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thetrashqueeeen · 3 months

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Effie was rescued from the Capitol prison at the exact moment Haymitch vomited into a metal basin and wished for a drink. They didn’t recognise her, so they scooped her unconscious body up, assuming she was a victor they didn’t know well. She was entirely boneless and floppy in the soldiers arms, and he wasn’t careful. As he carried her back onto the aircraft, her head smacked painfully into a doorframe, rousing her as he deposited her onto a gurney. The grey metal around her made her think she was in an interrogation room. Interrogations hurt. Nobody even bothered asking her questions anymore, they just hurt her over and over. She curled into the smallest ball she could and tucked her head into the space above her knees. She spent the flight back to 13 waiting for the pain to start. Her nose had started bleeding when her head had connected with the door, and the wet, metallic taste of blood enveloped her.

When they got there, they had to wheel her into the hospital wing. Her position had relaxed slightly, her arms looped loosely around her drawn up knees as she lay on her side. She didn’t know where she was going, but she knew whatever they were doing didn’t hurt right now. When the bed stopped, doctors and nurses came in to check her over, leaning down to look into her wide, unblinking eyes. She was almost entirely catatonic as far as they could tell, and nobody knew who she was.

Prim walked into the room, looking over at the poor soul on the bed. She was emaciated and dirty, cuts and bruises all over her skin. Her hair was nothing more than a dirty matted clump on her head and she was curled into a loose ball on her side. She was completely still and Prim paused for a moment to watch the gentle expansion of her back, making sure she was breathing.

“We need to get this one down to psych” the doctor said to Prim in an offhand manner, referencing the mental facility far underground

“It looks like she needs us” Prim couldn’t help but say

“She’s completely unresponsive” the doctor replied in a clipped tone

“Have you tried talking to her?”

“I have a medical wing full of people happy to engage with treatment, I don’t have time to coddle someone into it”

Prim walked over and rested one hand on the woman’s arm, and reached the other one to the bed control. She didn’t look at her as she said she was going to raise the bed and she needed her to sit up so they could give her medical care. Effie complied with the voice that pulled a faint string in her mind. She didn’t know how long she had been in that place, but her life before had a dream-like quality now, like it never happened. She had buried her name deep inside herself when time became either her screams or someone else’s. As she sat up, she glanced at the girl with the voice and the name ‘Prim’ slotted into her head. Prim didn’t recognise her at first, startled by the sight of fresh blood dripping out of her nose and crusting onto her chin.

“She’s not crazy, she’s just scared” Prim asserted, shocked by her own boldness.

Now the woman was sat up, Prim began to do a quick primary survey to see if there was anything critical they needed to prioritise, thankful to find nothing. It was when she picked up some wet gauze to clean her bloodied face that she recognised her. Prim looked finally into the bright blue eyes on the thin, dirty face of the woman before her and immediately knew it was Effie.

“Oh my god, Effie” she said without realising, horrified at the state she was in

“Trinket?” The guard by the door grunted in question “she’s an escort?” He finished, taking a menacing step forward as he reached for his gun

Most people would have let the soldier take her, but Primrose Everdeen wasn’t most people. Effie might have called her name that fateful reaping day, but she had also fussed over her every moment since. Effie had brought toys for her cat and ribbons for her hair. She had slipped her chocolates when nobody was looking and listened enraptured to her little girl stories and dreams. Effie had encouraged her to be a healer. She wasn’t letting them anywhere near her.

“She’s on the list” she said lowly and sharply, spinning around to face him “if you’ve got a problem take it up with the mockingjay” she wasn’t sure if Katniss actually had put Effie on the list, but she hoped it wouldn’t get back to her before she could brief her.

The soldier looked at her with reproach and then left the room, presumably to search out a commander to advise. She turned back to Effie and picked her gauze back up, gently holding the bottom of her face with one hand, while she dabbed the blood off with the other. She didn’t say much as she worked, but as she finished, she kept Effie’s face cupped in her hand a moment longer than she needed to

“You’re safe here. I promise.”

The next few hours passed in a flurry of medical testing. They took X-Rays of her bones and scans of her head. She was placed on a weighing scale and measured all over and then put in another machine that decided how malnourished she was. She wondered if the scans saw the snakes that now writhed in her skull, or if the scale included the weight of her screams or not. She wondered if her own or other peoples screams were heavier. Her nose began to ache and she shivered in the thin grey hospital gown someone had manhandled her into. She felt very glad to be deposited back onto her bed and told to stay there. She hadn’t spoken a single word. It was far too soon when Prim came back in, the mean doctor from earlier trailing behind her.

“She’s got several healed fractures and her left arm has an active break in both the ulna and the radius” Prim began, shocking Effie. Her arm didn’t hurt that much at all, how could it be broken?

