be technical, but it’s pretty chilly out and Past Him’s still weak. If the idiot popped so much as a single stitch wandering around the forest on his own, he’s gonna backhand him into next week! He wasn’t this dumb when he was fourteen, was he?

...Okay, maybe he was. Still!

He finds Past Him by the nearby stream, sitting cross-legged with his hurt arm resting in his lap, lost in thought. Danny huffs.

“Y’have a nice walk?” He asks, walking up. Past Him comes back to himself with a slow shake of his head, but doesn’t reply. With another huff Danny sits next to him, turning his gaze to the stream. The water’s so clear he can see the pale river stones at the bottom, and little shadows of fish darting around. It burbles and splashes, louder than the drizzle on the gold and red leaves still clinging to the trees. It’s peaceful here. Soothing.

They sit a while.

“How you doing?” He asks eventually.

“...’M’cold.”

“That’d be the blood loss, dude.” Danny tosses the hoodie at him, earning an indistinct noise of protest. Past Him pulls it on anyway, careful of his arm. When his head pops out he’s glaring. The hoodie’s a size or two too big for him; he ends up looking like a little kid pouting over not getting any cookies before dinner.

“You’re awfully cheery about all this, you know that?”

“Well sure, why not? We’ve got food, clean water, shelter, we can communicate with the current populace no problem, and I know when our next jumps are gonna be. Oh! And toilet paper. I picked up a bunch of that yesterday and you are welcome.”

Past Him sneers. “Well you might be satisfied with toilet paper, but I’m not looking forward to having this conversation again in ten years.”

Danny laughs. “Wow, thanks! I’m twenty for your information, so it’s only gonna be six years until you can make fun of your moping teenage self crying over how hard his life is, uh boo hoo hoo.”

“I’m not crying--” He stills, the irritation bleeding from him. “...Six years?”

And the snit he’d been working up to vanishes in a puff of morosity. “...Six years,” he says again, and rubs his thumb along the bandages on his arm.

Danny gets it. He does. Six years is forever when you’re fourteen. Six years is impossible to imagine, even when it’s snarking at you and making sure you haven’t popped your stitches. Past Him wants so hard to pretend this will all work itself out, that he’ll get to go home before this can really get out of hand. It’s written on his thin face plain as day. But here’s his future self, aged twenty and some change, as harsh a truth as a slap in the face.

Danny gets it. Six years still seems like forever to him now. But at least Danny’s already lived the years between fourteen and twenty. He knows that it gets better than it’s been for Past Him, that it gets easier. He’ll survive, and he’ll learn and see more than he ever thought possible, even if he has no control of the whats or whens. He hasn’t stopped wanting to go home, and he hasn’t stopped trying to get there either. But he understands that rock bottom could be so much worse than this. And if he’s turned out okay, then Past Him will too.

He has to. Right?

“Hey.”

Past Him says nothing, lost in the middle distance again. Danny rolls his eyes. Forget trauma, this is just drama now. He reaches out and shoves Past Him into the stream. The squawking and yowling that comes after is loud enough to chase a flock of birds out of the treeline, and Danny throws his head back and laughs and laughs.

“What was that for?!” Past Him splutters furiously, hip-deep and soaking wet.

“For brooding!” Danny shouts, flat on his back and kicking his feet.

“For-- what?”

Danny drops his legs, swinging himself upright to give Past Him a Very Serious Expression he can only just hang onto. “We future-Dannys have a strict no brooding policy.” This is a staggering lie. “Breaking this rule will earn you a swift and merciless dunking! If there’s no nearby body of water around, we’ll settle for a good punch to the nads.”

Past Him gapes for several seconds, and then finally-- god, was he this slow at fourteen too? He must have been but jeez, this is tragic-- he remembers his arm. With a yelp that’s half-panic and half-pain he throws his arm over his head, horrified. “My stitches!”

Danny floats to his feet and turns back towards camp, chest aching and mouth sore from grinning. Man, he’d needed a good laugh. “Phase ‘em dry! You’ll be alright.”

Still chuckling, he leaves his past in the water.

Breakfast is scrambled eggs with bits of ham and bacon. Danny grimaces his way through a cup of instant coffee, the gritty taste waking him up better than the actual caffeine. He leans back in his squat fold-out chair, plastic plate balanced on one knee and plastic cup perched on the other, gives Past Him an appraising glance. He phased himself dry but is still wrapped up in a fleece blanket against the chill, pulled up to his ears. His bandages ought to be changed too, as a precaution.

