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peterrparrkerr · 3 years

Text

Hit mad falls in love with target - read on ao3

*-*

Peter waved frantically at Tony when he walked into the lab, eyes glued to a computer screen.

"Tony, quick! Look!" He demanded, nearly vibrating in his chair.

Tony made his way over, hands clasped behind his back as he leaned over Peter's shoulder.

"Isn't it awesome?" The young man asked, waving his hands around.

"What am I looking at?" Tony asked.

"Its cancer," Peter said. He points to different colored lines in the graph, all jagged and fluctuating. "This is breast cancer, and this one is pancreatic, skin, lung."

Tony hums as Peter continues to list each colored line as a different form of cancer.

"I was able to isolate the individual cells from everything else, and- look, look!"

Peter snatches Tony by the shirt sleeve and tugs him from one monitor to the one on the other side of the lab. He taps his fingers on the screen, bouncing on his heels.

"These are the cells after being treated with non-radioactive therapy," Peter said, looking up at Tony. "The number of cancer cells is cut in half within a week!"

Peter then drags Tony across the lab again, babbling excitedly as he does so. "Do you know what this means? This means we can start human testing! And we can market the treatment for practically nothing!"

He shows Tony a live feed of the treatment in action from a TV monitor.

"Think about the possibilities," Peter grinned. "Anyone can get treated, no matter their financial standing. And the treatment isn't as harmful as chemo or radiation. It doesn't attack the body as a whole, it isolates the cancer cells and leaves the rest of the body alone.

"No more hair loss or side effects. And we could cut remission in half too," Peter said. "Just think, this time next year, we could start selling to hospitals all over the world."

Tony smiles down at the younger man. He had known within the first day of meeting Peter that he wouldn't be able to follow through. He's glad he hadn't.

"Have you told anybody else?" He asks casually.

"Ned knows," Peter said. "And Bruce, but they were here when it happened."

"Where are they now?"

Peter gives Tony a wry smile, still too excited about his treatment working.

"I sent them home a couple hours ago," he said. "We've all been awake for almost three days, so I'm sure they've gone to bed already."

"You should be in bed too, don't you think?" Tony asked, raising an eyebrow.

Peter waves him off, shaking his head as he goes to his work desk. "I'll sleep later," he said, pulling his lab coat off and draping it over the chair.

He's dressed in his usual outfit; comfortable pants and a button up.

"Plus, I knew you'd make your rounds around this time, and I wanted to tell you," Peter said with a grin, grabbing his personal items.

That was part of Tony's cover. A janitor for the building Peter worked for. Hes wearing a navy blue jump suit, though he's left the cart out in the hallway.

"I'll walk you to your car," Tony hums, leading the way out. When he'd first started this, he'd offered his company to get closer to Peter -to find his vulnerabilities.

Now though, he does it because he's protecting the young scientist.

He'd skipped out with 45 thousand dollars paid to kill the boy, but as the days had gone on, and Peter had grown comfortable with him, Tony realized he couldn't steal him from the world.

Peter was incredible. He worked tirelessly to find a cure for cancer. He's already created a new insulin for diabetes that he's made available to everyone for only $10 a month -something not many other medical professionals liked.

Peter was making enemies left and right, and Tony decided to make it his job to keep him breathing. If not for the rest of his life, then for as long as it takes for the young scientist to see an end to cancer.

The boy wasn't getting much in terms of money for his creations. In fact, from what Tony's come to learn, the boy doesn't own a car, and rents an apartment with his aunt.

He sees enough to live paycheck to paycheck and this new treatment won't do much to better his life, but he's not concerned with money. He wants to make Healthcare more effective and affordable.

Tony's got morals. Enough of them to know when a hit is a bad investment. That didn't stop him from taking his payment anyway.

The two make it to the car park. Its dark, the overhead lights buzzing annoyingly. Its empty, save for a couple cars belonging to a few of the security guards, and the car Peter shares with his aunt.

It's an older model, grey paint chipping and metal beneath rusting near the wheels. Peter talks animatedly beside him, lands flailing in front of him.

Tony glances around them, scowling as he takes in the familiar cement structure.

"Wait," Tony says, just as Peter's pulling the keys from his pocket. They're a couple feet away from the car, and the hairs on Tony's arms and neck stand on end.

"What is it?" Peter asked curiously, reaching for the door handle.

It's just as Peter grips the handle that Tony sees the wire connected to the metal lock on the other side of the glass.

Tony is quick to react, grabbing Peter by the arms and wrenching him away from the door.

Peter yelps in surprise, but its cut out by the sound of a small explosion. Tony braces for the blast of air that knocks the two off their feet, and grits his teeth at the heat that follows.

Peter's pressed against the cement, Tony weighing down on him. His ears ring, but he quickly gets to his feet, unzipping his jumpsuit and grabbing the .9 mm from the waistband of his jeans.

The car is ablaze, crackle-popping and sizzling. Its just the cab thats on fire, but Tony knows its only a matter of seconds before the flames reach the engine and the fuel line.

Tony looks around him, trying to find the culprit -though he knows from experience that the man won't be here.

He grabs Peter by the armpits and pulls him to his feet. Blood smears against his forehead and jaw. His hands and arms are scraped up and Tony can tell his knees are busted too, but it doesn't look like anything damaging.

"We gotta go," Tony urges, already half dragging the younger back towards the building.

"You-you have a gun," Peter gapes, stumbling after Tony, arm in the older's hard grip. "Why do you have a gun?"

Tony reaches the door for the stairwell.

"I'm a hired gun," Tony said, glancing up, then down, gun following his eyeline before pushing Peter towards the stairs going up.

"I thought you were a janitor," Peter gasped, climbing the stairs and swaying. Tony places his free hand on Peter's lower back.

"Thats just a front," Tony confessed. "We got to get you out of here."

"Someone blew up my car," Peter said, panting as they continue up to the first floor. "Aunt May is gonna kill me."

"Not if Buck doesn't kill you first," Tony grunted, pulling Peter out of the stairwell and into the main lobby.

Tony's car is around the side of the building, but its open to attack. Tony can't keep Peter trapped inside the building though, so he risks it.

Their feet slap loudly on the asphalt as they run for the nondescript black SUV Tony had taken to driving.

He checks around the vehicle, under and inside before issuing Peter into the back seat.

Tires screech as Tony peels out of the parking lot.

"What- whats happening? Tony, what- why do-"

"Someones trying to kill you, Peter," Tony said, blowing past the guard tower at the exit of the parking lot.

"But why?" Peter asked dumbly, voice slurring slightly as more blood turns the side of his face crimson.

"I'll answer all your questions when we're safe," Tony promised, eyes frantically shifting from the area ahead of him to the rear view mirror.

Peter must really be feeling the effects of his head slamming into the concrete, because he doesn't protest.

"Lay down," Tony orders, merging into traffic and slowing down. "Lay low until I say."

Peter does -Tony thinks mostly because of his head injury. Tony relaxes a little, knowing the scientist won't be gunned down in the back seat.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Somewhere safe," Tony answered, keeping an eye behind him.

He doesn't see a tail, but he takes a round-about way to his safe house, just outside of Queens.

When they get to the small cabin, Tony checks the building before helping Peter inside.

"I think I have a concussion," Peter mumbles, swaying on his feet as Tony guides him to the kitchen chair.

"I don't doubt it," Tony agrees, setting his gun down on the table beside Peter's elbow before grabbing the first aid kit.

He pulls another chair over in front of the young scientist and opens the red box.

"Let me see your hands," Tony orders. Peter does, palms up. Tony begins to clean them and his arms.

"Tony," Peter says, breaking the silence. Tony doesn't say anything. He reaches up to clean the blood from the side of Peter's cheek.

"Is your name actually Tony?"

Tony makes eye contact before nodding.

"And you're a hired gun?" Peter asks, slightly breathless. "Like, like a hitman?"

"Yes," Tony answers, reaching the cut on Peter's hairline. Peter winces, but doesn't pull away.

"You kill people for a living?"

"Yes."

It takes Peter a couple seconds, but it seems to hit him. Hes bolting to his feet, the chair clattering behind him.

Tony leans back into the chair, watching as Peter begins to pace.

"What- Tony, you have to tell me whats going on," Peter demands, hand on his head. Tony knows from experience that pacing tends to help the scientist expell excess energy.

"I will," Tony nods. Peter continues his pacing. Back and forth beside the kitchen counter.

"Why- why are people trying to kill me?" He demanded. "Who blew up my car?"

Tony sets the paper towels down on the table, knowing Peter won't sit still for him to properly tend to him.

"The one who blew up your car is another hitman," Tony said. "Goes by the name Winter Soldier."

"You called him Buck," Peter said, pointing an accusatory finger at Tony, eyes narrowed.

"I did," Tony nodded. "Hitmen tend to run in the same circles, though we don't always like each other. Bucky was probably hired to finish the job."

"Finish the job," Peter repeated dumbly. "I'm the job?"

Tony nods, once more letting Peter process. He knew Peter would figure it out without Tony's help. He was smart.

"Finish the job means someone already tried to- to kill me," Peter said, panting as he continued to pace. The wound at his hairline is bleeding sluggishly, dripping down his temple and towards his jaw.

Peter wipes at it without thought, smearing blood against his cheek. He pauses to look down at his hand, fingers glistening in red.

He touches his forehead again, as if remembering he's still injured, then turns to Tony, accusation and fear in his Bambi brown eyes.

"You," he said softly, in disbelief. "You were hired to kill me, weren't you."

"I was," Tony nodded.

"But you haven't," Peter said. Tony can practically see the gears turning behind his eyes. "And, and now whoever hired you hired the Winter Soldier."

Tony only nods. Peter takes a shuddering inhale and has to grip the counter with a bloody hand to stabilize himself.

"I'm- I'm- who- who would want to-to kill me?!"

"The payment was anonymous," Tony said. "Thats how it works. But whoever it is is threatened by you."

Peter looks at Tony incredulously. "Me? Why me? I'm the least threatening person -like- ever!"

"You've cost Big Pharma millions with your insulin," Tony said. "You've patented it, so they can't take it and upcharge the way they've been doing. And if your treatment for cancer is a success, you'd be costing them even more."

Peter takes a moment to process that before he nods. "Right, yeah. I knew I was going to make a lot of people mad about that, but. But I never expected anyone to actually try to kill me."

"Money is a powerful motive," Tony said, a little too much experience leaking into his tone.

Peter hears it, because he stops his pacing, shoulders dropping. Exhaustion seems to pull him towards the floor like an anvil tied to his spine.

He sways a little, and Tony's about to offer him the chair again, but he moves to it willingly. When he sits, their knees are barely touching, and he blinks dazedly at his bloody hand.

Tony grabs a clean rag and leans forward to clean up the blood from Peter's head. The younger lets him, still processing and no doubt sluggish from the concussion.

"Why didn't you?" Peter asked after Tony had taped gauze to his hairline. It was patchy and poorly done, but it would help.

"Why didn't I what," Tony hummed, using an alcoholic wet wipe to clean the remaining blood from Peter's hands. The boy winces at the burn to his scraped palms.

"Kill me," he said, swallowing thickly. "You had plenty of opportunity."

Tony sighed, setting the wipes down before leaning forward and looking Peter in the eye.

"Because I believe in the work you're doing," he said honestly. "And I'm going to make sure you finish it."

Peter blinks once, twice, before breaking eye contact and sighing, body eating to melt into the chair as the air leaves his lungs.

"Come on," Tony said, standing up and slipping the gun into the waistband of his pants. Then offering his hand. "This place is safe. Theres a bed you can sleep in."

"I shouldn't sleep with a concussion," Peter said weakly, taking Tony's offered hand anyway.

"Its mild, I'm sure you'll be fine," Tony mused, heading deeper into the cabin to the bedroom.

The bedroom isn't anything special. A twin bed in the corner, a four drawer dresser and a blackout curtain.

Peter climbs onto the bed, not bothering with the covers or taking his shoes off. Tony thinks its best he sleep with them on anyway, in case Bucky finds them.

Tony moves to leave, grabbing the handle, and Peter bolts upright again, eyes wide.

"You're okay," Tony promises. "I'll be right outside."

Peter gives the barest shake of his head. "Stay here, please," he says softly.

Tony nods, shutting the door and turning off the light before making his way to the side of the bed. Theres an old step stool there, and he sits down at the head of the bed.

Peter lays back down, body too tense to ever fall asleep. Tony keeps his ears attuned to any noise that could alert him to Bucky, or anyone else, gun sitting perfectly stop on his knee, finger off the trigger, but ready at a moments notice.

"Tony?"

"Yes, Peter."

Peter shuffles around, and Tony turns his head just in time to feel pillow soft lips connect with the corner of his mouth.

He can't help but smirk as Peter settles back down. "Thanks for not killing me."

Tony chuckles at that, leaning his head against the wall. "I may be a hitman, but I've got morals," he says into the dark room. "Besides, nobody likes cancer."

Peter laughs tiredly at that before reaching his hand out and grabbing Tony's. Their fingers interlock, and Tony doesn't really know which one of them initiated it.

"You're going to be okay," Tony continued. "I wont let anyone hurt you. You're safe with me."

"I know."

#marvel #tony stark #peter parker #ironman #starker #spiderman #my writing #ao3 #sfsummerbingo21

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today-only-happens-once · 4 years

Text

(un)claimed

Title: unclaimed

Summary: Virgil is a demigod. The good news is that he is not alone. A Percy-Jackson!AU fic. Platonic/found-family DRLAMP dynamics.

Word Count: 4217

Warnings: some violence and weapons, Greek mythology, passing mention of curses, feelings of anxiety, some self-doubt and self-deprecation, parent issues (of course, it’s a pjo!AU), no Side is a bad guy but there’s some tension between Remus and Roman, I play a little loose with PJO timeline stuff woops, Janus has done some light antagonizing of the gods.

A/N: Honestly, it should surprise nobody that I wrote this. Heh. Just for fun to release the happy chemical in my brain. Not that deep or involved. Just a light little diddy. <3 Hope you enjoy! Edited by yours truly so all mistakes are mine. No tags because it’s a fandom-specific AU, not because I don’t love y’all. <3

///

“See that tree on the hill?”

Virgil quirks an eyebrow at the boy beside him, taking in his bright orange t-shirt and the three beads on his leather necklace. He has what Virgil would swear was snake scales across the left side of his face. Janus, he had said his name was. (Like the god? Virgil had asked. No relation. Not unless Athena has some explaining to do, the boy had told him with a wry smile as if that was somehow supposed to make sense.)