“She has a mild case of pneumonia from the cold, but her white count is very elevated so that’s probably not the only infection she has” Effie thought of the coughs she heard from other cells. They were so loud and hacking that she sometimes prayed they would die quickly.

“There’s evidence of several previous concussions, but the MRI showed no long term damage” she remembered the sound of her head bouncing off the floor of her cell as they threw her prone body back in after interrogations

“She’s also extremely malnourished and dehydrated and…” Prim paused slightly “we think she might have fleas or lice maybe” Effie closes her eyes with shame.

“What’s your course of treatment?” The doctor asked Prim

“Well we need to get her clean, and then we need to get her on fluids with electrolytes and broad spectrum antibiotics. Then she needs a cast on her arm and a standard refeeding ration”

“And shave that head” the doctor added, gesturing towards Effie “it’s a lice haven in there”

Effie had swallowed her words long ago. She had bitten them, chewed them and dragged them down her own throat like broken glass. She would scream like everyone else, she would scream up her ruined throat with every crack of searing pain that sizzled on her skin, but she did not talk. The first guard that had stalked up to her in her cell, that she had been stupid enough to try and convince to let her go, that covered her mouth as he did unspeakable things to her, he had been the last person to hear a word from her mouth. But this doctor, who listened without compassion to the list of ways her body failed, and then thought it ok to shave her head, made her brave. The words had tripped out of her mouth without her even realising. She heard them like they had come from someone else

“Please don’t take my hair” she startled at the sound of her own voice “I just need a comb and conditioner, I can fix it” it was like the words were a river, bubbling up inside her and flowing out without her permission “just please don’t shave my head”

She saw the doctor look at her reproachfully, a battered women with matchstick arms, one of which was broken apparently, who had only managed one stuttering sentence since she’d been here. It wasn’t looking good.

“I’ll do it” Prim said quietly, as the woman drew breath to say no “she needs a bath anyway, I might as well try. If I can’t I’ll shave it myself, I promise” she finished, her voice taking on a pleading tone.

“Fine” the doctor said with exasperation “it’s not like we have an entire wing of patients needing treatment” she muttered as she left the room, slamming the door behind her.

Prim went into the small ensuite and ran the bath as hot as she could, pouring copious amounts of carbolic soap into the water until it turned cloudy pink. Once the bath was full she went back to the main room, expecting Effie to need help. She was shocked to find her perched on the edge of the bed already, waiting for her to return. When she got close enough, Effie reached out and grabbed her hand, squeezing it tightly as she gave her a grateful look. Prim squeezed her hand back and then let go as Effie got down and began to hobble towards the door. As they stood next to the bath, Effie shakily untied her gown and dropped it. The person who had manhandled her into it had given her a soft pair of boy shorts and a sports bra first, which she now found herself thankful for. When the gown dropped away from her, Prim had to stop herself gasping. She could see every single one of Effie’s vertebrae stacked one on top of the other like marbles. Even through the dirt, her bruises were dark.

“You can keep your underwear on if you like” she said gently, noticing Effie was stock still and shaking a little “you’ll get clean either way”

Effie didn’t say anything, but climbed into the gently steaming water, the heat leeching deep into her soul. God it had been so long since she’d been warm. Prim sluiced water over her head using a plastic cup and then handed her a sponge

“While I tackle your hair, why don’t you start cleaning the dirt off. The soap is antiseptic so all your cuts will get clean”

She began to lather conditioner into the mess as best she could and then started to prise it apart with a wide toothed comb, careful not to pull too hard.

“I didn’t realise you had so much hair under those wigs all these years” she said she she began to tease some of the length out. Effie had finished washing herself a long time ago by this point and her skin was lightly pink from scrubbing.

“Most people don’t” she replied quietly, still getting used to to the sound she made when she talked. She thought her voice might be hoarse from lack of use, but it sounded just the same as before. With every pull of the comb she was quietly excavating herself from the place she’d been buried.

“When I was small, I had little golden ringlets” she said, drawing her knees up to her chest and resting her chin on top of them. Prim shifted forwards slightly to compensate for this and stayed silent, allowing her to continue “I loved them so much, I used to sit for hours and comb through them in the mirror, watching them shine. When I was… I don’t know- maybe 5? My mother took me with her to the wig shop, I was so excited because she would usually shoo me away. When we got there, she held me down as the shop assistant shaved all my beautiful golden ringlets off. I screamed and screamed, thinking it was the worst thing that could ever happen” she paused briefly, the enormity of the awfulness that had befallen her swelling up in the room “and then, when it was over, I was given a wig that was just like my own hair. I cried and asked my mother why I had to wear a wig and she told me the wig was shiner, bouncier, better than my own hair. From then on my hair was shaved by my mother once a fortnight until I moved out. When I went, I didn’t mean to let it grow, but I was so busy that it kind of got away from me. One morning, I stood at the bathroom mirror with a razor, ready to do it, and I remembered those little golden ringlets on the floor of the wig shop. I couldn’t do it after that. I pinned it under my wig cap, and then when it got even longer I learned to braid and would wind them around and around to keep them out of sight” she finished.