“So does this time travel garbage get any less random?” Past Him asks.

Danny snorts, setting his empty plate aside. “Pfft, I wish.”

“Then how come you’re here too?”

“Because this is what happened for me when I was your age, and now it’s happening again.” He shrugs. “I try not to think about it too hard when this kind of thing happens.”

“So, what, I’m destined to time travel for at least six years just to save my own butt?” Past Him stabs at his plate, looking furious. “How’s that fair?”

“It isn’t destiny, alright? Don’t make it sound like we’ve been prophesied into a magical loop of time hobo bullshit. It’s Clockwork, alright? This is all Clockwork’s fault.”

Past Him doesn’t say anything, picking at his eggs. But there’s a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before, even when he’d been racked with pain. Hmm. Danny thinks back again, tries to remember this conversation. It’s indistinct now, dreamy shapes instead of true memory. He remembers the meals shared rather than the words that passed between them. Mostly, he remembers being scared and overwhelmed and homesick. Trying to understand what had happened to him and unable to wrap his mind around the possibility of being preordained into having this conversation twice.

Damn.

“Hey.”

Past Him eyes him warily, like he’s somebody dangerous, somebody to be threatened by. Which, considering things, is a fair assessment. Still, ouch.

“I know this is a lot to take in. It’s been-- what, four months for you?”

A nod.

“Right, and it’s been shit. I remember. And Sam and Tucker, they told you what’s gonna happen, but hearing something bad is a whole lot different than seeing it.” He gestures at himself, smiling and hoping he looks apologetic. “You don’t want to believe, and that’s fine. But the fact is, I’m your best case scenario.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ve seen an alternate Danny or two by now, right?”

Past Him winces. “Just one, in person. The other one was, um. His parents said he was dead.”

Yeah, that’s more common than he’d like to think about. Comes with the territory though, idiot kid hero trying to save the city one punch at a time. Dannys get hurt or they get dead, or if they’re very very very lucky, they get to grow up. “No, no. I mean alternate time-traveling Dannys. Ones like you and me.”

He looks at Danny uncertainly. “I… don’t think I have?”

“You’d know if you did. They’re usually dead.”

Ah hell, that was too blunt. Now Past Him looks all panicky again. “I mean-- what I mean is, this isn’t--” He clears his throat, tries to channel Jazz’s Lecture Mode. “Time travel is dangerous. Your arm’s proof of that. One slip up in a jump can be fatal. Statistically, it is way more likely that we’ll die instead of finding a way to fix this. A foot to the right and instead of a branch in your arm it would’ve been the whole log through your gut. You’ve made it this far okay and I’ve made it farther, but there’s six years between us and I can promise you you’re going to find some dead Dannys along the way. I’m sorry, but that’s facts.”

Past Him says nothing for a moment, stirring his eggs again. “...What happened to your face?”

“Huh? Oh.” Danny touches his cheek, tracing the edge of a scar even his supernatural healing hasn’t touched. “Ended up back in the bad future again, only a few seconds after I’d left. The Observants hit the big reset button while I was there.”

“Observants?”

“A bunch of one-eyed time cops who can’t grasp the concept of trans-temporal travel to save their skins.” He scoffs. “Clockwork works for them.”

“Really? He didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who, y’know, works well with others.”

Danny laughs. “Far as I can tell, you’re right on the money. There’s definitely some mutual hatred between them, but I couldn’t tell you why. It’s not often I’ve run into the Observants, and when I do I have to explain everything all over again and hope they don’t try and kill me.”

“Why?”

He leans forward to stoke the campfire with a long stick, prodding at the ashy logs until the embers burn brightly again. “Why what?”

Past Him shifts, taking another bite of his eggs. “Lots of whys, I guess. I dunno. Why would they try and kill you? Wouldn’t helping us out make their jobs easier? Being, uh, time cops and everything?”