He’d met Janus four hours ago in New York in Central Park after a very weird encounter with a cyclops. Though if he’s being honest, the cyclops had only been the most recent run-in with vicious creatures out of his mother’s old Greek myth anthology. He’d been ducking and dodging and outrunning them for nearly a year at this point. Janus had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, sliced the cyclops with a dagger and it vanished in a puff of gold dust.

Then Janus told him he knew a safe place to go. Perhaps he was an idiot, but Virgil had followed without much objection. The idea of a place that was safe was nearly too good to be true, but Janus had just dusted a cyclops. And Virgil figured there was at least some power in numbers, if nothing else.

Virgil follows where the other boy is pointing and sees a tall pine tree at the top of the steep hill. He nods.

“Go there. You’ll see a camp in the valley. Chiron will explain.”

“Chiron?”

“Yes. Activities director. You can trust him.”

“You’re not coming too?” Virgil looks at the boy beside him again. Janus is looking in the opposite direction of the tree back the way they’d come and he yanks the dagger out of his belt.

Janus’s mouth twitches. “We’ve got company. I will hold them off. The border is protected. You’ll be safe once you cross the tree line.”

Alarmed, Virgil looks over his shoulder and sees a winged creature in the distance. It looks almost a like a bat, if a bat could be the size of a human person. “What is that?!”

Janus gives a slight shove to Virgil’s shoulder. “Run, Virgil!”

“I can’t leave you behind—”

Janus mutters something that sounds foreign, and yet Virgil understands it. A curse word in… was that ancient Greek? Virgil isn’t given time to process it before Janus grabs Virgil’s arm and takes off at a sprint up the hill. Virgil stumbles but he manages to keep his feet under him as he takes off at a run for the looming pine. As they get closer, Virgil chances a glance over his shoulder. The winged creature is maybe twenty yards away. It’ll be on them any second.

Janus whistles sharply. “Hey! We got incoming!”

Seemingly out of nowhere, three other kids appear from near the tree. One of them notches an arrow in an honest-to-gods bow. He aims, then releases. Virgil watches, stunned, as the blow strikes true and the winged creature vanishes in a puff of gold dust that gets caught in the breeze.

Virgil rests his hands on his knees as he catches his breath. Janus, beside him, is breathing hard as well but he nods to the kid with the bow and arrow.

“Nice shot,” Virgil tells him.

The kid looks to be maybe a year older than Virgil, and is wearing a t-shirt that matches Janus’s. He’s also got a necklace of beads, though his has five of them. Virgil realizes that some of them match Janus’s, plus a few more. He slings the bow across his back and flashes Virgil a bright grin.

“Thanks! I’m Sloane.” He extends his hand.

“Virgil.” He shakes the kid’s hand.

Sloane nods to the other two kids that had materializes near him. One of them is a girl that looks a little younger than Virgil, maybe 14, with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. The other is a guy in a backwards baseball cap and a plaid shirt over the orange tee that looks about Sloane’s age. His necklace only has one bead on it.

“This is Valerie,” Sloane introduces. “She’s from Cabin 10. And this is Kai. He’s from Cabin 9.”

“Sloane,” Janus interrupts. “Where’s Chiron?”

Sloane jerks his head down the hill. “In the Big House with the lead counselors.”

Virgil watches Janus’s brow furrow. “Seems unusual. Did something happen?”

Valerie sighs. “Kind of. Dionysus gave one of his kids a quest. Counselors are meeting about the prophecy to see who is going.”

Janus’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Which one?”

“Jack. The prophecy mentions a death. That never bodes well, and kids aren’t exactly lining up to work for Mr. D.”

Janus hums thoughtfully, his eyes trailing over the crest of the hill. Virgil watches as he shoves the knife into his belt. Kai cocks his head slightly, studying Virgil closely. Then, he looks at Janus. “Has he been claimed?”

Virgil frowns. “Claimed?”

“No,” Janus tells Kai, then looks to Virgil. “Follow me. I’ll explain as we walk.”

Janus nods to the other three and Virgil follows him down to the valley below. From this vantage point, Virgil sees the cabins Janus has been talking about, forming something like a horseshoe shape. In front of it is a large building that Virgil assumes is the ‘Big House’ that Sloane had mentioned. He sees other buildings and structures, but decides to wait to ask about them.

People mill around, most of them wearing the orange t-shirt that has a winged horse and the words Camp Half-Blood printed on them. When they notice Virgil, most of them throw a curious glance to Janus. Janus doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Welcome to Camp Half-Blood,” Janus says as they walk. “It’s one of the few safe spaces left for demigods like us.”

“Wait,” Virgil says, certain that he heard Janus incorrectly. “Demigod?”

Janus glances at him. “Hm. I gather you really don’t know very much. Yes, demigod. Half-god, half-mortal.”

“And you think I’m one of these, uh, half-bloods?” Virgil shakes his head. “Listen, I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”

Janus looks almost amused now, an eyebrow arching almost like a challenge. “You couldn’t have gotten across the border into camp if you weren’t. Let me guess… you have ADHD and dyslexia.”

“Wh—I mean, yes, but—”

“You were raised by either a single parent or no parent at all,” Janus continues.

“My mom, until—”

“You see things others either don’t see or don’t remember.”

“I—”

“Please. Do stop me if I’m wrong.”

Virgil falls silent, his chest a bit tight. He crosses his arms over his chest as they walk.

Janus waits for a beat before he elaborates, sounding like it’s a spiel he’s given a dozen times already. “The ADHD is the battle reflexes. Dyslexia is because your brain is wired for ancient Greek, not modern English.”

Virgil’s mind is reeling. “But—”

“The things you see are because you’re a demigod. You are able to see things as they are. Mortals—most mortals—get deceived by this thing called the Mist. Someday, with training, you’ll be able to manipulate it as well. It’s a useful skill.”

Virgil feels suddenly way too hot, and yet still has the sudden desire to pull the hood of his hoodie up over his hair. “Demigod,” he repeats, though saying it aloud doesn’t help it make sense. “Are… Are you telling me that my dad is a god? Like a Greek god? Zeus? Apollo? Those guys?”

Janus glances at him and looks, for a split second, almost apologetic. “I understand that it’s a lot to take in at once. This is why Chiron usually takes the initiation. He usually has a more, ah, sensitive means of broaching the subject. But since he’s meeting with the lead counselors, I’m afraid the responsibility falls to me.”

Virgil blinks. He can feel the pressure in his chest building and he forces himself to take a breath. It doesn’t help as much as he’d been hoping it would. “Which one?”

“Hm?”

“Which god is my dad?”

They’re passing in front of the Big House now. There’s two people standing on the front porch—a blonde girl holding a Yankees cap and a boy with a goatee leaning against the railing—seeming deep in conversation. The blonde girl offers Janus a small wave. Janus nods back.

“To your question, the answer is that we don’t know,” he says. “Since you haven’t been claimed yet, your guess is as good as ours. But you might be claimed any minute now, or never claimed at all. I was claimed three days after arriving at camp by Athena. But we have several campers who haven’t been claimed at all. Remy Short is one such example.”

“Athena. Goddess of wisdom and strategy,” Virgil remembers. He’d read that name in his mother’s library when he was younger. And he has a vague memory from sixth grade social studies.

“Indeed,” Janus replies. They circle around the house and Virgil realizes that Janus is leading him towards the semi-circle of cabins. “Since you haven’t been claimed yet, you’re designated to Cabin 11. Hermes’ cabin.”

“Janus!” A bright, cheerful voice calls from behind them. Janus stops and turns, and Virgil follows his gaze. A boy that looks about Virgil’s age, maybe a year older, is running towards them from the Big House. He’s got a flop of curly hair and big round glasses.

“Patton,” Janus greets as the boy slows to a stop near them. “Virgil, this is Patton. He’s the head of the Hermes cabin.”

Patton grins and holds out his hand. “Hi, Virgil. Welcome to Cabin 11. I’ll talk to Chiron about getting you some supplies—”

“I’ll talk to Chiron,” Janus interrupts as Virgil shakes Patton’s hand. “I need to ask him about some things anyway. Patton, could you—”

“For sure,” Patton agrees readily. “I’ll show Virgil around!”

Janus excuses himself and starts towards the Big House. Virgil rubs the back of his neck and offers Patton an awkward smile. Now that he’s closer, Virgil realizes that Patton is maybe an inch or so shorter than him. He’s got four beads on his necklace.

“How ya doing?” Patton asks him, startling him out of his thoughts. Virgil meets his eyes. Patton’s are a warm brown, and his smile is sympathetic. “I remember my first day at camp. It’s always overwhelming.”

Virgil huffs. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“You’ll love it here,” Patton says with a surprising amount of confidence.

Virgil arcs a skeptical eyebrow. “I’ve heard that before. I don’t seem to, ah, stay in one place very long.”

“Kicked out of school?” Patton guesses. He starts walking around the cabins and Virgil follows, slipping his hands into the pocket of his hoodie.

“Yeah. Several times.”

“We all have,” Patton says, not unkindly. “That’s the best thing about camp. In the mortal world, we’re all labeled as weird or outcasts. But at camp? We’ve all been through it. Oh! This is Cabin 10. Aphrodite’s cabin.”

Patton walks Virgil around the semi-circle, explaining each cabin’s assigned deity. He adds that Cabins 1 through 3 are empty, though apparently there was a girl that used to be in Cabin 1—Zeus’s cabin—who joined the Hunters of Artemis and left camp. Cabin 2 was Hera’s, and since she didn’t have children, the cabin was mostly honorary. Cabin 3 usually had a kid in it, but he apparently was on some kind of recon mission and wouldn’t return for another day or two. Cabin 8—Aretmis’s cabin—is also, usually, empty except when the Hunters visit.

“Since you don’t know who your dad is, you get to bunk with us at the Hermes Cabin,” Patton explains. “We take all unclaimed kids, since Hermes is the god of travelers.”

“I thought he was the god of thieves,” Virgil says before he can think about it.

Patton smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, that too. If you’ve got anything important, maybe keep it with ya. Just in case. I try to dissuade stealing, but old habits die hard for some of these kiddos.”

Patton leads him around the camp, pointing out the strawberry fields, the armory, and the forge that mostly gets used by the Hephaestus kids. A few of them wave at Patton, who eagerly waves back and calls a few of them by name. He shows Virgil the arena, where two kids are sparring. Patton takes a seat and Virgil sits beside him, watching the two boys circle each other.

Both of them are wearing matching orange t-shirts—Patton had told him that he’d be getting one too—and some armor. One of them has dark hair and square glasses. He’s got two knives, one in each hand, and even from a bit of distance Virgil can sees the slight sheen of sweat to his forehead. The other one’s hair is a couple of shades lighter. His sleeves are rolled up and he wields a sword and a shield.

“The one with the glasses is Logan,” Patton explains. “He’s a child of Athena. The other one is Roman. He’s a child of Apollo. I met both of them in Seattle before we made our way to camp together thanks to some help from a satyr.”

“All three of you have been claimed?” Virgil asks, watching as Roman charges at Logan who rolls out of the way and then nimbly jumps back up to his feet. He slashes at Roman’s back but Roman parries the blow with a well-timed flick of the sword.

“Not immediately,” Patton says. “Logan was claimed as soon as we got to camp, but it was a month or so for me. And Roman was nearly a year before Apollo claimed him during a campfire song. It certainly surprised a lot of people.”

“Why?”

“His brother was claimed by Ares three months before him, so most people thought Roman was Ares’ kid too.”

Virgil glances at Patton. “Roman has a brother?”

Patton’s mouth presses into a thin line for a moment, and Virgil gets the sense that it’s a touchy subject. “Yeah. Remus. It’s unusual for two kids of the same family to both be demigods, and the fact that their father are two different gods led to some… tension. Roman and Remus don’t exactly get along.”

Virgil nods his understanding and turns his attention back to the sparring pair. Roman blocks a quick slash from Logan with his shield and swipes at him with the sword, but Logan parries the blow with the other knife in his hands. Then in a series of quick movements—Virgil isn’t sure how it happens, exactly—Roman is flat on his back and Logan is on his chest with the knife to his throat.

Roman says something that Virgil can’t make out, and Logan says something in kind before he climbs off Roman and helps him up. Roman flashes a grin and shoves Logan’s shoulder before he glances past his sparring match and sees Patton and Virgil sitting on one of the benches.

Roman waves. “Heya, Padre!”

Logan glances over his shoulder and quirks an eyebrow at Virgil but stores his daggers as Roman jogs over. Patton stands and Virgil follows him down to meet Roman halfway.

“Hey, Roman,” Patton replies. “I didn’t know you started using a sword!”

Roman grabs a towel off a nearby bench and mops the sweat off his forehead. “It’s new. I’m still trying to get used to it. I think the balance is off.”

“The balance is fine,” Logan quips, stepping up beside him. “You just need more practice.”

Roman rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. “Either way, Specs. I’ll take archery any day over waving a sharp stick around.”

“You are definitely a son of Apollo,” Logan rejoins back without malice. “And it would be unwise to only be versed in ranged attack.”

“And you are definitely a son of Athena.”

“Correct.”

Virgil snorts, and then a part of him regrets it as Roman and Logan both look over at him. Virgil flushes slightly, uncomfortable with the sudden attention, but Patton seems to only perk up more.

“Oh! Sorry, this is Virgil. He’s a new camper. Janus ran into him on his way back and brought him along.”

“Which cabin?” Logan asks.

Virgil shrugs. “For now, Cabin 11, I guess.”

“Unclaimed, then.” Virgil listens for the judgement in Logan’s voice, but he doesn’t hear it. It sounds more like a flat statement of fact, as if reporting the weather. Logan nods once. “Very well.”

“I was just showing him around,” Patton supplies. “You guys wanna join?”

Logan starts shrugging out of the armor he’s wearing. “Regrettably, I said that I would assist Harley with some blueprints when I had finished sparring with Roman.”

Roman slides the sword into the scabbard at his side. “And I’m overdue for a Pegasus lesson. I can’t miss it again. The last thing I need is Mr. D giving me another earful.” Roman gives a quick two-finger salute and rushes out of the arena.

Virgil blinks at Patton. “Pegasus?”

Patton grins brightly. “Come on. I’ll show ya.”

…

Patton spends the rest of the afternoon showing Virgil around the camp. They go to the stables (where Roman offers to take Virgil for a ride but Virgil immediately declines because he’s never been a fan of flying). They swing by the beach on their way to the climbing wall. Virgil watches, amazed, as two kids climb with impressive speed and narrowly avoid the magma that starts to pour down it.

One of the kids has a Morningstar gripped between his teeth, a green bandana around his upper bicep and a matching one around his head. He’s fast, scaling the wall with a well-practiced ease. Virgil hears him laugh delightedly when his hand slips and he almost gets burned by the lava. It’s somehow both impressive and disconcerting.

“That would be Remus.”