Prim had managed to pull out the entire mess in the back of her hair and combed the lice out in the time Effie had been speaking. Her heart felt squeezed inside her chest as she listened to her, so desperately wanting to keep her hair and always having to hide it. No wonder it was the threat of a razor that made her talk

“We’re not supposed to do this” Prim said “but let’s put some more hot water in and wash your hair properly. I can do your back too”

She lathered a lot of shampoo into Effie’s hair and massaged it around on her scalp. It had been so long since someone had touched her like this. So delicately and kindly, like she was worthy of care. As Prim worked to eradicate all the dirt from her scalp, Effie wept silently. She didn’t know what she wept for, but tears didn’t stop tracking down her face until Prim had washed the shampoo out, done a second round, combed through conditioner and scrubbed the dirt off her back.

As she stood and removed herself from the bath, Prim went and fetched some soft, grey cotton pyjamas for her. After Effie had dried herself and dressed in her pyjamas, a man came and set a firm cast around the arm that was broken. In the other hand a canula was fitted and several bags hung- she assumed the fluids, electrolytes and antibiotics that were mentioned earlier. She battled her way through a disgusting trayful of mashed turnips so her body wouldn’t reject the food and then slept for a long, long time.

She came in and out of consciousness for a while, only rousing to use the toilet or eat her rations. The doctors became worried about her. She barely touched her paltry refeeding rations, and her appetite didn’t seem to be returning at all. When she was upped to a larger meal plan, she she would only eat half and then go straight back to sleep. On the eighth day, she woke and felt a small stirring of energy inside herself, so tiny she almost missed it, but there all the same. She stepped shakily out of bed and went into the bathroom. After she’d done her business, she turned to look at herself in the mirror. She had large hollows in her cheeks, and her eyes were still slightly sunken, but she didn’t actually look too bad. She showered herself and washed her face and then changed into the day clothes that had been sitting on her bedside table for a week. Her hair had dried into thick, glossy waves the colour of milk chocolate, but she’d never had it cut or styled, so it hung heavily around her face. She braided the two front sections and then pulled them away from her face and went to sit on her bead. When the nurse arrived with her very small portion of porridge, she quietly asked if she could have some more. As the nurse left to fulfil the request, she sighed deeply with relief.

It was a month later when Haymitch eventually surfaced from rehabilitation. She wasn’t fully weight restored, and her arm still had a cast, but the antibiotics had treated her infections well, and only the worst of the scrapes and bruises were still visible- tiny patches of ghostly yellow almost faded to nothing. She saw him first, but then again her hair made her look quite different, so she could forgive him looking straight past her. She had convinced the hairdresser in thirteen to cut thick, heavy bangs straight across her forehead, and her hair had ended up falling all the way to the bottom of her ribs in the end. It was her most defining feature by far, and he’d never seen it before. She called his name and saw the recognition dawn on his face after a second.

“Nice do, princess” he had mumbled gruffly, clearly trying his best to keep the upper hand

“Thank you, Haymitch” she replied with a clipped tone.

They stared at each other for a second and then broke into laughter. He reached down to hug her and she led him over to the table Katniss, Finnick, Annie and Prim were sat at. She laughed with them as she ate, and finally felt like it might turn out ok after all.

#the hunger games #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #hayffie #but only if you squint #Effie & Prim #I’m emphasising the ampersand #this is PLATONIC fellas #and if I see any of you making it romantic you’re going to time out #hurt comfort #primrose everdeen #thg series #thg

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tripleyeeet · 2 years

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WORRY ABOUT YOURSELF

SUMMARY: Steve wants to get to know you. The real you, but it’s hard when there’s an impending apocalypse and he sucks at talking to people he thinks are hot.

PAIRINGS: Steve Harrington & Gender Neutral Reader

WORD COUNT: 1K (ish)

WARNINGS: Minor spoilers for S4.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Hi, this is absolute shit... but it’s also the first thing I’ve properly written in nearly seven months so I’m, uh, a little rusty you could say. :’)

MASTERLIST

Steve can’t really admit to himself how attractive you look right now. Even with the blood and dirt smeared across your face. Honestly, just the sight of you, kneeling in front of him with wide, worried eyes has him sitting on the ground in a panic, wondering just how long his heart will remain intact as you move in closer. Because at this rate, it feels like his time is limited. His heart is a ticking clock and the moment it strikes twelve he’ll surely explode right in front of you; what with the way you’re staring and moving and oh fuck—

“Steve! Oh, my god, are you okay?”