He sighs, leaning back in his chair again. As he answers, he waves and jabs the stick for emphasis. “They put on this big show of passivity-- observe, but never to act, kind of their whole thing really-- but they’re just as trigger happy as any ghost if you startle them right. And like it or not we startle everybody, because of this.” He pats his chest. “No matter what I’ve told them, they always think I’m trashing their tidy little timelines on purpose. They don’t do much about me, obviously-- it’s kind of in their name-- but they’re annoying. They bristle up and make a big fuss in every timeline I come to as if I’m gonna go out of my way to wreck their tragically linear grasp of past-present-future, but since we’ve got this--” He pats his chest again, “--they just kind of grumble and posture ‘til I leave.”

“You….” Past Him frowns, rubs his face, and makes a visible attempt at sorting his thoughts together. This really is a conversation that should wait until the kid’s got a full five liters of blood to oxygenate, but Danny knows it won’t. Stubbornness is something he’s always been guilty of. “They don’t know who you are, over and over?”

Danny allows the clumsy question to be left alone, though he dearly wants to poke fun. Blood loss. Trauma. Et cetera. “They don’t, that’s the thing. They’re incredibly limited in their-- you know what? Here, we need some visuals, I think.”

He floats off his chair to a stretch of dirt closer to Past Him. A soft sweep of power brushes an uneven square clear of leaves and loose stones, and using the stick he’d stoke the fire with Danny draws as he talks.

First, a lone vertical line. “This is one timeline; one whole stupidly long stretch of reality as our little minds understand it from start to finish. Big B and E, Beginning and End, here and here.” Two little horizontal ticks to mark each. “And the Observants have existed in one form or another since like, right after the Beginning.” He doodles a circle around a dot in a rough doodle of an eye. Dirt’s a hard medium, so sue him. “They can see the whole of this timeline laid out like a movie reel. They see everything that will happen, is happening, or has happened within that scope, and they can see when calling in the big guns might be necessary.”

“Big guns-- meaning Clockwork?” Past Him asks.

“Yeah.” He draws another vertical line beside the first. “The thing is-- as I’m sure you’ve figured out by now-- is that there is waaaaaay more than just one timeline out there for us to bounce around in. And the Observants from this timeline--” He taps the first line, “--can’t even tell this timeline exists at all. If you try telling them Timeline A is different than Timeline B because everybody in the U.S. speaks German or whatever, they’ll call you a lunatic.” He fills the rest of the open dirt with vertical lines, more for visual effect than is strictly necessary. “Same in Timelines C through Z, onto infinity. You follow?”

“Yeah, I follow. Kind of the only thing that makes sense with all the, um. Places I’ve been.” Past Him rubs his wrist absently, tracing the shallow scars rather than the edge of his bandage.

“...I wasn’t a fan of her either,” Danny says quietly, and nods at the scars when Past Him looks embarrassed. “At least there was water then. You’re gonna hate Duulaman, if you stick around long enough to end up then too.”

“Who is--”

“Maybe later,” Danny cuts in, making an attempt to smile but feeling it strain across his teeth. Past Him huffs, but at least he isn’t twitchy like earlier. Talking all this out is a distraction, if nothing else.

“Okay. So Clockwork works for these Observant guys, right? Having us-- me?-- getting jerked all over the place is definitely gonna mess up something eventually. Have you tried telling them about how Clockwork’s left us out to dry?”

Danny barks laughter, tossing the stick aside. “Are you kidding me? That asshole may as well be my imaginary friend at this point. It doesn’t matter what I tell them; they either don’t believe me or nothing tangible comes from it. They don’t interfere.”

“...I see.”

“I can’t remember, have you tried going to his lair yet?”

“Yeah. Four times, before I gave up and went Earth-side again.”

“Ah, okay.” Another soft sweep of power brushes away the doodled timelines. He stands, stretching out his back with a groan as something pops. “Yeah, I’ve tracked his lair down a hundred times if I’ve done it once. No luck. Mostly I just get lost in the Ghost Zone for a while, until I pop into a time period where someone made a stable portal in Amity Park. Usually it’s some variation on Mom and Dad, but there’ve been a few surprises.”

“So he is avoiding me. Us. Whatever.” Past Him shuts his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with his good hand. “This is… way more complicated than I’m prepared to deal with right now.”

“That’s fair. Here, you’re still looking pretty ragged ‘round the edges. How about you try and get some more sleep? I promise you won’t go anywhere for a while.”

He nods. “I… yeah. Sleep-- sleep sounds like a good idea.”