“That’s Remus?” Virgil repeats, though when he looks a bit closer he sees the similarity in hair color and skin complexion. “I guess I see the resemblance.”

“Don’t tell Roman that,” Patton says lightly. “C’mon.”

They pass the amphitheater where, apparently, there would be a bonfire tonight. Patton shows him the volleyball court where four kids are playing one another. They wave at Patton as they pass.

“You seem popular,” Virgil supplies. He’s lost track of how many kids have waved at them as they walk around.

Patton lifts a shoulder modestly. “I dunno. Since Hermes is the catch-all cabin, a lot of camp knows me since they come to our cabin if they haven’t been claimed yet. Sometimes we get kids that get claimed right away, or kids that already have been claimed, but otherwise? I get to be their lead counselor for at least a little bit.”

“Sounds like a lot of responsibility.”

“I kind of like it,” Patton admits with a smile. “It’s like I’m everyone’s honorary camp dad.”

The conversation cuts out as dinner is called and they head to the mess hall. Patton explains the offering to the gods prior to the meal, and Virgil scrapes part of his plate into the fire. He doesn’t know what to ask for.

It’d be nice to have a family again, dad, he thinks, unsure of who he should even direct the comment to. Patton waves him over, offering a seat beside him.

Virgil chances a glance around the mess hall as they eat. The Hermes table is certainly the most crowded, though Virgil can’t say he finds that surprising. Athena’s table has several kids reading while eating. Two kids at the Ares table are in the middle of an arm-wrestling competition. One kid at the Hephaestus table is pouring over a blueprint, and Virgil wonders if that was the Harley kid that Logan had mentioned.

Towards the end of the meal, a few kids at the Apollo table starts singing “Bohemian Rhapsody” and it’s not long before most of their table is doing the entire song with harmony. Someone from the Demeter table tells them to ‘save it for the campfire’, but it does nothing to deter the Apollo kids. Virgil catches Roman laughing as he sings, one of his sibling’s arms slung around his shoulders.

Virgil glances over and sees Logan at the Athena table sitting next to Janus, watching the chaos unfold and the faintest quirk of his lips betray his amusement.

Virgil feels some of the tension in his chest relax just a little.

…

The bonfire starts around dusk. Virgil is making his way to the amphitheater from dropping supplies off at the cabin when Roman comes up from behind him and loops his arm through Virgil’s, chattering excitedly about how much he loved this part of camp. Virgil sees an ukulele case slung around his shoulder.

Logan appears a second later on the other side of Virgil, commenting dryly that the Apollo kids had done their vocal warm-ups during the dinner. This only served to lead Roman to do actual vocal warm-ups—trills and scales, specifically—as they walked. Patton and Janus were already sitting down, three rows back. Patton waves when he sees them file in. Remus is sitting beside Janus, seemingly trying to goad him into some kind of competition that he was having no interest in. The firelight glints of Janus’s scales.

“Hey,” Virgil says to Roman and Logan. “Can… I ask what happened to Janus?” He immediately regrets the question, cursing his lack of a filter, but neither of the other boys seem perturbed by the question.

“A curse from Aphrodite,” Logan answers. “Janus had gone on a quest for our mother, and it led to some… unsavory tension between himself and Aphrodite. From what he’s told me, he accused Ares of being a snake in the grass while in the presence of Aphrodite, and… well. The love goddess didn’t take kindly to that. But it’s purely cosmetic.”

Virgil arcs an eyebrow. “Remus seems chill with him.”

“I’m not sure that Remus is aware of the accusation Janus leveled at his father,” Logan muses. “And Janus is not one to hold the children accountable for the actions of their godly parent.”

“It doesn’t benefit him,” Roman adds in, using his free hand for air quotes. “Or something like that. Janus is all about himself and how he can improve his own standing.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Logan quips dryly.

Roman scoffs, but when Virgil looks at him, there’s a teasing glint to his eyes. “Well, I wasn’t going to say it, but you guys are half-brothers for a reason.”

Logan looks at Roman over the top of his glasses, but Roman just shoots him a cheeky smile as they approach the other three. Virgil slides into the seat beside Patton, followed by Logan and then Roman. There’s a few kids—Virgil isn’t sure what cabin they’re from—trying to lead a call-and-response chant as campers file in. Down the row, Remus enthusiastically calls out the responses at the top of his lungs.

“Roman!” A new voice calls out from the end of their row. A tall guy, a couple of years older than them, is holding a ukulele and jerking his head down towards the bonfire. “You ready to help me kick this thing off?”

Roman grins and jumps up. “Would be an honor, Thomas.” He rushes off and he and Thomas start playing a song together with practiced ease. He and the other Apollo kids start singing, and before long the vast majority of campers are joining in. A few of them, including Patton, sway a little. Virgil doesn’t sing, but he listens and tries to remember the words.

The sky grows dark. The Apollo kids eventually cede the floor to some Ares kids who start up another chant. More songs are sung, some snacks get passed around, and Virgil is starting to think that maybe, with time, he could get used to this.

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Patton says beside him, as the next song starts. He drops something into Virgil’s lap. “I got this for ya.”

Virgil looks down. It’s two camp t-shirts. The black winged horse and the Camp Half-Blood print stares up at him. He looks over at Patton.

Patton just smiles. “Claimed or not, you’re one of us. We claim you.”

Virgil feels like maybe that’s good enough for him.

#sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #sanders sides au #platonic drlamp #virgil sanders #percy jackson au #pjo!au #fighting #weapons #violence #found family? in my fics? its more likely than you think #janus sanders #remus sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 4 years

Text

Humans are Space Orcs, “Protective Humans.”

Saw this suggestion in my inbox from a couple months ago lol :)

“I am glad you could agree to come commander, with all of the …. Issues with the LFIL, we have had a really difficult time trying to maintain good relations with the rest of the galaxy.”

“We are glad we could come, of course, anything to help people understand humans a little bit better, plus Dr. Krill has a speaking engagement at the conference, so my coming here was twofold.”

“Ah, yes, your little doctor, when I heard about his particular speech, I have to admit I am very intrigued and excited. Anyway, we are glad that humans could come and help us with our mission. Even with human tourism growing in certain sectors of the galaxy, there are still many places were humans had never been seen, and it is in those areas where we have the most difficulty. They hear the rumors, and they see reports on the news about the worst kind of humans, and they just get scared.”

Commander Vir pulled to a stop standing next to the conference director, A Finnari by trade with a relatively trustworthy face despite being an alien, “Well, then they wouldn't be the only ones. Humans have been practicing paranoia against ourselves for thousands of years.”

Out in the hallway of the conference center, aliens bustled by many of them staring on at the commander and his group of following humans with wide frightened eyes. Some of them pointed in excitement while others shied away to the other side of the hall.

It was still true that less than 7 percent of all aliens in the galaxy had ever seen a human, and for many of these, that fact was no different.

This would be their first time seeing a human.

The commander had to bite back his innate response to smile at them, seeing as most aliens, like most animals, considered the display of teeth to be a threat. So he simply waved a hand garnering a few flinches, and a number of curious head tilts.

Maybe someone should do a seminar on human body language, perhaps then the general public would feel more comfortable around them.

“Anyway, we thank you for coming, but your friend’s lecture is about to begin, and I am very excited to see how it goes.” The commander nodded to the Finnari director, and he, and the other three humans with him, Maverick Ramirez and Dr. Katie stepped into the room where doctor Krill was setting up his presentation.

As was becoming routine at the conference, they received a gasp and an eruption of mutterings as they appeared from the doorway.

Dr Krill looked up from his work, as the humans inched to the side of the door trying not to be too disruptive, “Stop right there you four, and come here.”

In confusion the humans did as directed.

Dr. Krill stood up voice electronically amplified over the sound of the room, “Can everyone hear me, good, that is very good, now today I am going to be talking about a subject that, as the humans say, is very near and dear to my heart. That translates as, it is very important to me.” he motioned the humans to sit down on the stage, and they did as ordered though rather awkwardly, “Now I thought about just speaking to you for today, but have decided that, you aren't going to be able to keep your focus away from the humans anyway, so I might do us all a favor and add them into my lecture as a way to introduce you to them in a controlled environment, and hopefully, after today, you will come to see the humans as I do. Great allies, and an undeniable opportunity for friendship.”

“now , I wanted to do something a little different today, something a little off from my normal structured way of speaking about humans because I find it very displeasing the way the rest of the galaxy sees humans, and I want to change that. I tried determining a fact about humans that is the most forgiving and the most empathetic. Something all of you would enjoy.”

There was a muttering of intrigue about the room.

“Well I am going to start off with a little bit of a lecture. A lot of you may not know that humans give live birth to their offspring, not eggs like the Vrul, Rundi, or the Celzex, but more like the Tesraki or the Drev. however based on the physical structure of the human, and the slow evolution to walking on two feet. Humans are only capable of producing offspring at a reasonable size generally around six to seven pounds, and arguably no greater than twelve to fifteen pounds, though there may be exceptions. Now, as you know six pounds is very very small compared to the end result of a human, and the size of the head has the greatest bearing on this issue. The human head shape requires offspring to be born extremely underdeveloped, so underdeveloped that when they are born they can barely see or hear and have no ability to coordinate their own movements. It takes almost an entire rotation of their planet around their star in order for a human to walk. In essence it takes as much as eighteen revolutions before the average human is no longer taken care of by their parents.”

There was a muttering from the crowd.

“Now based on the surprising helplessness of the human offspring compared to the final product, they tend to be very loud, and very difficult to take care of seeing how underdeveloped they are. Generally if any one of us were saddled with an offspring like that we would probably just give up, but the human brain is so hot wired to love their offspring, that none of those annoying things generally tend to matter. In fact, the power of a human’s bonding abilities is so strong that they can even bond to creatures that are NOT human in nature.”

Another surprised murmuring around the crowd.

“A human will have the same reaction to a nonhuman than they do to their own young, and in that case, this means that a human will protect the offspring of another species with their own lives. Human parents have been known to kill, lift objects five times their size, and fight off even more dangerous predators for the safety of their offspring, and they will do it for yours too..”

This time the murmuring around the room was almost palpable, it was as if they could hardly believe what they were hearing.

That couldn't be right.

“What if I told you that the safest place our offspring could be, is in the arms of a human.”

That caused an absolute uproar of chattering, and Krill had to wait a few minutes before the room calmed down.

The humans were looking between each other with some curiosity hardly believing what they were hearing, not sure where this was going.

“now , I have brought forward a couple of gracious volunteers who trust my judgement enough to help me demonstrate what you are about to witness .”

“Our first volunteer.” He motioned to the side of the stage were a Rundi was waiting, as she walked onto the stage, the crowd noticed at least three tiny shapes running around her feet.

The human turned to look eyes wide, to the crowd they almost looked hungry.

“Dr. Katie, can you tell me what you are thinking.”

The human looked up her wide brown eyes somewhat magnified through her glasses, “I want to hold one so bad.” She turned her head towards the rundi, “Can I hold one…. Am I allowed to do that. I’ll wear gloves.”

The rundi mother seemed surprisingly calm allowing the human to come over and pick up her little ones holding them gently in their hands running a finger over their tiny heads. One of the humans was holding the tiny creature to his chest. Patting its tiny head with one finger.

“You see the protective nature in which the humans hold young that isn’t their own, I picked the rundi first specifically for this reason, simply because they don’t look remotely human. Arguably the humans shouldn't even connect them with their own young, and yet this is the posture of a creature that isn’t going to let anything happen to their charges.” He turned to the humans. “What would you do if someone tried to hurt these little rundi?”

The darker human looked up from the creature he was holding to his chest, “I don't know probably rip their arms off and beat them with them…. But that's probably a bit graphic so… er, i would be very very upset?”

“Great save.” The commander muttered, stroking his hand delicately down the little Rundi’s back, who seemed to be enjoying it rather happily. Of course all the humans were wearing gloves, considering that the rundi had an aversion to water, and humans had a habit of shedding it wherever they went.

They actually seemed disappointed when they had to let the tiny creatures go.

Not that they were disappointed at the next moment when A dark blue-black tesraki brought out a fuzzy little bundle.

One of the humans made a strange squeaking noise. Again begging to hold it.

The humans seemed to be having even more fun than the rest of the crowd was having watching them.

“You see the younger a creature of a different species is, the more likely humans are to adopt it with their social bonding.”

“Look at its little pig nose eep!”

“Hey let me hold it. You don’t have to be a hog.”

“You can fight me.”

“Sharing is caring.”

“What if I don’t care.” The humans jostled with each other for a turn holding, petting or cooing over the creature, though their aggression seemed to terminate at a predetermined distance from the small one, and if it wasn’t obayed, there were other humans to make sure they kept in line.

“You see, I would wager to say that your children are safer with humans than they are with you. Not to call you a poor parent. But humans will take falling impacts, jump in front of speeding vehicles, and their bodies are known to be quite durable.”

The commander was leaning over Dr. Katie’s shoulder stroking the Tesraki’s huge ears with one finger, “So soft.”

“Though the creature does not have to be fluffy, but for some reason humans really enjoy it, despite their own young being hairless. In fact there are many humans that much prefer to have a creature of a different species than they are interested in having one of their own

“Furbaby.” A human whispered as the tiny Tesraki was appropriated back from them.

“My next demonstration we have to thank by way of lord Celzex.”

The humans lifted their heads, eyes widening, “No!”

“YES!”

What came next was an excessive spectacle of human happiness characterized by a lot of squealing from both male and female humans, and a ton of tiny, angry little balls of colored fluff with massive eyes and huge feet.

Dr. Katie sat in a corner holding a handful of the little colored fluff balls in her arms, “Guys….” She moaned, “I think I’m gonna cry, this is pure happiness. I want all of them.”

Maverick lay on the ground flat on her back as at least ten of the tiny creatures crawled all over her. It was pretty clear they were trying to attack, but to the human it caused nothing more than an eruption of giggling.

The commander and Ramirez sat opposite each other trying to wrangle a small heard of the fluffies who ran about in an angry circle.

Needless to say, the humans were very disappointed when they had to be taken away.

Ramirez held out a hand, “Wait, but, no….”

Maverick was frowning looking down at her empty hands like she was missing a finger.

“And now for my last demonstration.” The doctor began.” Motioning his last volunteer up.

What came next was a nine foot tall male Drev, cradling a tiny shape in his lower arms.

Excitedly, the humans rushed over, and the Drev seemed to have no problem handing over his young to the pack of cooing humans.

Maverick bumped Katie out of the way, and took the tiny creature in her arms running away with it across the room.

The other humans trailed after Craning their necks over her shoulder and trying to see the tiny creature who opened its little beak like a baby bird chirping and blinking at them.