As you reach to comfort him, he can’t help but notice how raw your voice sounds. How empty and honest the words feel tumbling out of your lips like a wave of unfamiliarity. It’s the kind of tone that makes him realize that this is the first time you’ve properly talked to him instead of at him. Which is something he isn’t expecting given the fact that you usually just order him around whenever there’s danger. Because outside of these circumstances —the ones with magic and monsters— you don’t have conversations with him. So, honestly, it’s a bit weird to hear the emotion and the way your voice cracks with this… uncertain vulnerability.

“I’m good. Real good. A solid ten out of—“

The pain shooting through the side of his abdomen deters his conversational skills, making him curse under his breath because, of course, he’s fucked this up. It’s all he ever does when it comes to life and girls and surviving long enough to save the world. Nowadays, it’s like he can’t do anything without being questioned or looked down upon —not since he graduated and his social status took a complete nose dive to the depths of Hell.

So, it’s not really a surprise when the next words out of your mouth are, “don’t move, stupid!”

Because he is stupid. Stupid for thinking he could just go on his own into Lover’s Lake and explore the gate. He isn’t El for god’s sake. He doesn’t have powers or even that great a shot like Nance. Really all he’s got is the charisma of a superstar and a god damn death wish —two things that should never mix.

“Steve, I said, stop moving!”

Great, now you’re scolding me, he thinks, but then he feels your hands push gently against his bare chest —pinning him down against the ground as you shake your head and scoff, making him realize:

“I, uh, I said that out loud… didn’t I?”

“Sure did, bud!” he hears Eddie announce, followed by the sound of Nancy and Robin sighing.

All of it’s enough to easily counteract the coolness of him obliterating that bat. Enough to make him close his eyes and silently groan as his mind begins to descend into a state of anxiety because he’d almost got you. The real you. Not the one who’s always out and about pretending to be calm and strong.

For a brief moment, Steve heard that tiny version of you they all have. The one stuck inside, screaming in fear of every waking moment ahead. It’s the version of himself he too swallows down every time a new threat emerges. It’s the same one that’s currently trying to claw its way up his throat, causing him to flinch every time he swallows or breathes or—

“Do you think you can walk?”

Now you’re practically on top of him, exploring the wound delicately with your fingers. Behind you, the others stand off to the side and talk amongst themselves, trying their best not to stare when Steve reaches for your hand to grasp your fingers to get you to stop.

“I just bit the head off a bat —pretty sure I can do anything right now.”

Rolling your eyes, you glance at the hand wrapped around your own but make no effort to tear it away, prompting Steve to grin.

“That’s just your adrenaline talking,” you tell him then, and he knows you’re right. He can feel the impact of it running through his veins, pushing all the much-needed chemicals to their designated spots in order to fuel him.

It makes him a bit lightheaded, if he’s honest. At least, that’s what he tells himself knowing the alternative. He did lose quite a bit of blood but obviously, he can’t focus on that because you’re right there, smirking with a pretty nasty bruise above your right eye.

“Adrenaline or not, I’m gonna make it, so don’t worry about me. Worry about yourself and how you’re gonna explain to everyone how you got that wicked shiner.”

Instinctively, you tear your hand away from his and move to touch it, flinching at the pain that suddenly appears upon contact.

“That bad, huh?”

You roll your eyes and move to stand, making Steve sigh and close his eyes because he’s done it. Again. That thing where he opens his mouth and speaks before he thinks and makes everything—

“How about instead of worrying about me and everyone else, you worry about yourself for a change?”

It’s a valid point. The kind that makes him both thankful and angry because, of course, you’re right. In the grand scheme of things, he only ever thinks of himself in selfish ways. Ways to look good and get ahead of everyone else. Not very often does he treat himself with any kindness. It’s all about keeping up appearances, whether it be acting like the dick he was in high school to hide his flaws or playing the hero to impress girls like Nancy.

In the end, all of it’s just a facade, in a way. Sure, he’ll always be a bit conceited and brash —an acquired taste to some, but to others maybe one day he could be considered kind. Selfless. A real stand-up guy. Maybe the kind you’d look to for comfort someday if he manages to survive the blood loss he’s currently facing.

#steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x gender neutral reader #steve harrington fan fic #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington angst #but only if you squint #stranger things fan fic #how does writing work again???#i've lost my sparkle

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hellsingmongrel · 2 months

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I feel like the Trigun fandom will truly appreciate this twee-ass donut box. 😆

#trigun #but only if you squint #I feel like I've seen this exact box in any number of trigun fanarts and I LOVE IT #Vash would also appreciate this twee-ass nonsense lbh he's a big ol' softie

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darsynia · 1 year

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Repeat After Me | Oneshot

(Tony Stark/Reader, Soulmate AU Canon Divergence 'Mob AU')

Summary: You're thriving in Loki's Empire as the most respected smuggler out there. You earned that reputation by remaining neutral, traveling between the city-states run by powerful Magnates like Loki's thrall Tony Stark in NYC or the relocated Wilson Fisk in Miami. It's lucrative business, but the real reason you have to stay moving is written on your arm.

Length | Rating: 3,635 | T (for language)

Notes: Set ten years after Loki successfully mind controlled Tony Stark and took over the world in 2012. My tongue-in-cheek take on a mobster-style AU, series potential if folks are interested.

THIS IS MY VOTE FOR 'SOULMATES' IN ROUND 1 OF TROPE MADNESS 2023 which is run by @thestanceyg! (note: also posted on AO3, same title tho!)

Also written for @caplanbuckybarnes's Three Words Challenge, using 'Don't look back.'

Tags: @ronearoundblindly @chickensarentcheap @themaradaniels @starksbf @tiny-anne @starryeyes2000 @my-soulmate-is-mycroft

Repeat After Me

You might be the only person who has both soulmate Words written on your body.

Repeat after me: don’t look back.

At first, you’d found them comforting. After all, they’re predictable in a way almost no one else’s Words are: if you’re right about them, it means you can choose whether to speak those fateful Words aloud. Then Loki came with his Chitauri army, and everything changed.

It’s been ten years since Lord Loki became the ruler of the world; ten years of societal restructure and bleak acquiescence. It turns out that humans are well adapted to be ruled, just as he’d said-- but perhaps not quite in the way he’d intended. Everyone has figured out their own way to survive, whether it’s in one of the densely populated city-states, the agricultural backwaters, or the uneasy suburban sprawl that straddles both extremes.

You’re one of the few who can travel easily through all three, and you pride yourself on that. Pre-Empire, you’d been a top exec at a shipping company, and your talent for managing large egos, ability to memorize maps, and knowledge of machinery was easily translated to a life as a smuggler. Your top rule? You do not take sides. Ever. It’s what made you successful, what kept you alive.

And no one knows the real reason.

“Zephyr, how long before you head out?”

You’re half-in, half-out of your truck, the open door heavy on your ass thanks to all the armor plating. “Weather looks like it’s gonna hold for another hour and a half, I was thinking forty-five minutes?” you guess, squinting up through the tint on the upper part of the windshield.

“Got time to meet with a potential?” Karl laughs at your obvious groan, adding, “Fancy suit says D.C., maybe New York. Probably shouldn’t risk skipping.” You trust your second in command, even if you don’t want to take his advice. Karl Mordo is pragmatic, honest, and a baronic pain in your ass sometimes.

“Fuck. Okay. But I’m going right now, before I de-grease for the trip.” You hop down and hold up your dirty hands, wiggling your fingers.

“What if they’re from Stark?”

You clench your jaw. “His people should know better, even after two years. We just did Fisk a favor, maybe he’ll remind Loki’s strongman that there’s a reason he relocated to Miami.”

Karl nods and heads back to the house, and as soon as he’s gone, you hold still and count to ten to calm your breathing. Tony Stark rules the northeast with a literal iron fist, and no one’s sure whether the mind control has turned him cruel or he’d been released years ago and just likes it. Only people Stark trusts have been close enough to know for sure.

Despite your reputation for neutrality, a few years back he’d sent his clever and ruthless ex-turned-CFO Pepper Potts to ask you to spy on some of the biggest players on the Eastern Seaboard.

It had been the first time you’d gotten close enough to see the electric blue of Loki’s mind control first-hand. Her threats had been articulate and terrifying, but your response ended up having a lasting effect on the way Lord Loki does his business. Word is that the emperor includes additional spells and enchantments to prevent a simple blow to the head from releasing a thrall and undoing years of work.

You still get messages from Potts, filtered heavily by word of mouth, through the Resistance.

When you get up onto the porch, you note with approval that someone’s already gotten the burly, suited visitor some sweet tea. He turns around, and your heart sinks as you recognize him from news articles. Tony Stark’s sweet-faced associate, Happy Hogan.

“Zephyr, is it?” he says warmly, reaching out a hand to shake. You offer him your left hand, and he immediately grins. You wear a binding on your right forearm, and it’s basically an open secret that your Words are there. Words you’ve made very clear you intend to remain a secret, on pain of death. “We have a job for you.”