It’s evening by the time Past Him stirs again, and when he stumbles out of the tent he’s a little more put together, a little more coherent. As Danny sets him down by the fire to change his bandages again, he looks around with the first spark of interest he’s shown since he showed up. “Where’d you get all this stuff anyway? Did Sam go on another shopping spree?”

“Nah, I don’t think Sam’s even been born yet. Quit squirming.”

“Then quit poking it. What year is it?”

“Mom and Dad just put up the Fenton Works sign on the house.”

“So it’s only--” He frowns. “Did you get them to buy all this?”

“They’re not our parents. Not yet anyway.” He tugs on the bandage to make sure the clip isn’t loose, then pats Past Him on the knee. “And besides, these are pre-Portal days for them anyway. They’d think I was crazy.”

At a loss, Past Him looks out at the campsite again. It’s downright spartan, compared to the camping trips Mom and Dad used to take them on. Necessity has made Danny stingy and cautious, used to having nothing but the necessities at the best of times. But for this jump he splurged on lanterns and sleeping bags, a roomy camping tent and pre-cut firewood. Stuff that your normal American family wouldn’t think twice on bringing out to the woods, but it’s all stuff Danny’s gotten used to not having. It is, personally speaking, a shit ton of stuff.

“How did you pay for all this?”

“I didn’t.”

“Then--” His eyes widen, understanding at last. “You stole all this?”

“We gotta survive somehow, y’know?”

“I-- well--” He fumbles. “Yeah, I guess. But stealing?”

Danny smiles, not unkindly. “Lemme get dinner started before you get all high and mighty on me, okay?”

Past Him glowers. “I’m not hungry.”

“Bullshit, you’re not. You’re really gonna turn down chicken soup because I stole it? It’s like a dollar a can right now anyway, it’s peanuts.”

“Then you could’ve paid a dollar for it.”

Danny purses his lips, resting his hands on his hips as he levels a distinctly unimpressed glare at Past Him. “Before you look at me like I said I kick puppies for fun-- yeah, that look, knock it off-- just think about it for a minute. What’s the longest you’ve been anywhere so far?”

He may as well have flipped a switch to make Past Him look so miserable so quickly. “Two weeks.”

“Right, and civilization was kaput then anyway, so it wasn’t like you could buy a sandwich if you had the money to.” He huffs. “I’m not saying it’s all post-apocalyptic wastelands from here on out, okay? But the point is, it’s really rare for me to be anywhen long enough to land some honestly-made cash to honestly-buy anything. All of this--” He gestures at their little camp site, a circle of garish colors and a smattering of tacky camo, “--is very, very out of the ordinary. I only stole all of this because I knew you’d be showing up too, and I know how long we’ll both be here.”

Past Him makes a face. What, did he really forget this was a temporary setup? “How long is that?”

“Two months, give a take a day or two for both of us. I’ve been here three days already, so I’ve had time to prepare. And yeah, that means I stole a whole bunch of junk I’m not gonna take with me when I leave.” He shrugs, dropping his arms. “It sucks, okay? I know it sucks. But it’s steal or starve, and frankly dude, I’ve had my fair share of starving. Haven’t you?”

It’s a rhetorical question. Past Him looks like a pile of kindling somebody draped a t-shirt and a pair of jeans over. “You did all this… for me?”

“Yup, but don’t feel guilty about it. You weren’t the one who robbed half the camping section of Wal-Mart, I did. This is all just to help me spin you up.” He smiles. “Trust me, I woulda been perfectly happy sleeping in a nice hotel room for two months, but this little fall camping trip is where I learned how to survive, so now it’s my turn to repay the favor.”

Past Him shuts his eyes, leans back in his chair. The flickering light of the fire spills black shadows in the hollows of his eyes, across the sharp angles of his cheeks and jaw, down the taut lines of his skinny throat. Poor kid. He’s had it rough. Danny remembers, with that quiet distance memory gives to all bad things. An echo, absent of pain, softened by time. Long days and longer nights all blurred together, the panic and fear and hunger rubbed away, leaving only the distinct feeling of a loneliness that dogs him still.

Six years really is forever.

“Chicken soup it is,” Danny says.