“I swear if anything happens to this child I will kill everyone in this room and then myself.”

“I didn��t know they were so frigging adorable. Shit, I want one.” The commander grumbled playing with one of the tiny hands.

“Yeah, who wants a human baby anyway, these ones are way cuter., and they don’t smell.”

“Maverick, if you don't let me hold it, I promise I will have you on bathroom duty for the rest of your foreseeable career.”

Maverick frowned, “Just five more minutes.”

“Fine, five, but then it's my turn.”

The doctor continued to lecture as the humans sat in a circle passing around the tiny drev, “You see in a time of crisis, a human will wrap themselves around their offspring using the rigged bones, and taught muscles of the shoulders, back and ribcage as a shield diffusing impacts and cushioning falls. It is also quite common for an entire pack of humans to form up around younger humans to protect them.”

The commander had appropriated the tiny Drev from Maverick and was softly stroking a thumb against its tiny cheek. The small creature opened its mouth like a baby bird, chirping slightly before nuzzling its head against the human’s chest growing quite comfortable against the warm, soft human.

“Its official, I am the favorite.” The human announced

“But-”

“No no, you see, sleeping, now you can’t take him away.” The other humans pouted and the commander grinned.

“You see it is all thanks to the annoying and underdeveloped nature of the human offspring, that we can thank for human over protectiveness. Now, this effect lessons somewhat as you grow older, but generally speaking it never goes away entirely. A human will bond with anything, a broken piece of equipment, an item of clothing, and definitely you, for sure. Should you be cautious about which humans you trust? Certainly, but we exercise that caution daily with each other.”

He motioned to the group of huddling humans holding the tiny sleeping Drev.

“Just remember this image here the next time some propaganda string tells you humans are monsters.”

#humans are insane #humans are space orcs #humans are space australians #humans are spaceoddities #earth is a deathworld #Earth is space Ausralia

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callboxkat · 3 years

Text

Those Long, Lonely Nights (part 1/6)

Author’s note: This is a retelling of the story These Deep Dark Woods, but from Roman’s perspective, plus a few new scenes. I recommend reading that story first, but this can also stand alone. Please read the warnings!

Summary: Roman, a knight, insists on accompanying his best friend Logan, a potion maker, when he decides to head into the notoriously dangerous woods bordering their home to find some rare herbs and minerals for his apothecary. They find much more than they bargained for when they encounter Remus, a bloodthirsty giant. Logince. Angst with a happy ending.

Warnings: food mention, blood, injuries, death mention, killing mention, gun mention, mild body horror (it’s Remus), disturbing imagery (it’s Remus), character death, temporary/believed character death, kidnapping, guilt, attempted self sacrifice, talk of giants, vampires and other monsters. Very unsympathetic villain Remus.

Word Count: 1764

Part 2

Ao3 Link

Writing Masterpost!

...

Roman bounded down the bustling street, waving to familiar passerby as he went. He knew he was easy to pick out and very recognizable, in his white knight’s uniform. Despite the early morning, many people were already up and about, setting up for the day, but the street lamps still glowed—a recent installation, they actually ran on electricity! Roman still didn’t quite understand how that worked, but he was proud to see his settlement prospering, and it was fascinating, how much light came from them, just from a few little wires and some glass. Perhaps there was some sort of enchantment involved.

“Good morning, Sir Roman,” a shopkeeper called.

Roman tabled his nerdy thoughts for the time being. He put on a bright smile and approached the shop, where a woman stood sweeping clear the welcome mat. “Good morning to you, Maryanne!”

The woman put aside the broom and dusted her hands off on her apron. “Would you like a pastry? The peaches just arrived from Mellow Valley, and they are simply delightful in a fruit tart.”

Roman hummed consideringly. “Oh, that’s very tempting, but I’m afraid I’m in a rush this morning!”

“Some other time, then. Perhaps you could even bring that handsome young man you’re always with.” She winked.

Roman really hoped he wasn’t blushing. “Of course—you know I love your treats.”

Roman was on his way to his shift guarding the outer wall, an imposing structure built of shining gray stone that protected the citizens of his home from the monsters that roamed the forest beyond. It was an important job, entrusted to the expertise of the knights, and one that Roman loved doing; but it wasn’t always the most exciting prospect. Their settlement, Old Haven, was one of the longest standing, enough so that most of the monsters had known since generations past to stay well away; and between the few times that things truly got exciting... they could be terribly dull.

But, before Roman went to his shift that morning, he had a stop to make, and this he was definitely looking forward to.

The apothecary was located just a couple of blocks from the main square, in a small, warmly colored cedar and stone building with windows filled with neatly arranged bundles of colorful herbs and evenly spaced rows of bottles of medicinal powders and potions. A hand-painted sign read, Please come in, in neat, white letters, in an only slightly decorative script.

Roman reached the shop just as the door opened, the bell overhead chiming. A customer stepped out, dressed in a dark robe with the hood up. At first glance, he seemed to be clothed entirely in black, but on closer inspection, his robe was actually a deep plum color. He clutched a bottle of pomegranate juice in one pale hand and a neatly sealed packet of herbs in the other. Dark bangs poked out from under the hood, but his face was cast in shadow. Roman frowned slightly noticing the dark, grayish veins in his hands as he stepped back to give the man room. He hurried past Roman and disappeared down the street. Roman stepped inside the apothecary once he was gone.

The apothecarist, Logan, stood behind a counter within the shop, wearing an elegant, navy colored coat and his usual pair of spectacles. He was pushing together a pile of coins on the counter. Copper and bronze coins only, Roman noticed. No silver.

“Got a lot of vampire clientele?” Roman asked, leaning (or perhaps posing) against one of the display cabinets.

Logan looked up, the warm lamplight making his deep blue irises glitter in a way that never failed to make Roman’s heart skip a beat. He glanced back down and finished tucking away the money. “Six,” he said honestly. “Seven, most likely, although she has not personally shared that information with me, and if she is, hers appears to be a mild case.”

“Hm.”

“You don’t approve?”

“Ah… they’re a little too similar to monsters, for my taste.”

“It is a monster-derived affliction, that is true, but with modern treatments, most of those afflicted with vampirism can lead nearly normal lives.”

Roman shrugged dismissingly, waving him off. He hadn’t come here to talk about vampires. “I know, I know. Anyway. How’s my favorite nerd this morning?”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Logan sighed.

“You know you love it.”

Logan did not deny it, Roman noticed with a small smile. Instead, he adjusted a few already perfectly positioned potion bottles on the counter, before saying, “I am well, although rather busy.”

Roman glanced around the room, noticeably empty of customers. “Ah yes, this is a very busy time for your shop, I see.”

“A customer did depart only moments ago,” Logan pointed out. “Although, no, I was not referring to customers. I’m preparing for an outing.”

“An outing?” Roman was interested, now. “Finally taking a little vacation, are you? Good on you. Where are you going? And more importantly—can I come?”

Logan wanted to smile, Roman could tell. But he didn’t. The guy took himself too seriously. “Not that type of outing. I require materials to restock my shop.”

Roman sighed dramatically, making it a full body motion. So much for a vacation. And the hot springs in the hills of northern Old Haven were so nice this time of year. “So? Just put it on the list for the traders. Mellow Valley should have most of your things in season by now. Did you hear the peaches arrived? Maryanne, that baker on Lilac, promised me some of her delightful pastries. We could go get some, when I’m finished with my shift on the South Wall this morning.”

Logan shook his head “Mellow Valley won’t have everything I need; and besides, the costs are considerably lessened when the materials are personally collected.”

Roman furrowed his brow. “Collected where?”

“Outside.”

“You mean outside, like, as in the park, right?”

“In the woods,” Logan sighed, beginning to sound exasperated.

Roman opened his mouth, then closed it again. The woods. The veritable ocean of dense trees beyond the settlement’s walls, filled to the brim with monsters, held back from advancing only by the strength of the guard and broken only by the occasional human stronghold and the heavily protected trails that linked them. Generally, only knights and the traders they accompanied ever ventured beyond the walls—this was, in fact, why Roman had become a knight in the first place, to get to see some of the world that most only saw through pictures and stories. Citizens were allowed to leave—they weren’t prisoners—but it was very rare, and highly discouraged. Many who went unprepared—or even those who did—never returned; and sometimes even those who did return were not the same as when they left—like the vampires who apparently frequented this shop, or at least one or more of their ancestors. Vampirism could be tricky like that. Sometimes it cropped up randomly, somewhere down the line.

Logan had begun sorting through some of his supplies, acting for all the world as if he hadn’t just announced he had a death wish.

Roman shook off his distracted thoughts of vampirism and knightly missions, and focused on the most important thing: “Please tell me you aren’t planning to go out there alone.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Logan sighed. “I will have my dagger, and I will go no further into the woods than required.”

“Oookay, first of all, why am I just now hearing that you’ve been hanging out in the monster-filled woods by yourself?”

“I would hardly call it ‘hanging out’.”

“And second of all, you are absolutely not doing that.”

Logan gave him a dry look. “Yes, I am. My herbs will not pick themselves.”

“Get a garden like a normal person.”

“You know I have a quite extensive garden.” Logan paused, looked confused. He shook his head, going back to counting bundles of tiny black seeds. “Some of these herbs do not naturally grow within human settlements, let alone ours, and my attempts to recreate their preferred environment have in many cases proven thus far unsuccessful. Besides, I cannot ‘get a garden’ to form mineral deposits, several of which are required in even non-specialty potions.”

Roman still didn’t quite see why Logan wouldn’t be able to get all of this stuff using a trader. Knowing Logan, it was less about the money and more about needing to personally ensure that he received the correct materials. Surely, though, even the least-versed in medicinal resources could get him what he needed, if he described them well enough.

Also knowing Logan, though, he would not be dissuaded from going.

Roman pulled himself up to his full height, puffing out his chest and putting one hand on the protective-charm engraved hilt of his sword. “Alright, then, I am coming with you.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “You’re coming to collect herbs? Can you even tell wormwood from hemlock?”

“I’m not going to find your nerd plants, I’m going to protect you.”

Logan scoffed quietly, clearly believing Roman’s very generous and heroic offer was unnecessary. But he sat down on his stool, finally, and looked at Roman without busying himself with his apothecarist duties. He glanced Roman up and down, apparently trying to decide how serious Roman was. “Alright, then, if you insist.”

“I do!” Roman nodded firmly. He relaxed his posture. “So, when are we going?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes?”

“I—” Roman groaned, looking up towards the wooden beams of the ceiling. “Fine. It’s a little short notice, but fine.” He worked his jaw, then mumbled, “I’ll need to cancel a couple days… maybe Sir Leo can cover? Hm.”

Logan tilted his head slightly, adjusting his spectacles and watching Roman’s dramatics. “I am not forcing you to come.”

You are, though. “Well, I am.”

“Alright.”

A beat passed in silence, Roman feeling triumphant, before Logan gave the knight a slightly amused look. “I thought you had a shift on the wall?”

“I—right. Yes.” Roman had gotten a little distracted. He took a couple of steps back. “So, you, me, tomorrow, woods. Great.” He turned towards the door, stopped, and turned around. “About those pastries?”

Logan hummed. “I can take a break two hours after noon, which is when your shift ends, if I remember correctly. I suppose I would accept one then.”

“They have fruit in them,” Roman encouraged. “That makes them healthy!”

“I do not believe that is entirely correct.”

Roman grinned and left the shop.

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rovewritesit · 4 years

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Angel Of My Dreams (Chapter 5) John Deacon x Reader Series

GIF: @johndeac

Apologies for the delay! Work has been an absolute shit fest. The big show I’m on got canceled, but we still have to finish the season at some point so oof. Also, my boss is moving to Italy? Pray for my sanity, folks.

Series Summary: After reluctantly joining a band with your childhood best friends, you are thrust into oncoming stardom with no sea legs and an overwhelming sense of anxiety. But you just might find your way, thanks to some seasoned pros by your side. And the interest of one particular bassist.

This series is a work of fiction and is loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

PART 1 - PART 2 - PART 3 - PART 4

Pairing: John Deacon x Reader

Chapter Warnings: Strong language. Feelings of anxiety. Angst (oooo!)

Chapter Notes: I've rewritten this chapter so many times that I don't even know what it is anymore. Angst is hard, my dudes! Why can't it all be flirty glances and quick banter?!

Song/Title Inspiration: Angel - Fleetwood Mac

Songs Mentioned:

Moonlight in Vermont - Frank Sinatra

Blues Run The Game - Jackson C. Frank

Taglist: @yourlocalmusicalprostitute @brianmays-hair @deacyblues @squishy-geckboye @hae-bee @aprilaady @theresalexis @uglipotata72829

- - - - - - -

September 1982 - The Music Inn, New York City

“Bri, get a load of all these fucking maracas!”

Brian makes his way over to where Roger is gazing at a massive wall adorned with shaker-filled shelves, dipping his head low to avoid the sea of guitars hanging from the ceiling above his long frame.

Queen was back in New York for their first-ever appearance on Saturday Night Live. Finding time in between the intensive rehearsals during the week had been hard, but Freddie insisted they would make the time for his favorite New Yorkers. When the time was finally found, he, of course, was unavailable, off antiquing at some of Manhattan’s luxury spots but promised to meet up with the group later on.

The Limbs managed to snag the other three men for a trip to the historic Music Inn. Nestled in the heart of Greenwich Village, the dingy treasure trove was located a stone’s throw away from the city’s most prominent folk clubs that boasted discovering the talents of Bob Dylan and Simon & Garfunkel.

You were quite confident that your newfound English friends would love it. Every visible space was stuffed or covered with an abundance of musical paraphernalia. So much so that you had been in the store dozens of times without ever finding out what color the walls were. Its layout was always changing to fit the ever-growing amount of items displayed, the familiar specks of dust that sparkled in the sunlight being the only constants.

“Hey, Jeff!” Steve calls out to the eccentric owner. “Where are these from?”

The aging hippie shuffles over. “Mostly South America,” he explains in his usual gravelly drawl. “A customer brought back some new shekeres from West Africa last week that have a nice sound to them.” Jeff motions up the sprawling wall. Roger immediately grabs a few, testing the sounds out against the ones Steve is already playing with - the two of them like kids in a candy store.

Jeff had been a good friend to The Limbs since their early teen years, having let the group spend hours on end attempting to learn every exotic instrument they could get their hands on. Anyone who entered the shop could count on him as a spirit guide of sorts to a wealth of worldly music. And while The Limbs had kept their first album fairly plain in context, they were already itching, particularly Steve, to experiment on the next album. Whenever that would be.

Now that a few more of their singles were moderately successful hits, Columbia Records was focused on milking it for all that it was worth. The execs were currently setting up an extensive American tour of the Mid - West Coast part of the country, all the major cities they hadn’t hit on their first tour.