“That’s truly unfortunate,” you say with a smile. “Your boss burned that bridge years ago. All I have is my integrity, I’m sure you understand.” Leaning up against one of the porch pillars, you send all of your anxiety to your legs, to hold you up and maintain the illusion that you’re not distressed. “Since you’ve come all this way, I can offer to connect you to one of the reputable smaller orgs.”

“Interesting you mention integrity. Did you know your right hand man is a known member of the Resistance?” Hogan’s tone is light, almost teasing.

You do your very best not to react, but on its face, you doubt the accusation. Karl had come to you deeply disillusioned by the Resistance, after working with them openly for a year, spending double that in prison, and being released with an interdict that prevented any employment but fieldwork. By the time you brought him in, he was full of quiet fury and determination to survive. The money you spent to clear his interdict was some of the easiest you’ve ever spent.

“I assume you have newer information than 2013?”

Hogan pulls an envelope from his lapel pocket and hands it over. Inside is a set of pictures showing Mordo speaking with and shaking the hand of Steve Rogers, the most wanted man on the continent. Karl’s hair has only been in that particular style for a few months.

You hand them back, keeping your hand steady. “If you can point and shoot pictures, why not point and shoot that particular problem?” The question is important to your public front, but you also want to know what kind of answer you get, whether it’ll be something you want to pass along.

“One step at a time,” Hogan says, walking over to you. He stops only inches away, a physical power play that masks the psychological threat.

“Which step are you on?”

“The one where you come with me to speak to Stark in person, or we reveal how thin your claims of neutrality really are.”

You nod as though you’re considering it, then say, “What if I dismantled everything and moved to Arizona? Started over.” It’ll sound like a joke, but you’ve considered it. You want nothing to do with Stark.

“You’re welcome to make that decision after the meeting.” The guy’s so confident he slides his hands into his pockets, fully relaxed except for the way his pulse is jumping in his neck. There’s zero chance that Hogan’s anxious because of you, so that means it’s important to his future that you leave with him today. If you have to, you’ll use that.

“You act like meeting with Stark won’t destroy my reputation just as much as your false accusations would,” you point out.

Happy Hogan shrugs. “Stark is prepared to offer you one alternative. Meet with him or give us a credible way to contact Pepper Potts.”

You want to swear under your breath, but instead, you channel all your frustration into a single act of defiance. Lifting your grease-stained right hand, you press it right in the center of his chest, fingers spread so you get his white button-down and both lapels.

Then you shove, letting your hand slip against the resistance he immediately puts up to avoid moving backwards and show weakness. You would have expected anger, maybe even to be thrown to the ground, but Hogan just chuckles. It’s dismissive, diminishing, and does nothing to lower your level of fury. Especially not since he’s got you over a barrel.

You push past him toward the house. “I’m sending Mordo with my load. Your guys fuck with him and I’ll tear down every fucking thing you’ve built or die trying.” Given the clout you’ve accumulated in the last decade, which one depends on whether the emperor is in town to shield his pet Avenger or not.

You hadn’t told Hogan you’re coming with. You both know you have to.

The flight to New York City is stressful, but most of that is because you know how much effort and care it takes to maintain a fleet of airplanes. Now that flights are nearly all restricted to just the Magnates, you doubt the due diligence of their maintenance teams. This is reinforced when you land and walk down a presidential-style rolling staircase instead of into the abandoned airport. It’s hard not to think of what air travel could do for your business. One flight would take so much food from one place to another-- but the safety margins are horrifying.

“What’s with the face?” Happy Hogan asks, after the two of you get into the waiting limo.

“Just imagining how much work it would be to get an orange to Maine nowadays.”

“You don’t have to live in Georgia, you know. The offer’s always open.”

“Fuck your offer, and fuck you,” you say coolly, crossing your arms and looking out the window. There’s a non-zero chance he’ll kill you, but you’ve got a trick up your sleeve that might just carry the kind of irony that would make even a man as powerful as Tony Stark cry. It’s the reason why Hogan wants Potts back, the reason she won’t go, not while he’s in Loki’s thrall.

Midgard hadn’t been interesting enough for the trickster god. No, he’d grown bored by the way most of his new subjects had responded to his rule. Too many of you had accepted that you weren’t strong enough to resist him, and so, with the power granted to him by the staff he always carried, Lord Loki had bestowed each soulmate pair on the planet a random power set.

Pepper Potts and Happy Hogan’s version had been the ability to detect lies.

Tony Stark’s inability to find his soulmate had been newsworthy before the attack on New York, but now that he’s the de facto ruler of the place, his search has become an obsession.