A week passes quietly. For the most part Danny leaves Past Him be, answering questions when he’s asked and providing commentary on little things around the camp without expecting much response. Fire maintenance, trash disposal, washing their clothes in the stream; those kinds of things. He leaves a few hours here and there, to steal more medical supplies and food, and to furtively spy on the house so recently named Fenton Works. Mom and Dad-- no, Maddie and Jack, they aren’t his parents, they don’t even have a son yet anyway-- are hard at work fortifying the roof to support what will eventually be the Ops Center. Jazz is too little to be left unsupervised long, so they take turns to play with her and feed her, a gingham blanket and lots of pillows and toys strewn on a safe stretch of rooftop. Mom’s-- Maddie’s-- hair is long and curly, and there’s no gray touching D-- Jack’s-- temples yet. They’re really not much older than he is.

They’re happy. He’s glad, to see them happy.

A week since Past Him showed up, and he’s just about healed up. One of the perks of being a freak; even a branch shunted through his arm really can’t slow him down for long. The stitches come out and the heavy bandages are replaced with just two gauze pads, and even that’s not all that necessary. The new skin is raw and tender, looks like ground beef instead of scar tissue, but it’ll be fine. He’ll be just fine.

“You okay?” Past Him asks that night, dinner eaten and plates cleaned. They’ve been sitting by the fire, bundled up against the autumn wind whipping through the trees. Branches sway and and creak, black outlines against a night sky spilling over with stars. It’s a nice night, quiet. Past Him’s even been cracking jokes.

“...I gotta show you something,” he says, reluctantly. He should have done this days ago. He’s put it off long enough.

“Uh-oh. You got all serious. What is it?”

He unzips his hoodie, kneads the hem of his t-shirt in his fingers and swallows. “Something you really won’t like.”

“You’ve already been nothing but bad news,” Past Him grins. “C’mon, spit it out.”

“I wouldn’t call this ‘bad news,’ per se, more of an ‘oh my god’ kind of news,” he replies, and lifts up his shirt.

“Whyyyy are you stripping-- oh my god, what.”

The firelight makes it look worse than it really is. Idiot, he should have thought of that. He should have waited until morning, when the light would be better, when the shadows would be honest. But he might have lost his nerve by then, and he’s put it off long enough, he has. This is a cruelty Past Him has to know.

Danny doesn’t look down, only watches horror etch hard lines into Past Him’s skinny face, at the disgust twisting his mouth, the bulge of his eyes, how he recoils in his chair. He doesn’t look down because he doesn’t have to. He knows the shape of the hole in his chest like the back of his own hands, has traced its growth a thousand times with careful fingers. He knows the mottled purple bruising, the sloughed flesh that looks more like candle wax than skin, the white expanse of exposed bone, the slippery pink muscles, the glistening edge of subcutaneous fat. The hole in his chest doesn’t bleed, but the steady pulse of his beating heart can be touched, if he hooks his finger right.

Past Him’s hands have jumped to his own chest, reflexively trying to cover a wound he doesn’t have yet.

The fire shifts with a startling loud pop and crackle, sending up a flurry of orange sparks to wink out in the darkness above. The wind sighs, and goosebumps break out across Danny’s bare skin. The cold bites at his chest, a bone-deep ache like chewing on ice cubes, and he waits for Past Him to speak.

“What--” He swallows, shakes his head, tries again. “What the hell?”

“The time medallion,” Danny replies simply. It’s explanation enough, really.

“Howww are you… not dead?” Past Him makes a pained expression, rubbing his chest nervously. “Are you dead? Have you actually been dead this whole time and my ghost sense just didn’t work, because--”

“I’m not dead. You’ll know when you’ve found a dead Danny, trust me.”

“Shit,” Past Him breathes. “Sam and Tucker told me the medallion was gonna mess with me, but I didn’t think-- I didn’t think it’d be so-- so graphic.”

“It’s really not as bad as it looks.” He adjusts his grip on his shirt a little, fetching a pocket knife from his hip and flicking it open. The little blade shines blackly, a wavering streak of orange dancing down its edge. “And it doesn’t make me as vulnerable as you’d think it would.” And he demonstrates this by burying the knife in his chest.

Past Him shouts, jumping to his feet, but Danny’s already pulled the knife out. He tosses it underhanded to Past Him, who nearly drops it in surprise. He stares at it, then at Danny. The blade has rusted away to nothing.