“Y/N,” Jeff gestures for you to follow him, probably excited to show you a new find seeing as you were always eager and willing to give them a test run. You make your way down the staircase lined with large balalaikas to the musty lower level filled with various sound equipment and electronic instruments.

“What on god’s green earth would you use that for?” you hear Rich’s deep voice implore. He rolls his eyes as Eddie moons over an ornately engraved mandolin.

“It worked for Rod Stewart, didn’t it? That mandolin solo in Maggie May shredded,” he retorts. “Plus, look how pretty she is!”

You watch your feet as you carefully maneuver around the amps and pedals haphazardly strewn around the floor, following Jeff to the back of the room - taking special care to step around John, who is crouched low looking over the wiring of a particularly grody-looking amp.

Upon entering the store, he had taken off on his own right away, immediately entranced by the sprawling selection all about him. But you had caught the worn, far-off look in his eyes when he greeted you with a short wave earlier. You try not to let the lack of attention bother you as you pass him without so much as a glance up. The heartfelt conversation you had the last time they were in town had rooted itself in your memory. Spilling your guts like you did that night wasn't a common occurrence for you- figuring you were already easy enough to read due to the panicked expression often etched onto your face.

Why him? Even your bandmates weren’t privy to the babblings of your intimate thoughts. It couldn’t just be his boyish tooth-gap or the pleasing line of his straight nose. Maybe it was the confusing mix of nerves and comfort you felt whenever in his presence. It was unlike the persistent butterflies you were used to when around attractive humans. Feeling instead like a gentle humming that you somehow sensed everywhere at once.

You’re brought out of your swimming thoughts as Jeff clears his throat loudly to get your attention. You must’ve been staring blankly at the floor for quite a while. He gestures to a bulky item draped in a tarp, as you give him a small apologetic smile.

“Oh yes, very pretty,” you smirk at him.

He rolls his eyes as he attempts to sweep the tarp off in a dramatic reveal, but in reality, it gets stuck. The man scrambles to uncover it, and as soon as it peeks out, you gasp.

“A theremin!”

You gaze at the ordinary-looking wooden cabinet in awe. It must be old, seeing as they were mostly compact now.

“You haven’t had one in ages,” you marvel, locking eyes with Jeff.

“Which means it’s been a while since I’ve heard your ambient screeches plaguing these walls.”

Your finger points to him in protest. “Hey, I was getting better until you sold the last one on me!”

“Well, I didn’t see you making a bid for it,” he playfully shrugs.

“Let’s hear those screeches!” Eddie yells out. Rich claps his hands excitedly beside him. You poke your tongue out at them, but your eyes catch John’s, and you quickly close your mouth. Still crouched, he looks on with mild curiosity wrinkled on his brow. He lightly raises them at you in silent encouragement.

You slowly make your way behind the instrument as Jeff plugs it into the wall. Turning one of the knobs, it hums to life as you check the metal attachments protruding from the wood frame. It really is old. You have no idea how to even begin to calibrate it. Taking a deep breath, you timidly bring your hands up in position.

It lets out a high pitched wail that burns your ears from being so close, and you yank your hands away from the field of current. Eddie and Rich erupt into cheers while John slowly stands, moving a bit closer to see the mechanism properly.

Jeff lightly pushes you back towards it in a gentle coax. This time you slowly bring your curled hand a reasonable distance away from the pitch antenna, keeping your other low on the one for volume. Squeezing your eyes shut to focus on the tone, you slowly move until you find your starting note. It was all about sense memory and your ears to fill the gaps with nothing to physically touch.

Uncurling your fingers, you begin the opening notes of Moonlight in Vermont - the one song you had somewhat taught yourself through hours of painstaking practice. You fumble a bit, eliciting a squeak or two while trying to remember the hand placements that produce the proper notes. While you might “play” many instruments, you were middling at many, master of none. You make it through the first verse before your head starts to pound from your jaw-clenched concentration.

“Fuck the mandolin, let’s get that for the next album!” you hear Rich tell Eddie.

“Ah, yes, you’ve heard Pet Sounds. Now prepare your ears for The Limb’s sophomore attempt, Ghost Sounds,”

Their banter is drowned out as John chimes in. “How on earth did you learn that?” You meet his struck expression and shrug lightly.

“Don’t downplay it, Bun. It’s pretty fucking cool,” Rich assures you. “And her knowing ASL also helps,” he explains to John.

“Sign language?”

“Oh yeah, Y/N’s mom is deaf,” Eddie reveals bluntly. You shoot him a look.

“Sorry, hard of hearing,” he holds his hands out in defense.

John is silent for a moment as he mulls the information over, causing a speck of tension in the room.

“Your mother’s never heard you sing?” he asks incredulously as if he can’t possibly imagine it.

You give a small smile. “No, I guess she hasn’t. But I was in the car with her the first time I heard us on the radio. I turned the treble down and the bass all the way up and she bopped along to the beat pretty well.”

Rich chuckles lightly at the story. “She’s always been hoot, hasn’t she?”

You nod gently. “Aptly put. That’s how she describes herself as a matter of fact.”

John shoves his hands deep in his pockets as he takes a look around the room, his cheeks a light pink. You're unsure of why.

“I’m gonna head out for a quick smoke,” you decide, patting Jeff on the shoulder. “I know how you hate it.”

He gives your hand a light squeeze before you make your way upstairs, hoping to catch John’s eyes, but he avoids yours yet again.

A pleasing blend of harmonies can be heard as you hit the landing. You peek your head around a large assortment of bongos to find Brian strumming a small acoustic on the other side of the store. Roger, Steve, and Lawrence all crammed around, the four of them singing a rendition of Blues Run the Game.

Your heart warms at the sight, remembering the times when you and the boys would sit around a campfire and croon out the same sad tune. Eddie and Rich will be pissed they missed this. Steve notices your presence and silently ticks his head for you to come join. You hold up your pack of Marlborough’s in response to him before finally slipping out the front, trying your best to not jingle the adorned bells too much.

A cool breeze promptly passes through the knit of your sweater. It’s late September, and New York has begun to really cool off. You pull down the sleeves to cover your hands as you light your cigarette, wincing a bit on the first inhale. It was a leftover habit from your college days- scarcely used, only in social situations, or to get out of awkward ones.

Taking in the familiar street, you can’t help but giggle at the day you were having. To be showing Queen around your old hangout still felt absurd. No matter how genuinely they seemed to like the company of your band, you couldn’t fathom them wanting to spend the day with you all. Weren’t there bigger and better musicians in this city to be hanging out with?

The sound of a lighter flicking to life comes from your left, and you turn. John leans against the faded wall as he takes a drag, his eyes trained on the dirty sidewalk.

“I’m sorry, i- if I offended you with my comment about your mother,” he professes quietly.

Your brows shoot up in confusion. “What?”

“We have a friend whose father is deaf. A lovely man. I shouldn’t have been so insensitive.” He sighs, finally turning to face you. “It’s just that the memory of hearing your voice for the first time isn’t something one can easily shake. I mean that in a way that- it’s just a shame really. For her to not be able to share in it when it’s something so...” he looks as if he’s racking his brain for an appropriate word. “Well, singular.”

You suck in a breath at his words. In all your years, you had never gotten that as a response to your mother’s disability. It was mostly a polite, “Oh, really? I’m so sorry to hear that.” His honesty and consideration for your feelings knock the present hum of your body up to 100.

You flinch as gentle burning hits your fingers, and you look down at your forgotten cigarette, quickly flicking it to the ground before crushing it under your heel. John shifts his weight from side to side, never taking his eyes off of you while he waits for you to collect your thoughts.

“I write out my lyrics for her so she can read them as poems,” you state simply, smiling up at him. “Sometimes she makes up her own melodies and sings them around the house. It’s not the easiest on the ears, but she’s pretty inventive.” His eyes crinkle as he returns your grin - his first genuine one of the day.

“So she’s heard music before?”

“Oh yeah. She has nerve deafness, which didn’t start till her late twenties. She actually spent a lot of time around here when she was younger. Bitter End and The Gaslight are just a few blocks away.”

He hums lightly as he stares at you- like you’re a puzzle whose pieces are just beginning to fit together.

“Can you teach me something in sign language?”

Once again, your brows shoot up, shocked by his response. You blink a few times, trying to think of what to say. Going with the only thing that pops to mind, you sign out a phrase as he watches your hands intently.

“And what does that mean?”

You smirk, “You are a cheesy cow.”

“I’m sorry?” he laughs out.

You repeat it back slowly while signing along. “You. Are. A. Cheesy. Cow. It’s the first thing my mother taught me how to sign.”

He runs his hand over his jaw as he chuckles. “Rich was right. A hoot she must be.”

“I’m pretty shit, to be honest, and she read lips, so it’s mostly used for snide comments during extended family gatherings.”

You watch as he puts out his cigarette and carefully takes a step closer to you. “I’m assuming your colourful vocabulary extends to those instances as well.”

“Right you are.”

“Freddie will love that,” he snickers. “He always seems to collect vulgarities in other languages wherever we go.”

Your attention is torn away as a sleek black car rolls up to a stop at the curb. It’s out of place in the middle of the street filled with old and worn buildings, which can similarly describe the people who mill about.

“Speak of the Queen herself,” you laugh as a sunglass-clad Freddie steps onto the sidewalk.

“Oh, isn’t this quaint!” he exclaims, peering into the shop window. He straightens as he turns to you, hands-on-hips.

“Deacy. Thumper. Are we fans of freezing our tits off, or shall we go inside?”

You give John a small smile and push yourself off the wall, making your way over to Freddie, who immediately pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. The bells against the door ring out as you all enter the shop.

“Ah, Deacy,” Brian pokes his head out from one of the narrow aisles, still in a constant crouch to avoid the instruments above his head. “I was looking for you. Found these adorable teeny guitars I thought might be good to bring back for the kids. What do you think?”

“Kids?” you mumble to yourself as John makes his way over to inspect them.

“Brian has two, and John’s already up to 3. Maybe we should’ve nicknamed him Bunny.” Freddie laughs, nudging your arm. “You know… fucking like rabbits,” he expands due to your lack of chuckling.

He leans into your field of vision as he studies your statue-like expression, eyebrows knit in confusion. His eyes take in your ashen face and your lifeless expression. You weren’t even sure if you were breathing. When you lock your eyes with his, you know he understands from the sheer size of how big they become. He straightens up, glancing around quickly as if looking for something to put out a fire.

“Freddie!” Steven dances over, clicking a pair of castanets in his hands. “I wanted to show you thi-”

“So sorry, love, we can’t. Y/N promised to come to a fitting with me, and we’re already late," he announces loudly, pulling you by the arm and out the door before anyone can react.

- - - - - - -

You blankly stare at your reflection in the long mirror. Freddie had instructed his stylist to pull some outfits for you to parade around in as he tried on a bevy of metallic coats.

“You’re an idiot,” you tell the girl staring back at you.

Freddie sashays over, a shag jacket swaying with him as he places his hands on your shoulders, surveying the strappy dress you were currently squeezed into.

“Oh yes, this will do for the after-party,” he instructs.

“I’m not going.”

He heaves a deep sigh. “Darling, you already refused the ticket I got you for the show. You’re coming to the party,” he declares, turning away to look at more options.

“This isn’t really me…” you mumble, gesturing to the dress.

He regards you with a small smile. “Exactly. I say this with love, but you need a look, Y/N. Something that makes you feel unstoppable,” he gestures to his body as he twirls towards you. “Don’t you want to shock them?”

You chew your lip as you ponder that sentiment. Dawn usually just shoved you into whatever ensemble she had picked for you - leather jackets, monochromatic sets, tight jumpsuits. She kept hoping you’d find a style you fancied, but you had yet to find anything remotely likable under the lights of the stage.

“To be honest, I just want to be able to feel comfortable out there," you sigh. "But I can’t strut around in flashy outfits or conduct a whole crowd like you do." Huffing as you collapse onto one of the white couches around you. He perches beside you, throwing an arm around the back of the sofa.

“Then don’t,” he says simply.

You snort a response as you cross your arms over your chest.

“I’m sure you’ve heard this before, but have you tried showing them a bit more of yourself?”

“I can’t do that.”

He turns to you now, grabbing your attention with his eyes.

“And why not?” he questions.

You gaze down at your hands, which you’re now wringing together in your lap. “What if it’s nothing spectacular?” you whisper out the criticism that you'd drilled into your mind for the past year.

Freddie laughs lightly as he stands. “Let’s not start lying to ourselves, shall we?” He moves in front of you and kneels, now at eye level, making so you can’t look away.

“Sometimes people go to a concert for an escape. A big bloody show with dazzling lights and petite men galavanting around a stage in spandex tights,” he smiles.

“But most of the time they just want to find a piece of themselves in it, don’t they? Commonality. They want to hear you, see you, and feel just a little less alone than we all know we are. I saw just a slice of it at your concert, and it was indeed something spectacular. So take that as you will.”

You’re not one to cry much, but your eyes soften as you take in the icon of a man in front of you. A man loved by millions, who was currently filling in as your personal rock n’ roll fairy godmother.

“You’re a fantastic person, you know that?” you tell him genuinely.

“Yes,” he quips as he gets to his feet. “Now, are we done scurrying around the real problem at hand?”

You sigh as you look away, firmly willing yourself not to break the dam of bottled emotions threatening to spill out. Why couldn't you just feel numb? It would be better than the wave of childish self-pity you found yourself in.

Freddie huffs at your reaction. “Oh, you brat. Sorry to tell you, but you’re an open book, my dear. And not one of those big pompous things Brian reads. A bloody children’s book. One filled with pictures.”

You're sure you’ve now bitten through the entire top layer of your lip as you contemplate how to even begin.

“I’m an idiot,” you shrug to yourself yet again.

“No,” he points a finger at you. “You’re decidedly not. Though I am curious as to how someone who’s as big of a fan as your friends say you are, missed out on that detail.”

“I’m not sure either. I mean, I listen to your albums and go to your show, but I guess I didn’t pour over the tabloids or press interviews or anything like that.”

Freddie nods along as he sifts through another rack of jackets, choosing an incredibly tight white leather number.

“I assumed you knew,” he answers while glancing at his reflection. “And I would say Deacy should know better, but he’s not quite himself at the moment.”

“What do you mean?” you press, suddenly much more interested in the conversation.

He turns to you, palms up in explanation. “It’s not that he wouldn’t normally be charmed by your shy presence and occasionally crass mouth… But I’m a bit worried he’s finding comfort in your smiles for the wrong reasons.”

“Huh?”