It’s the reason you live in Georgia, the reason you wear the distinctive binding around your right forearm, the reason you’d balanced yourself on the knife-edge of neutrality instead of choosing a side that’s not Stark’s and then leaving yourself vulnerable to being discovered.

Stark’s Words are well known: ‘Don’t look back.’

Ironically, you don’t think he has connected your well-known quirk about protecting your forearm with his soulmate search. He wants you because Lord Loki wants Pepper Potts’ lie detecting powers, and Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff’s soulmate bond is keeping her hidden. Karl Mordo has forsworn his connection to the Mystic Arts, but a man will do many things to prevent his own death, including oathbreaking, so instead of putting pressure on him, they’ll put pressure on you.

And somehow, you’re going to have to resist without speaking a word.

The car is underground when it stops. You nod at Hogan in thanks for his hand as you exit the vehicle, and he cocks his head to the side and looks at you.

“Passive resistance, eh? Good luck.” He leads you through a warren of hallways, stairwells, and locked doors. This display of strength is clearly designed to intimidate and/or give you time to think and fear what comes next, but you wonder whether it’s annoying to Hogan. Undoubtedly he’d be taking the short way if it weren’t for this task, and that kind of time-wasting adds up.

Sure enough, the last leg of the trip is an elevator ride. The doors open out into the wide expanse of the penthouse, a rich space with wall-to-wall windows looking out over the city. A man in a well-fitting white suit walks out from behind a bar area, and you recognize him to be Tony Stark himself. Instead of a tie, the signature blue of his arc reactor glows against the buttons of his shirt, and as he approaches you, you see that it’s matched by the blue tint of mind control in his eyes.

That knowledge is dangerous; already, this man’s leverage over you has doubled. You wonder what you’ll have to promise to get out of here alive.

Tony Stark stops a foot away and looks you over. His brown-blue eyes linger on your right arm, and as you’d planned during your pseudo perp-walk, you shift into a challenging pose, popping your hip out and lifting your chin. Stark’s lips curve into an appreciative smile. It’s attractive, he’s attractive, and you’re annoyed that you’ve even noticed. Everything about him exudes the confidence of a man who is never challenged, and that’s always been your catnip, your kryptonite. You love to bust egos, it could even be said that you live for popping that bubble. This man might be the first one you’ve ever met whose arrogance is well-deserved, though, and that could be a problem.

He gestures, and behind you, Hogan answers.“No weapons that we found, multiple scans.”

Ah, so the many doorways and long hallways had more than one purpose, you think to yourself. Well played. You stay still and expressionless as Stark looks you up and down, eyes lingering on your chest and your arm. He lifts his glass in an appreciative salute before finishing off his drink. Something about the way his throat works makes you feel the burn of the alcohol in your own chest.

“What’s under the armguard?”

“A nasty burn. Sunlight makes it worse.” It’s the truth-- you’d tried to burn off the words as soon as you’d heard about Tony Stark’s search for his soulmate. The magic of the mark protects it, so all you’d managed to do was destroy the skin around it, causing a wound that never fully healed. The vambrace you wear is for concealment, yes, but it’s also there to keep the damaged skin protected and dry. You turn your head and direct a grumpy look at Hogan. “To be honest, this whole meeting could have been an email. What is it that you two want?”

Before you can stop him, Stark steps forward and slides his hand into the hair at the nape of your neck, forcing you to meet his eyes. With a fierce, determined expression, he says, “Repeat after me: don’t look back.”

You can feel the strength in every single aspect of the man, voice, personality, grip, but that just fuels your need to fight back. With all your might, you manage to shake your head just enough to convey your refusal.

Tony Stark’s expression lights up. You realize your mistake immediately: if it didn’t mean something, if the words weren't important, you would have had no trouble repeating them. A million impossible escape routes spill out like marbles in your mind, scattering every other thought.

“Go on, Hap. Keep this to yourself for now,” Stark says. The triumph in his voice is as frightening as it is sexy.

“You got it, boss.”

You fight back a strong feeling of desperate inevitability. Really, your only hope now is to wrench free and follow your contingency plan: to say the words and play them off, avoiding the physical contact that reinforces the bond. If you can convince this man that you planned to trick him into thinking you’re his soulmate, you might still get out of here with your free will intact.

That’ll be easier to do without Hogan there, so you force yourself to remain still. Stark sweeps a broad, warm caress along your neck with his thumb, and god, it’s been so, so long since anyone’s touched you like that. There’s something insidious about it, like some part of you is already lost to him if you enjoy it even a little bit. All you can do is close your eyes, clench your fists, and wait.