“Only Dannys like us can really touch it,” he says, tapping his sternum. The tick-tick of his fingernail is loud, like tapping a pencil on a school desk, the kind with a cubby hole for your textbooks. It doesn’t echo, but the sound of a cluttered space inside is clear enough.

“...I’m going to throw up.”

“It’s not that bad.” Danny tugs his shirt down, zipping up his hoodie again.

“It’s pretty bad, actually!”

“Don’t be such a baby. You’ve got a while before it’ll start to show on you.” Past Him’s face loses its revulsion, gets that miserable dismay he wears whenever Danny talks about the future. “Once the bruising lingers, you’re gonna have to get quick with the lies, and creative with how you hide it. Nobody who isn’t in the know about what you are or what’s happened to you can see it.”

“...Who’s in the know?” Well, that’s begrudging as hell, but at least he’s not putting up as much a fuss as Danny had been afraid he would.

Danny closes the distance between them to pat him gently on the shoulder. He smiles, hopes it’s a comfort. “People you can trust. Who that ends up being is up to you.”

Past Him shakes his head, pulling away. He looks at the knife handle clenched in his fist like it might bite him. “But-- but how? You’ve got a-- a-- you’ve got that!” He points unnecessarily. “I think it’s bigger than my fist! Does it-- god, does it leak? Does it hurt? Like, all the time?”

“Of course it hurts,” Danny retorts. “You already know that. It hurts like hell after every jump, and after a while it doesn’t stop hurting.”

“But you-- you never said anything.”

Danny shrugs. “What’s the point of complaining?”

“What d’you mean, ‘what’s the point?’” Past Him flails a little, jabbing at his chest with the handle. “That’s horrible! That’s-- how can you live with that?”

Danny huffs again. “Because it’s either live with it, or don’t live at all.”

Past Him stops. Drops his hands to his sides. Looks at Danny like he’s seeing him for the first time. And he staggers back, falls into his chair, and crumples up like a paper napkin. Shaky, breathless laughter jangles out of him, the knife handle falling from his limp hand to the dirt with a muted thud.

“I can’t do this,” he says. “I can’t, I can’t, I’m in over my head. This is crazy. I can’t.”

Jesus. He’d forgotten, he’d actually forgotten how much this messed him up the first time around. What can he say? Is there anything? What’d he tell himself the first time?

...Ah, it’s been too long. He can’t remember.

“You have to,” he says quietly. “I’m your best case scenario.”

Past Him says nothing, so Danny leaves him by the fire.

After that, Danny stops hiding his chest. He doesn’t turn away when he changes in the tent or when they go down to the stream to bathe, breathless and swearing in the cold. Past Him goes white and quiet every time he sees the wound, and he presses his hand to his own chest when he thinks Danny’s not looking. That’s fine. He doesn’t have to stop being scared of it. He just has to understand what it means.

As the weeks pass Danny finds himself in an almost constant state of déjà vu, opening his mouth to speak only to have dim memories fall from his tongue. He wastes a lot of time blinking and shaking his head, knowing he looks like a strong advocate for helmets in the eyes of his teenage self and not really able to do anything about it. It’s not like he isn’t aware of how unstable he looks; he remembers this much. He’s already done all this. He remembers thinking, with laughable clarity, Oh good, I go totally banana sandwich because of this.

He doesn’t bother excusing these brief yet annoyingly frequent bouts of confusion. They happen. They keep happening. It’s almost convenient, actually, to have half-buried memories on-hand to help with the lessons he’s pulling out of his ass. It helps him sound like he knows what he’s doing, which is still very, very hilarious.

News flash to Danny Fenton, age twenty and some change: Teaching is a lot harder than it looks. If he ever gets a chance to apologize to Mr. Lancer, take it.

Past Him doesn’t like hunting. Danny remembers that too, with that weird double-layer to his memory of this jump. Saying something and remembering someone else say it when it really was him saying it after all. He remembers being disgusted before, and horrified, and scared, and young.

Him now? He’s so frustrated with this idiot kid he could scream.

“Do you really want a repeat of Plant Queen Sam’s vegetarian nightmare apocalypse?” He asks impatiently, fed up with all the protests he’s gotten over this. “You’ve been here almost a month now, getting three solid meals and all the Zs you could ask for thanks to me, but this isn’t a permanent setup. We’re both gonna leave, and you need to be able to fend for yourself!”