Sighing heavily as if debating if he should keep skirting around his words, he holds your gaze. “An impending divorce is crippling lonely, even if it is somewhat amicable.”

His mouth is brought into a pout as you suck in a sharp breath.

Divorce. All your previous interactions play through your head from a different angle. Pity sneaks up on you as you remember John’s advice he’d given you. The concept of home is a funny thing. You scoff out loud at how your childlike crush had skewed your interpretation of your relationship with the man.

“I’m usually the one singing his praises,” Freddie muses, breaking you out of your inner monologue of resentment towards yourself. “But he seems more lost than usual at the moment.”

He gently lifts your chin. “I don’t normally meddle in- well, actually I do. Just don’t want to see you get hurt, Bunny. Not when the world is soon to be at your feet.”

"I'm fine," you lie, gently brush away his gesture. "I barely even know the guy. I was just shocked to have my silly fascination with him interrupted. Stupid, really."

"Don't do that," he exhales. "Don't put it on yourself. You'd have to be blind to ignore the fact that he's quite taken with you."

"I'm fine," you repeat, making your way into the back to change out of the ridiculous dress that suddenly felt even tighter now.

Shutting the door slowly, you let out a deep breath. It's all good, you tell yourself. Of course you got caught up in the attention of a world-renown musician. Who wouldn't? It's nothing special. As Freddie said, he's not even acting like himself. Although you were indeed in true form- getting caught up by the slightest of interactions. Unconsciously playing them as a loop in your head. You can't help but cringe at your own escalation of the situation.

Squaring your shoulders, you take in the image of yourself in the dress again. Perhaps it was time for you to shock them all.

- - - - - - -

“And so my grandfather goes out to the alley and sees her just wailing on this scrawny man. I mean, really going to town. So he pulls her off him, and the dude’s got a black eye and a bloody nose. And he’s like, “Thanks mate, thought she was gonna kill me there.”

Roger ruffles your hair in response to your poor attempt at a British accent. The group of cast and crew around you chuckle at the gesture.

You had decided that if you were going to be forcibly dragged to this after-party by your bandmates, you would at least aim to make it worthwhile. A debut of your new mentality. One where you weren't just acting the part of a rising rock star, but living it.

Which is why at the moment, you found yourself the center of attention, surrounded by the cast and crew of SNL laughing along to your amusing story. But this was all hinged on you carefully, avoiding the presence of John Deacon at all costs. Which, in reality, wasn't very hard to do- you had yet to see him since arriving an hour ago.

“Oh my god, who was it?!” the young cast member beside you presses. You think her name is Julia, but the sheer amount of people you'd been introduced to was dizzying.

"That's exactly what we asked him when he told us. All he said was that it was some man with big lips who was in a fur coat and looked like he hadn't eaten in a month..."

The cam op across from you gasps, "It was MICK JAGGER? God bless your grandfather, I would've wept if she murdered him."

"So would my mom AND grandmother," you laugh. "Give us each a glass of wine, and it's basically a Mick fan club."

"Who else?" Brian taps your leg, surprisingly urging you to divulge more gossip.

You can't help but smirk as the group leans forward intently.

"Robin Williams?" you tease as their eyebrows all raise.

"Horrible tipper, but he makes up for it by performing dirty puppet shows with the napkins."

"Sounds about right," funnyman Brad Hall confirms, offering you another drink.

You politely decline, determined to keep your wits about you this evening. "I'm gonna go grab some water. Anyone want anything?"

The group shakes their heads, but Lawrence jumps up to join you on your trek to the crowded bar.

"Wouldn't it be insane if this was us one day?" he exclaims as you weave your way through the mass of bodies littering the Capitol Grill.

You smile up at him, "Dream big, buddy."

"Oh, I intend to," he confirms you as you spot Eddie and Rich waving you over from a spot at the bar.

Rich promptly wraps his arm around your shoulders as you join them. He always had a stoic way of letting you know he saw through the cracks in your poorly constructed armor. Taking the role of a caring older brother, more so than your own.

"Have we lost Steve again?" Lawrence asks the group.

Eddie nods across the room. "He's exactly where you think he'd be," he scoffs as you catch a glimpse of Steve, trailing Freddie like a lost puppy.

"Um, excuse me?" a short girl mumbles from behind Eddies' denim-clad shoulder. He turns, glancing down.

"Hiya," he regards her casually, causing her a deep blush to creep across her cheeks. She shoves a napkin and pen at him.

"C-could I get an autograph? Please?"

Eddie smirks at her flustered appearance, making sure to brush her fingers as he grabs the items out of her trembling hand.

"And what beautiful name should I be making this out to?"

She lets out a jarring high pitched giggle as she stumbles over her words. "Oh, uh, Shelley."

"Well, here ya go, Shelley," he hands the napkin back to her, now adorned with his messy scrawl. "Maybe I'll see you later."

She squeaks as she hurries back to her shrieking friends who are huddled conspicuously off to the side.

"Gross," you state. "She's a child. Probably one of the executive's kids."

He rolls his eyes dramatically. "Gotta keep em' interested, Bun. As the heartthrob of the group, it's my sworn duty."

"Slow your roll there, Rob Lowe," Rich interjects. "I think Y/N's giving you a run for your money in this dress."

You glance down at the Freddie approved ensemble. It was eye-catching for sure, precisely what you were going for. It's black suede straps crisscrossed strategically against your body, giving peaks of the skin underneath.

"It looks good, Bun," Rich assures you.

“Guys,” you all turn your attention to Steve, who has just joined the circle clumsily. His pupils are blown wide from his current blood alcohol content, and he sways slightly on his heels.

"I- I have something to say," he announces to the group, getting your attention. You all wait patiently as he hesitates, clearing his throat twice before lowering his voice. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m gay.”

You glance around to the other boys whose expressions mirror your own warm smile. You’d all known Steve was gay since high school, not that any of you had talked about it. You had just assumed it was something unspoken. That he’d tell you whenever he was ready or met someone good enough to introduce to you all.

Steve gapes at your expressions. "Where is the shock? I was expecting shock and awe, people!"

"Steve, please don’t take this the wrong way. But I’m assuming we’ve all known for a while," Rich says gently. You all nod lightly in agreement.

"How?"

"Do you remember the types of girls who used to throw themselves at you? Like Becky Whale? Man, I would’ve killed for Becky Whale to throw something at me. But you never took them up on it," Lawrence elaborates.

Steve smiles around at all of you, his shoulders visibly relaxing.

“I had a crush on Eddie in high school,” he confesses.

Eddie pumps his fist lightly. “Fuck yeah.”

“Oh, c’mon!” Lawrence exclaims. “You just had to boost that ego, didn’t ya? I know pretty boys are great and all, but I’m the one with the big soft cuddles. People love big soft cuddles!”

Rich expands his arms as he brings you all in for a hug.

You kiss Steve gently on the cheek. “I’m proud of you, bud,” you whisper.

"Thank you guys, I just felt like it was time. And now that that's out of the way," Steve grunts as you all untangle yourselves. “I’m gonna go find Freddie. He said he’s taking me out to a club after this!”

He skips away with a grin, back towards Freddie, who catches your eye with a knowing smile and winks. It seems you weren’t the only band member who had found a fairy godmother in Mr. Mercury.

You all lightly laugh affectionately at your friend until Eddie and Lawrence wander off to scope out the food situation. You lean against the bar next to Rich, glancing around at the loud laughter erupting from the outgoing crowd. One person noticeably sticks out. A sullen John Deacon sits at the end of the bar, hunched over what looks like a glass of whiskey.

"Looks like he's in need of a friend," Rich surmises.

You tear your eyes away from the sorry sight to look at him. "They're around here somewhere," you shrug.

He rubs your arms up and down lightly before slinking into the crowd, knowingly leaving you alone.

You sneak a peek over at John. He runs one hand through his curls as the other absentmindedly stirs the straw of his sweating drink. You watch him sigh, bringing the glass to his lips and gulping down the spirit without so much as a wince.

Hesitantly making your way over to him, you rub your clammy hands over the expensive material of your dress. This is the opposite of avoidance, you scold yourself, silently willing your feet to change direction. But your willpower has seemingly left the building.

You carefully perch yourself on the stool next to his, as not to disturb his brooding. He glances over quickly, doing a double-take when he realizes who it is.

"Oh, hello there," he greets you with a small smile. "I didn't know you had arrived."

You nod your head lightly. "How could you? It seems you set up camp over here."

"Ah, yes," he breathes, straightening his posture. "Wasn't our best tonight, I'm afraid. Not much to celebrate."

You take a sip of your water as you continue to nod silently.

"Actually," he begins, angling his body towards yours, almost slipping off his stool as you notice his apparent intoxication. "I was thinking about that conversation we had. When I met your spritely grandfather."

"Oh?" you question. Keeping your face neutral even though your heart was already buzzing at the fact.

"Yes. Mostly about how naive I was—all that bloody nonsense about finding a home. Do me a favor and never take my advice, will you? You'll end up completely wrecking yours."

This was a bad idea.

"It's just- you draw these lines for yourself in the sand," he drawls, waving his hands about in front of him. "A stupid phrase, really. Where did it even come from?"

"The Bible," you tell him quietly.

He lets out a big sigh, rolling his head back to stare at the ceiling.

"Well, it's gotten it wrong before, hasn't it?"

You simply hum an acknowledgment, too scared to probe for fear of where this was going.

"Anyway, you draw these lines. Moral, physical, promises you make to yourself, things you swear you’d never do, dreams to accomplish," he lists out. "But sand moves about, dunnit? It blows all over the place. Makes a mess. Gets in your sandwich. And those lines blur. Or fade away. And all of a sudden, you've crossed them without even knowing! Broken those promises. Skipped right over those dreams."

He's too far gone in his rant to register the growing panic sweeping across your features.

"You were right. Sometimes you look in the mirror, and it's just a complete stranger staring back at you, isn't it?"

Trying to keep your breathing steady, you stare at the crumbling man before you. He runs his large hands along his face before ducking back into his former position, signaling for the bartender to bring him another drink.

This is precisely why you should've stuck to your original plan. What were you supposed to say to the man who was so obviously hurting from his failed marriage? So much so that it was pouring out of him. You know that if it weren't for the alcohol, he wouldn't be confiding any of this to you.

But there was a reason the boys called you the mom of the group, and it wasn't because you were the only female. You feel a pang of need to comfort him. You gaze at him, not with pity, but an overwhelming sense of empathy for the man and make up your mind.

You clear your throat to answer, brushing away your own warnings about how it would only sink you deeper into your fascination with him.

"I was wrong, actually," you start as he brings his head up to look at you. "And you know what phrase I hate? That people don't change."

He furrows his brow but remains silent as you continue.

"Maybe we're not made up of lines in the sand. Maybe we're the wind?" You try not to cringe at yourself and your poor use of metaphor. "And winds sometimes blow in different directions... but that's okay because it's where life is supposed to take them." Falling silent, you decide to quit while you’re ahead.

You're not ahead. You're not even out of the gate. What the fuck was that?

A slow smile inches onto his face as he holds your stare. "How did you get so wise for someone your age," he teases.

"And what age would that be?"

His mouth opens and closes as he studies your face. "Twenty?"

"Mm, close. Twenty-four."

"Really?" he ponders. "Freddie mentioned you dropped out of university."

"Ah, yes. The university I could only go to after working to afford it," you explain.

He continues to stare, the look in his eyes shifting slightly as he takes you in. A look that matches the color and intensity of uncharted, open water. You need to get out of here.

"Well, that explains your extraordinary use of analogy then."

Dragging your eyes off of his, you glance around at the party you were missing. Gladly missing, unfortunately.

"I should go check on Steve. He's having a bit of a night," you tell him as you stand. "Try not to drown yourself in those," gesturing to the new glass of whiskey in front of him.

"How can I drown myself? I thought I was the wind," he points out with a grin.

Before any more banter can ensue, you simply smile and make your way back to your friends. Thinking to yourself that maybe lines in the sand weren't so bad. And that perhaps it was time for you to start drawing some of your own.

#john deacon #john deacon fic #john deacon imagine #john deacon x reader #angelofmydreams

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serararku · 3 years

Text

Crescendo: Castrum Aeternium

Tullus sas Virilus was accompanied by an entire century to escort him safely through the wilds of Mor Dhona; all of which were carefully examined and hand picked himself to put his paranoia to rest. Failure was not an option he would entertain, and after witnessing firsthand how the Emperor found more to be desired from the last man in charge of Castrum Aeternium, he wasn't about to leave this mission to an incompetent underling; there was simply too much ceruleum on the line to let this end up in flames.

The night was fading. Beneath the cusp of the dwindling moonlight, the small stretch of trees remaining in Mor Dhona proved the ideal spot for her ambush. They all resided in the dark, separated, isolated, and at their positions, waiting for their signal to proceed with S’era’s plan. Conobharo Cobharo sat on the outskirts of the virgin forest, humming glibly in the getaway carriage with a tangled mess of wires and cables in his lap. He had just finished setting up his part of the plan, and had devoted the nerve-wracking waiting to the formation of a new ditty for his incoming Imperial guests. "Come out ye black an' reds, come out an' face me head-ta-head…"

Sir Pherond Baldarrak stood beside his gilded chocobo to await the impending battle from the west, gazing up at the pale moonlight while he readied himself for battle. R’zevi, on the other hand, traveled remarkably light, and remained hidden along the cliffs, sitting cross-legged with his eyes closed and mind focused on the task set before him. Lastly S’era remained at the peak of the nearby plateau, keeping an eye out for the infamous black armor and glowing magitek colossi while she waited for K’thalen to arrive.

She paced back and forth, staring intensely at the treetops below for any sign of the Garlean presence. All she could think about was spilling their blood and making them suffer- every time she closed her eyes she saw S’tage’s cold sunken face. A fire in her gut kept her warm in this freezing morning, and even now, when all was quiet and peaceful, her heart pounded against her chest and she craved violence.

A twig snapping behind her was enough for S’era to spin around on her heel and draw her sword. “Who’s there?!” She blurted out, straining to recognize the silhouette approaching her; but the sudden flash of his striking yellow eyes put her mind at ease.

“Don’t cut my head off, lass. It’s yours truly.” K’thalen stepped through the underbrush and out into the pale moonlight with his magitek rifle slung over his shoulder. “We uhh… we need to talk.”

“You’re late.” Was all she responded with, at first. She turned to point at the treeline with the edge of her blade, before continuing with, “Are you going to get into position, or is this another attempt to second-guess myself? Because if it’s the latter, don’t waste your breath. We’re here now, we’re ready, and we’re minutes away from this battle commencing. Plus, you swore you would repay your debt.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “After tonight, consider us even.”