The elevator doors close, and Stark starts pulling his hand away, stroking your neck possessively on the way. You do your very best not to like it. In truth, Tony Stark the billionaire, Tony Stark the Avenger was absolutely your type. You imagine that after ten years of mind control and cruelty, there’s probably little of that man left.

“You might as well say it,” he tells you with a smug little quirk in his voice. You open your eyes to see that Stark’s headed back to the bar. “Got a favorite drink?” You shake your head. “You strike me as a Tequila Sunrise type. Fun to look at, goes down easy.”

You cross your arms and glare at him, but it was a cute line for such a tense situation. Wrong, but cute.

Stark gestures to you with the Tequila bottle. “So, what, did you think you’d just stay quiet and run back home to Georgia? Happy says it didn’t take much persuading.”

You smile at him, but not warmly. One thing you hadn’t considered was that Stark might be pleased, might be looking forward to the other… perks of having a soulmate. That might make him more inclined to be kind to you, at least until you try to bluff him. You can use that.

“Don’t think I can’t see how furious you are, little one,” Stark purrs. “I’m still figuring you out, but I’ve had a file on you for years. You want to know what people say about you?”

He rests a large hand on a folder you hadn’t noticed before, pushes it across the bar in invitation. You shrug and turn your head to look out the window, the picture of indifference. You hope it pisses him the fuck off.

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s all trash now anyway, now that you’ve met with me.” Stark holds it up. “They’ll never trust you again.” He tosses it behind him. When it strikes the wall, the many single pages that made up the bulk of the file fly out around him like some kind of monstrous confetti, to the accompaniment of breaking glass. You wonder how many bottles he just wasted, whether they’re even replaceable in this brave new world you’re all trapped in.

You nod, feeling the weight of the coming moment. Mentally you gird yourself, but physically you try to adopt an attitude of casual discourtesy. You want Stark to hate his soulmark, to hate you, enough to send you away or destroy you.

Anything, anything but touch you again.

Letting out a sigh, you spread your hands in a ‘what can you do?’ gesture and say, “Don’t look back.”

The words strike him, so much so that he chuckles ruefully on an indrawn breath. A bitter disappointment sweeps across his face before it hardens into anger. You're grateful; you'd expected something-- a thunderclap, a rush of adrenaline, a gust of magical wind, but there’s nothing to indicate that you’ve both said the Words. Maybe, maybe, you can get out of this, if you’re careful. If you’re just the right level of heinous bitch.

“Did you practice that?” Stark finally says. He walks out from around the bar, and you take the opportunity to make your way over to the window, the picture of unconcerned, unattached, unbothered.

“What do you want, Mr. Stark?” Shit, your voice is shaking.

“I want a challenge,” he snaps, his voice closer than you expected. He’s just a foot away, and you can’t hide your shock fast enough. “You think that file was just for show? I read the whole thing.”

“Then you know I don’t want to be here. I have a business to run, a business you’ve fucked over with--” you back away in the guise of making a dismissive, furious gesture; “--whatever this is. What do you want, so I can get the fuck out of here?”

“What’s wrong, pet? Foot caught in a trap?” he asks, tone suddenly gentle, soothing. You scoff, turning on your heel to stalk away from him--but Stark reaches out swiftly and catches your hand in his.

A jolt of pleasure-fueled electricity floods you with an almost overwhelming need for closeness, companionship-- to be known. It's as if until this exact moment, you’d been empty, and you gasp, screaming against the sudden, insidious desires that have cropped up in your mind.

Oh god, no, this is too much, this is--

What you don’t expect is for Stark to answer.

Oh FUCK yes, telepathy. My second favorite superpower, right after flight.

You snatch your hand away and fall back onto the window, eyes wide. Stark shakes his head almost imperceptibly, then throws both hands in the air as if in disgust.

“You really had me, but there’s just… nothing. I should toss you off of the roof, you know that, right? Faking soulmark words? Ballsy.” He twitches his lips as though he can’t decide whether to be angry or not, and steps closer. “Hold out your hand?”

There’s vulnerability in his expression, something you hadn’t at all expected to see, but you are still reeling from what had passed between the two of you. Tony Stark is one of the smartest men on the planet, and certainly one of the most ruthless. He’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants-- and it’s well known that every inch of his penthouse is under surveillance, not to mention whatever Lord Loki has monitoring his most powerful thrall.

Just like the words written on both of you, neither of you can look back.

Sullenly, you lift your hand, and immediately, Stark engulfs it in an angry grip.

Okay here’s how this is going to go: Do as I say, and we can keep this our little secret. Resist me and I’ll tell Loki I’ve finally found my soulmate. Believe me, you do not want anything to do with what he has in store for us.

Possibly TBC if there's interest...

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