“I’m just saying,” Past Him says, just as exasperated, “There’s got to be a better way than this.”

This is a rabbit caught in a trap and a hunting knife. This is also, apparently, an exercise in futility.

“There is, and I showed you, and you went and had a big hissy fit over how it wasn’t ‘fair’ to the animals!”

“They don’t stand a chance that way!” And he grimaces and folds his arms over his chest, haughty and self-conscious and not looking at the shivering rabbit at his feet. “It just-- it doesn’t feel-- it’s not right.”

Danny does a little loop de loop in the air to burn off some tension. It’s that or slap some sense his dumb idiot terrible teen self. They’re both ghost right now, two black-suited shadows flitting through the forest, checking traps and finally finding something caught, and it is sorely tempting to slap Past Him through a tree or two. He’d survive it just fine, really. “You’re thinking about this as murder.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s what it is.”

“No, it’s survival. Practical application of your powers in order to sustain your own existence at the cost of an animal’s. It’s the food chain, dude.”

Past Him makes another face. “You sound like one of Jazz’s textbooks.”

“Because I didn’t think you’d kick up such a fuss over this and now I’m jumping through hoops trying to to find a way for this to make sense to you, you tremendous baby.”

Past Him throws up his hands. “I don’t want to murder a deer with my ghost powers-- or a freaking machete, for that matter!”

Danny laughs. “Wow, no. For one, this is a hunting knife. Totally different types of knives. Two, who said anything about deer? What are you, greedy? What the hell would we do with a whole deer? I made rabbit traps for a reason.”

“You know what I mean.”

The rabbit thrashes against the rope around its feet, panting heavily. Danny glares. “Look, it’s terrified right now. You’d be doing it a favor and getting a couple meals out of it. Kill the fucking rabbit!”

“I don’t want to!”

“You know what? Fine.” He phases his hand through the rabbit’s chest, a slash of motion too quick for the thing to see. It spasms once more and goes limp. Dead so quick it couldn’t have known what was happening. Quicker and more merciful than knives or guns or bows, and bloodless besides, and Past Him is a gutless coward who’d rather starve than kill an animal with his own hands.

“You win,” Danny snaps, picking the rabbit up. “Have fun going hungry again.”

“Wait, what?”

Danny stalks back toward the campsite, turning human mid-stride. Past Him flits after, nervously, like he’s expecting to be punished. Well Danny’s not gonna play Disappointed Dad with teenage him. He’s too young to be a dad, and too damn peeved besides. “From here on out you don’t catch dinner, you don’t eat dinner.”

“What? Hey, hang on!”

He ignores the whining and protesting all the way back to camp. Past Him doesn’t shut up even when he skins and guts the rabbit with practiced hands, though he does hang back and go a little greener than usual. He keeps up the noise as Danny gets the rabbit on a spit and over the fire. He goes on and on, crying about how it’s not fair to ask him to kill a defenseless rabbit when they’re just a few miles away from Amity Park. As if proximity to easy-access food is something that can be relied on indefinitely, as if that isn’t something Past Him is damn well acquainted with already. As if supermarkets and drive-thru fast food have existed since time immemorial and will keep on existing until the sun burns out.

Eventually, disgusted and irritated and fed up and tired, Danny chases Past Him out of earshot with a burning branch in one hand and a ball of ecto-energy in the other to get some peace and quiet.

“I’m trying to teach you a valuable lesson, you ungrateful ass!” He hollers after the disappeared flick of a ghostly tail.

Past Him lasts two days, lurking in the nearby woods. Any time Danny catches him in his peripheral he fires off a few blasts, aiming wide to warn the idiot off. On the third day Past Him drops a dead squirrel on his head, and Danny laughs and waves him down.

“I hate you,” Past Him spits.

Danny nods. “Then we’re getting somewhere.”

There’s just a few days left now.

Danny can’t remember who left first, so to be on the safe side he’s double- and triple-checking both of their bags. Necessities are priority-packed; medical supplies and emergency rations, spare socks and underwear, knives and iodine pills and parachute cord. All the frivolous trappings he’d splurged on for this jump will be left behind, one more ghost story the humans will tell and retell one another, missing case files that won’t ever get solved. He sorts through t-shirts and shoestrings and canteens and tries not to think about the married couple that aren’t his parents, only a little older than he is, unaware they’ll have a son one day.