K’thalen grinded his teeth together while he stared at this stubborn broad; it felt wrong to say anything now, not while her heart bled for a ghost, not while her mind was made up. But he had to anyway. “I found out who killed S’tage and mailed him to our apartment.” Her eyes widened, but she didn’t say a word. After a long pause and awkward silence, he opened his mouth and forced it out. “It was your master, lass. Lord Isenhart.”

Slowly the tip of her sword was lowered to the ground. A rock the size of a goblin’s head sat in her stomach as she stared at K’thalen, her eyes glittering a steely blue. She opened her drying mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat. “Lass…” he whispered, taking a step forward. “I think he did it to stop you from gettin’ yourself killed.”

“My life…” She answered weakly. “Is not his to d-decide…” S’era looked down at her trembling hands during her long pause, feeling tears beginning to swell in her eyes. Hadriel was the only one she knew who could survive a castrum by himself- the only one capable of slaughtering scores of Garleans without breaking a sweat. The burns from when he ordered her to stick her hand into the fireplace to begin her training was proof enough he was capable of great cruelty- but this went beyond what little understanding she had for that man. S’tage’s corpse, the mocking letter, all of it- she couldn’t believe it. She refused. “You’re certain…? Absolutely?”

“He said so himself.” K’thalen inhaled sharply before straightening up. “Era… this battle. This ambush… it’s a waste of time, aye? Let’s go back to the apartment… and plan our next move.”

The sadness scrawled across her face slowly shifted to anger. Her fingers curled into a fist on one hand, while sliding her uchigatana back into its sheath with the other. “You’re lying.”

“Era…!”

“He could have stopped me at any time. He could have refused to train me. He... he could have taken my hand if he so pleased.” S’era paused long enough to blink the blinding tears away. “He would never write such a disgusting letter. No… I don’t believe you. He just doesn’t want me to get hurt.”

“We have proof.” He sighed, taking another step closer.

S’era narrowed her gaze at him. “We?”

“She’s down the hill.” K’thalen answered, his ears flattening against his head. “Let’s go see what she has to say, lass.”

“We don’t have time for this.” She turned her back to K’thalen to gaze down at the treeline again. “The platoon could be here any minute and you’re wasting your breath trying to throw me off. If you’re so terrified of dying, then go- run back to New Gridania where it’s safe. I’m here for answers, not excuses… and I don’t want some craven watching my back when the battle starts.”

“As I suspected. Like talkin’ to a wall.” K’thalen pinched the bridge of his nose and took in a deep breath. “I’m here to help you survive this, Era. But this battle… it’s a whole century versus five people. And if Tullus sas Virilus is really among them… he’ll be packin’ some heavy weaponry we don’t have the means to handle.”

“I don’t have a choice!” S’era shouted at the top of her lungs, startling K’thalen. “S’tage was murdered! His killer roams free! I will avenge his death one way or another- I swear it!”

“Come with me, then. Hear what Vyna has to say.” K’thalen sounded defeated, but the mention of her name was enough to put shock in S’era’s voice.

“Vyna… is here?”

The path they meant to cross that was scheduled to be void of patrols was instead guarded by a single Miqo’te, no taller than S’era herself. A familiar raven-colored long coat waved in the air about a black suit. She rested her hands on a rapier whose point was buried in the ground. A white mask adorned the woman’s visage, covering it completely, black streams of tears painted on it from below its empty eyes to where its lips should’ve been. White hair flowed about her as the wind blew ever gently. Two katanas appeared to hang at her back. She was a vigilant statue waiting for something, or someone.

None of this made any sense to K’vyna. To blame Hadriel for this transgression that S’era held so close to her heart? It made sense in a way if his aim was to give her pause, or stop her, but why would he pit her against his other pupil. He was always calculated and calm. There was always a motive to his actions. But if she faced S’era with the wrath she held in her bosom and proclaimed that their own master orchestrated her descent into madness, wouldn’t that put them both at risk? S’era would be out for blood and she would have no choice but to retaliate in kind. He wouldn’t pit them both against each other in a life or death battle… would he? Unless… he trusted her enough to win with all certainty. Even then, she wasn’t aware of how much S’era had improved under his tutelage. This all seemed like a rushed, hurried mistake. K’vyna’s breath trembled as she awaited the person she almost regarded a little sister. Someone she brought to his attention. This was her fault.

“Vyna…?” A familiar voice came from the bushes, following footfalls, crumbled leaves, and snapping branches. S’era came out from the darkness first, her gaze bewildered the moment they settled on her longest-running friend; it seemed like ages ago when she was scrubbing tavern floors, speaking with this once-stranger. “What are you doing here…?”

“Era…” she spoke softly at first, “You need to go back.” a confident, commanding tone came from the Miqo’te with trembling breaths just a moment ago.

“I came here to kill Garleans and get to the bottom of this…” She retorted, as K’thalen stumbled out of the bushes behind her. “Help me bring S’tage justice. Help me avenge him.”

Sand flew from the earth as K’vyna drew her rapier from the ground. Her heart weighed heavily, reluctant to sell out her master even at his own request. She knew this was wrong. Teeth audibly grounded for a moment, “There’s no point in going. Era… please. Come with me, abandon this quest you’re on.” S’era glanced over her shoulder at K’thalen, but he remained silent. She then looked down at her burned hand, blinking away another round of tears, before her gaze slowly crept back up to K’vyna.

“Is it true?” She weakly mumbled, her words catching in her throat. “Did Hadriel kill my S’tage?”

K’vyna’s heart leapt into her throat as she found herself unable to speak. She knew what she had to say but couldn’t muster the courage to lie to herself, her sister, and her master. She knew that it wasn’t true, it couldn’t be true… could it? “Era.” she changed the script ever so slightly, “I’m here to stop you. If you… if you want revenge you shouldn’t continue on this path you’re on. Era. Please… stop.”

“I can’t.” S’era forced out the words. “They deserve to die for what they did to him and everyone else they enslaved. This is justice.” Slowly she turned to peer over at the valley below. “If you plan on stopping me… then do it. But I’ll defend myself…”

K’thalen made just enough noise with his boots for S’era’s ears to turn to his direction. “Era, this isn’t-”

“Stay out of this, Thal. Go back to your position and wait for the signal.” S’era didn’t have the time nor the desire to try and convince two people at the same time. K'thalen lowered his ears before returning to the shadows. S'era would never admit it, but she was tired. Tired of being angry. Angry at being so tired. She just wanted this nightmare to end, to wake up and find herself still preparing to save her promised Nunh from the castrum. With everything that’s transpired over the past week, she swore this was all just an elaborate prank. A joke in incredibly poor taste. But it wasn’t.

K’vyna huffed inaudibly, “I want to save your life…” She steeled her resolve. “I will stop you.” she pointed her blade at Era. “Prepare yourself.” she offered as an unnecessary warning, giving her fellow pupil the upper hand.

S’era’s gaze flashed wide when she stumbled back and placed her hand on her hilt, drawing her uchigatana just in time to stop K’vyna from crippling her at the knee. The shock of her oldest friend attacking her wore off in between her violent heartbeats, and she had enough time to compose herself for this scuffle. Darting forward, she lunged at the white-haired Miqo’te, blade drawn and ready to spill blood.

“An opening!” K’vyna thought to herself. Her blade was on its way to punish S’era for such a rash move but she found herself hesitating- she withdrew, backstepping and going on the defensive. S’era, on the other hand, kept on her reckless offensive, slashing low to the ground in an effort to get her off balance; if she could get Vyna to fall, she could puncture her leg, leaving her down for the count so she could focus on her mission.

A single step came after each swing, a jump for another, and a sidestep for the last. K’vyna skillfully dodged each sloppy strike yet held no killing intent yet she still held no intention to lose. She would believe in her master and that his faith in her was well-founded. “Verfire.” she whispered, aiming to incinerate Era’s blade. The bright orange flash of fire burst before S’era, but she was ready. Frost formed on the edge of her blade when she turned it sideways and slashed upward, vanishing when the flames turned the ice into a cloud of steam; K’vyna jumped up into the air to avoid getting caught in the creeping haze, far and away from potential harm. “When did you learn how to do that?!” She shouted from atop a tree branch. “Hadriel hasn’t taught you anything of the sort!”

“Hadriel isn’t my only mentor!” S’era shouted back, her glowing pale blue eyes revealing herself in the cloud long before it disappeared. She held her uchigatana aloft and pointed it at K’vyna, but didn’t move to rush forward. “Stay out of my way, you hear?! Or I’ll stop aiming for your legs!”

“If I can just disarm her…” K’vyna thought, weighing her options; the longer this scrap lasted, the higher the chances of someone getting hurt became. She was here to distract S’era long enough for Hadriel to show up- yet he was still nowhere to be found. “It doesn’t have to be like this you know!” She decidedly huffed, sliding her rapier back into its sheath. “Think of what you’re doing! If even one Garlean manages to escape your ambush, all of the Revenant’s Toll will be in danger! There are children there!”

The woman slowly lowered her uchigatana until the tip of the blade tapped along the ground. She blinked away a few more tears, and reluctantly, her grimace softened into a disapproving frown. “I’m just…” Her voice was almost too low for K’vyna to hear her properly. “I’m just so tired… tired of training. Tired of waiting. I dreamt of the day I would be in his arms so often… there was nothing else… nothing else I wanted more.” Her head lowered until her straw hat concealed her eyes. “I just… I need to know who did this. I need to know who killed S’tage Tia.”

“He might have once been a proud Nunh in your tribe but he has no one else to blame but himself. He got captured. He got killed. Now consider whose lives you are risking for someone who is nothing but at fault in all this…”

S’era didn’t move an ilm, nor did she say a word. She stood there as if frozen in time, staring off at nothing. She hated the Garleans and everything they represented now more than ever. She wanted them to suffer for what they’ve done to S’tage, and everyone else they’ve tortured, enslaved, or slain- but K’vyna was right. Innocent people resided in the Revenant’s Toll: unarmed civilians, families, and children. Despite being so close to three separate castrums they would be overwhelmed if any of them retaliated for what she planned to do. But letting them get away with this injustice? Letting Castrum Aeternium get off scot-free? It didn’t sit right with her- and she would carry the burden of mercy and restraint for the rest of her days.

“Alright.” Her voice trembled on each syllable. Slowly she raised her head to meet K’vyna’s gaze. “But you’re going to help me find who did this. Who really did this.”

“S’era…” she rasped out. She was smarter than she gave her credit for, but at the same time, perplexingly foolish. She was prudent enough to gauge the situation properly, but dumb enough to want to go on a suicide mission on a wish and a prayer. Her feelings drove her, which made her dangerous. “I’ll help you…” K’vyna admitted, not wanting to continue implicating her master wrongfully even if that was the order given to her. “We’ll do this together… okay? I promise… just… come back with me.” she laid down the rapier.

Tullus had just reached the edge of the woods. He sent his scouts in first before the full caravan ventured in shortly after, keeping his heavy magitek colossi right where he wanted them; close at hand and covering his flanks. There was something off about how the forest around him seemed to be as silent as a crypt. He didn’t like it, truth be told, but he felt confident anyone foolish enough to attack him when he was this vulnerable would pay with their lives long before they got close. “What is taking you so long?” He barked into his wrist-mounted radio, while keeping his eyes fixed on the surrounding darkness. “Do I have to do everything myself?!”

“The path is clear, sir.” The voice cracking over his receiver put his mind at ease. “No sign of the savages.”

“Good. Good.” He raised his hand and motioned the platoon forward. “To Castrum Centri! On the double!”

“Oh no…” The sound of splintering wood carried far enough for S’era to hear. She rushed to the edge of the steep incline to peer down into her ambush spot; she couldn’t see the Garleans from here, but she could see the trees in the distance shifting and toppling, as well as the foreboding cerulean lights glittering on the armor of a pair of magitek colossi. She reached up and activated her linkpearl. “Cobo?! Are you there? Can you read me?!”

The plucky plainsfolk's voice rasped desperately through thick static, and not a word was understood. Scrambling communications was a common tactic Garlemald employed… but why would they be using it now? K’thalen clutched his rifle and used his scope to get a better look; S’era couldn’t see what he was looking at, but watching his ears slowly flatten against his head was all she needed to know. “Cobo!” She tried again, “Turn them off! Disable the charg- ah!”

THOOOOOOOUUUUUUMMMM…

All three Miqo’te saw the flash before they heard it. A brilliant blotch of red and white light peppered the forest, followed by trees swaying against the shockwaves rolling across the woods. They clapped their hands over their ears and closed their eyes once the sound of rolling thunder and the scorched wind swept over them. When S’era stood back up and opened her eyes, she was greeted to a swath of flames and a growing column of smoke; the explosives she bartered from the goblins of Idyllshire had under-promised and over-delivered, sending globules of ignited napalm to scatter in every direction. Another round of explosions rocked the once peaceful woods, but this time the flames burned an eerie blue; the Garleans were carrying refined ceruleum with them.

Sir Pherond Baldarrak glanced down at the blinding light as he swung his leg over his chocobo’s saddle. “About time.” He lifted his gauntlet over his helmet and pulled the visor down, before he pressed the spurs on his treads against the thighs of his mount. “We ride Sophea! For S’tage! For S’era!”

“No! No no no…!” S’era yanked K’thalen’s rifle out from his hands and peered through the scope to see Pherond charging down the cliff toward the blaze; R’zevi had doubtlessly seen the signal and moved in to engage as well. “We…! It’s too late!”

“We can’t let a single Garlean escape, lass!” K’thalen politely yet firmly took his magitek rifle back. “Especially Tullus! Or Revenant’s Toll is history! Again!”

“C-cover both ends of the woods! Don’t let any of them escape!” S’era shot a weary glance to K’vyna before clutching the hilt of her uchigatana and leaping off the side of the cliff.

“Era… what have you done?!” K’vyna stood there in shock, staring at the chaos that erupted before her. These explosions were loud enough to wake the dead, or worse- the other castrums; if they are alerted, then their reinforcements would come swiftly and in lethal force. But there was no way to contact her friends now that her traps went off. There was only one real option left.

Pherond loosened the iron flail on his hip and began swinging it high and hard over his head; the spiked ball at the end whistled through the smoke and embers when he reached the bottom of the hill, and it took nearly all of his strength to keep it from ripping out of his gauntlet. His eyes flashed underneath his visor when he saw his first target- a legionary separated from the rest of the platoon from the explosions. The soldier looked up at Pherond in shock right before he swung the flail in a downward arch, striking him in the helmet. The Knight began to spin the flail again, hearing the full helmet strike a nearby tree, as his chocobo Sophea continued the charge. Two legionaries caught alone this time, with one trying to revive the other; the flail nailed him dead-center in the chest, sending his broken body backflipping into the dirt. Sophea pecked at another soldier with her armored beak, shattering his shoulder and collarbone underneath his armor. The Knight switched hands amidst the preparation of another swing, striking the back of the neck of a distracted medicus; the flail caught this time, and Pherond was moving too fast to pull the spiked ball out from the falling corpse- so he was forced to let it tear from his grip and leave it behind.