Past Him watches him work, floating idly about ten feet off the ground. These two months have been good to him; he’s filled out, gotten some color in his face. He could walk down the street and no one would think anything of him, just one more kid killing time after school. He props his chin up with one hand and hums. “Does it get better?”

“Your cooking? Obviously.”

“No, I meant this.” He flaps his other hand vaguely. The two round scars on his forearm stand out like they’ve been drawn on with marker, but otherwise there’s no telling that he’d ever been hurt. “All this stupid time traveling.”

Well now. There’s a choice to make here if there ever was one.

Brutal honesty, half-truth, outright lying. It’s true that it stopped being hard once he got the necessary skills hammered out. It’s amazing, really and honestly amazing, what he’s seen and what he can still expect to see. It’s been incredible and terrible and humbling, to see the many facets of himself, all the hims that could have been and all the hims that never got to be, because they died or were never born, and someone else got to live in his place. Seeing a hundred variations on his friends and family, and a hundred generations of people before and after them too. All the lives lived, all the lives never known.

Yeah, there are many times he could say he’s even been happy.

This time, he doesn’t need to rely on déjà vu to tell him what to say. He’s been expecting this question-- expecting, not remembering that it was asked. They’re almost out of time. It was bound to come up.

He stops rooting around for his toothbrush, sitting back on his heels to look up at Past Him. “Listen,” he says. “This sucks. It really, really sucks, and sometimes I get so homesick I could puke, and I spend so much time scared out of my mind that I’m gonna die in some hole a million years ago and no one I care about will ever know what happened to me. I’m scared I’ll say something or do something wrong and mess up a timeline in some huge, awful way. Maybe I already have and I just don’t know it yet, because I haven’t been back to that timeline. Maybe I’ll never get to know how badly I mess stuff up, or how many people I hurt by accident or by choice. Maybe that’s a good thing. Or maybe not knowing is worse. I don’t know. I just….”

He sighs.

“I don’t know,” he repeats. “I never imagined I’d grow up to be a time hobo, y’know?”

Past Him smiles down at him, a wry slice of teeth in a sun-browned face. “I don’t think anybody ever aspires to be a time hobo.”

“Ha, yeah. And I mean-- like I’ve said before, the day-to-day stuff all gets easier. We jump, we acclimate, we get as comfortable as we can until we jump again. Rinse and repeat and hope maybe next time there’ll be a ghost portal to go through. We learn how to really roll with all the weird shit that gets thrown at us, and I’m saying ‘we’ because I met a future time hobo Danny once who had this kind of-- I dunno. Stone-cold, grizzled, badass action dad vibe thing going for him. It was very impressive. I was very impressed.”

Another smile. “When does that happen?”

“I was seventeen. If you’re lucky, you’ll see him too.”

“How old was-- no. You won’t tell me, will you?”

“Nope.”

Past Him gives an exaggerated sigh, but lets it go.

Danny stands, stretching on tip-toe with his hands over his head to ease the tightness in his spine. One of his knees pops satisfyingly. Geeze. He’s only twenty, and he already feels old. “We both get better at this,” he says. “And maybe one of us will be lucky enough to find a way to fix this. Maybe I’m not your best case scenario after all, and maybe the future Danny I met wasn’t mine.”

He almost says what that would mean, for both of them, but the memories of lonely bones and cold metal steal the words from him. “I… ah, hell. It sucks. It really does. Sometimes it gets better, but then it gets worse again, and some stuff there’s just no helping. I just had to keep going.”

“Like your face?”

“Like my face.”

Past Him drops to eye-level, an eyebrow pointedly raised. “And you’re still not gonna tell me how exactly you got that? Even though really, I’d think you’d appreciate changing your past so your face doesn’t get ripped open.”

“It wouldn’t be my past if you managed to avoid tall, dark, and homicidal. My past is for keepsies whether I like it or not.” It’s all tree branch and tributary metaphors for time travel; the past can’t be fixed, only altered enough to create a new timeline stemming from the thing you tried to change. The past may as well be set in stone. That’s just how it is.

“Yeah, yeah, you’ve said.” Past Him lands, hands in his pockets. “It’s still worth trying to change how it goes for me though, isn’t it?”

Danny said the same thing, when he was fourteen. “...Good luck.”

#danny phantom #my writing #of all the things that might have been

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