In the distance he saw the towering shadow of a magitek colossus. A leg was covered in napalm while it struggled to remain standing, using its massive blade as a cane to keep it upright; a perfect time to take it down for good, as any. He whipped the reins and Sophea took off, trampling and goring several more soldiers with her long and curved talons. The Knight grit his teeth when his armor began deflecting arrows but he didn’t flinch, reaching up over his back to pull his greatsword from its harness. The colossus turned its tiny head in his direction and pushed off the ground to force itself to stand, but the ceruleum burning at its armor caused one leg to buckle, and it dropped to a knee again.

"For Ishgard!" Pherond leaned to his right and swung the heavy blade as hard as he could, clipping the dirt and grass along the ground with his crescent arch. Right under the knee, just between two plates, his greatsword bit down hard through the fiber mesh underlay and crippled the mechanical monstrosity for good. “Sophea, go! Yaah!” The Knight swung his leg around and slid off his chocobo’s saddle, his open palm striking the flank of his mount to send her running. Pherond balanced the greatsword on his shoulder and charged at the colossus again, covering the eye slots on his visor with his free hand to protect himself from the Garlean Sagittarius Archers from getting any lucky shots.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

His heavy boots carried him and all his weight forward, slamming against dirt, then stone, then the length of a fallen tree trunk. Pherond gripped his greatsword over his head when he heaved himself into the air toward the crippled machine, and with a surge of strength he brought his mighty weapon down onto the neck with an executioner’s precision.

Garlean soldiers scurried through the forest in an effort to surround and overwhelm this armored knight, completely leaving their backs to the rest of the burning woods. Gliding over the underbrush, hidden in the trees, and landing in the darkness behind them, R’zevi waited until the perfect time to strike; and he didn’t have to wait long. He pressed the knuckles of his left hand against the bark of a sturdy tree and closed his eyes. “Ssssshhh… hooooohhhhh…” Four deep breaths would be enough- he slowly twisted his fist against the bark before both eyes and all five chakra shot open; power surged through his right hand and gathered in his fist, and he sent it forward with everything he had.

The five soldiers standing in the tree’s path never saw it coming. It was ripped clean by the roots and sent flying into the squad, rolling over their crushed bodies before shattering against its brother trees in an explosion of splintered wood and dirt. R’zevi dashed across the open field with more power surging into both hands, setting them ablaze. A Garlean Hoplomachus Gladiator raised his shield in his defense, but the Monk’s fists dented the shield on the first punch, shattered his arm on the second, and sent his broken body flying on the third.

“Over there! Another one!” A soldier cried out, alerting everyone within earshot. Bows and gunblades alike were whipped around to fire on him, but he was almost too fast for the eyes to follow. R’zevi performed a powerslide toward the closest Garlean, and with a forceful kick with both feet, inverted the man’s knees and shattered his legs into pieces. His blazing fist swiped away the lunge of a lance before imploding a man’s breastplate; R’zevi held his broken body and used him as a meat shield against all manner of arrows and spells on his way to cover. “Where did he go?! Don’t lose sight of him!” Like the fleeting evening breeze, the Monk vanished almost as quickly as he appeared.

“Stay away from the trees!” Someone warned, causing the few standing dangerously close to the shadows to move more out in the open. Just as they began to cover each other’s backs, the heavy pounding and rumbling of earth caused them all to look to the west; a giant tree as ancient as it was thick came toppling over with a crackling rattle. Most of the soldiers leapt out of the way in either direction, but one was crushed for his slow reaction.

R’zevi appeared again to catch the divided forces off guard. He twirled through the air and caught one in the side of the helmet with his heel, before a barrage of punches turned another into a crumpled heap of broken bones and dented armor. One by one they died before they could even defend themselves, all except for one- he held his gunblade steady and open fired, nicking the Monk’s ear while he barely dodged an otherwise lethal shot to the head. “Come here you filthy savage! Let’s see how good you really a-” The soldier didn’t even have time to finish his taunting once R’zevi practically glided through the air to him; he pointed his gunblade at him for a point-blank shot, but barrel nor the blade never found its mark. The Monk caught the gunblade between the fingers of his left hand, and the palm of his right, and with a violent twist the weapon split in half. A lightning-fast jab to the throat brought him to his knees, but before he could react properly, R’zevi grabbed him by the helmet with both hands and twisted his head all the way around.

Tullus sas Virilus opened his eyes to the blinding orange haze and the muffled sound of his own breathing. The spinning branches overhead were reluctant to slow down, and the dizzying ringing in his head felt like it would never cease. Tullus tasted blood in his mouth, and when he tried to move, a sharp ache struck him in the chest and right thigh. “Sir! Sir!” He finally noticed one of his guards kneeling over him and clutching his hand. “Get up! We have to get you out of here!”

“S-status…” He weakly coughed out while trying to blink his disorienting fatigue away.

“Explosives were concealed in the forest and detonated once we were right on top of them! It’s an ambush, sir!”

Tullus’ eyes opened once the gravity of the situation dawned on him. He clenched his bloodstained teeth through the pain when he forced himself to roll over onto his hands and knees; where the ceruleum canisters he was supposed to deliver once resided, now only a crater of cobalt flames and molten glass remained. “Damn these primitives…! Without that ceruleum the Emperor will have my head…!” His gaze panned to the chaos unfolding around him; men were cooked alive in their suits, turning dependable armor into melted prisons. The discordant wails of his subordinates filled Tullus with dread. Many soldiers clawed at their own bodies to put out the fires, while corpses crumbled and burning lay sprawled about the once quiet forest. It was clear he wouldn’t be able to regain control of his men- not while the burning ceruleum interfered with his communications; they were cut off, disoriented from the ambush, and were easy prey to those that set him up.

“Sir!” The soldier grabbed his attention again. “We need to get you to safety! The fate of Castrum Aeternium depends on it!”

“Raagh…!” A sharp groan slipped from his clenched teeth when he was hoisted to his feet; his magitek suit saved him from a mortal wound, but he could feel more than a few of his ribs were broken behind his dented breastplate. He reached up with a quivering hand and yanked his helmet off for some much-needed fresh air, letting the wind brush against the wet spot on the side of his head. “S-sound the retreat! Back to the castrum…! We’ll be sure to repay these fools once we’ve regrouped!”

“Sir! Behind us!” Tullus strained his neck to look over his shoulder; a heavily armored knight dropped from above and landed on one of his men, crushing him beneath a knee. On his way up he put all his weight behind the swing of his greatsword, cleaving two men in half at once. Red light flashed from his visor when he drove his blade into the ground, causing large black teeth to shoot up from the nearby shadows to tear several soldiers to pieces. Another foe appeared from the dark, smashing his fists and heels against the hard armor of those under his command, sending broken bodies twirling, spinning, and flipping into the dirt.

“Overwhelm and surround them!” Tullus commanded, clutching at his chest. “Buy me enough time for my escape!” Only a handful of his most loyal soldiers stayed at his side to escort him to safety; the others raised their weapons with a rallying cry and charged the two who dared spill Garlean blood this morning. He looked up at the familiar sound of gunfire- flash after flash of a muzzle proved those two weren’t working alone. Not that it mattered; once he brought down the full might of Castrum Aeternium on their heads, they would be lucky if he was in a gracious enough mood to give them quick deaths. It was a long limp back to his fortress on foot, but perhaps if he could just get away from the burning ceruleum, he could call in air support to pick him up.

“What’s that? Ahead of us!”

Tullus snapped his gaze forward to see a lone silhouette atop a small hill. The twitching black tail and the glimmering blue eyes under the straw hat revealed it was yet another savage, but this one was armed with only a uchigatana. “I will only ask you once!” A female voice called out. “What did you do to the silver-haired Miqo’te you held prisoner?!”

He wasn’t in the mood for conversation- especially one with lesser races. “What are you idiots waiting for?! My blessing?!” Tullus spat, glaring angrily at his guards. “Kill her! Kill her now!”

Four times S’era performed her mudra hand gestures. Four times the air around her fingers shimmered in the growing morning light. She gripped the hilt of her uchigatana with both hands and pulled the blade up into the air; lightning came down from a cloudless sky to strike the tip of the steel, wreathing her weapon in a cloak of fire and lightning. Unperturbed by the savage’s tricks, three Garlean swordsmen rushed her position while the two riflemen at Tullus sas Virilus’ side took aim and fired. She saw the flash of their gunblades, felt the gentle tug against her armor, but all she could hear was the familiar ringing in her head.

Eeeeeeeeeeee…

Her ninjutsu enchantments quickly destabilized until the blade turned white hot from the excess heat. S’era brought her blazing blade down with all the strength and speed she could muster, slicing through the first man’s like a hot knife through butter; flipping the edge around, she brought it back up, taking his arm and head in one clean fluid motion. Her uchigatana was plunged into the chest of the next in line, slicing him into pieces with four violent pulls of her blade. The third soldier collapsed onto his rear, dropping his weapon and panicking at the sight of how easy her terrifying weapon cut his comrades down. “W-wait! Wait mercy! MER-!” S’era leaped into the air and landed on him, thrusting into the eye-hole of his helmet.

Morale was abandoned at the drop of a hat. The two riflemen didn’t bother hanging onto their weapons when they tried to make a run for it. “Where are you g-going?! COWARDS!” Tullus’ insults fell on deaf ears. S’era slid her sword along the ground before flicking it upward, sending a slash of fire and lightning to ravage one of the craven until he fell lifeless onto his face. She plucked the wakizashi sword from its sheath and hurled it into the back of the last man.

"You bitch…!" Tullus dove at the rifle on the ground and raised it up to send her to whatever primitive gods she worshipped; no sooner did he fire the last round in the chamber did she vanish in a cloud of smoke. Tullus sas Virilus slowly rose to his feet while he strained to locate her again. His body screamed in agony from his broken ribs, but now wasn't the time to worry ab-

S'era reappeared behind him. He spun around to slice at her with his gunblade, but she struck first.

"AARGH!" Her glowing blade sliced through both the weapon and his wrist with ease. Tullus dropped to his knees with a hard thud as he clutched his burning stub with his other hand; the searing heat from her uchigatana instantly cauterized his wound, but the agony stopped him from rising to his feet. Instead of cutting him down right then and there, S'era became as still as a statue.

Defeating such a high-ranking Garlean was… easier than she expected. Five people and a king’s bounty of explosives slaughtered nearly a hundred people in the span of an hour- and all without any casualties on their end. If killing Garleans was this easy, she would have stormed Castrum Aeternium by herself months ago. After all, why not? This Tullus sas Virilus was a total pushover… barely worth the effort to even swing this blade. And yet victory tasted hollow in her mouth. S’tage was still dead. His killer was still loose. And no matter how many Garleans she put to the sword, neither of those would ever change. If only she was faster. If only she was braver.

“Are you p-planning on staring me down to d-death…?” Tullus sneered, forcing his words through clenched teeth. “Finish what you started! S-strike me down and be cursed!” S’era snapped out of her dazed stupor and lifted her blade over her head. She could have split his head in half, or severed his shoulder from his torso, or even drove the edge of her blade between his eyes; but those options were still too quick for her liking. She obeyed the ringing in her head when she snapped her boot into his chin, shattering his teeth and causing his head to whip back. When he collapsed onto the ground, she planted her bloodstained boot on his thigh, before slowly driving her superheated uchigatana into his stomach.

“AARRGH! AAAAUUUGH! HAAAHHHGH!”

His agonizing screams were music to her ears. She twisted the blade and drove it deeper into the ground until the melted blade finally snapped, shattering at the hilt. Then she stood there to watch him writhe and struggle against his torturous execution, losing the rest of his fingers when he desperately tried to pull the blade out of his roasting body.

“S’ERA!” A familiar voice cried out. Hadriel Isenhart stepped forward with his hand on the hilt of his katana, but the color was flushed from his face while he glared at her.

There were tears streaming down her face despite her grin spread from ear to ear. Watching Tullus sas Virilus burn to death in his armor was perhaps the most satisfying thing she’s ever watched, but the sight of her master robbed her of what little joy she could scrounge up from this mess. In a heartbeat the ringing in her head from her dizzying anger and righteous fury had fallen silent, and in that moment she realized just how exhausted she was. She didn’t understand why he began sprinting- was he going to kill her? The forest floor began to spin when she looked down and touched her stomach; she pulled back her hand to find her fingers covered in blood.

S’era looked back up at Hadriel before her leg buckled. She hit the ground hard with a heavy thud against her chest and the side of her face. Unable to keep her eyes open, the last thing she saw were her allies rushing over to her, with their voices so muffled and distant.

Slowly, gently, S’era gave into the temptation, and her consciousness abandoned her.

She found herself adrift in an empty void that stretched onward in every direction, forever. She couldn’t move a muscle- her limbs felt so heavy. It was difficult to think, exhausting to breathe, and impossible to feel. Her limbs were too heavy to move, like countless hands were holding her down.

“It felt good, didn’t it?” A booming voice rolled through the void like an underwater explosion. With nothing else to focus her attention on, she was compelled to listen. “Killing all those men. Putting fear in the hearts of Garlemald. Avenging your fallen Nunh.”

“Who are you…?” S’era could barely speak the words.

“Have you developed a taste for it yet? Do you not want to hear the discordant screams of all those who wronged you? A crescendo so pure and beautiful. You are a songwriter. A poet. A painter.”

“W-what do you want?!”

“How many innocents did Tullus sas Virilus kill? How many prisoners were tortured at his command? They are all guilty. All of them. But by your hand the world is now safer. What do I want? I want you to hear them sing again. Savor the symphony you write with their screams. Let them know your wrath is not to be trifled with, your fury cannot be bartered with, and your hatred will not be calmed until you drown in their blood. Arise, S’era Rarku! Slash and sever until it is done!”

Sera's deathlike slumber came to an abrupt end at the buck of a chocobo carriage rolling into a stone… or a dead animal. “Keep her steady, godsdamnit!” Someone shouted to her left. “Are you trying to knock us out the back?!” Slowly she opened her eyes to the glare of the midday sun, the tattered remains of the drape barely holding together that once served as the canopy, and soft blue eyes staring down at her; her gaze focused and widened at the blood trickling down the side of his head, and the piece missing from his ear.

“She’s waking up…” R’zevi warned. “Did you hear me?! I said she’s waking up!”

“It’s no use! My magica isn’t working!” K’vyna’s voice echoed in her head this time. “These wounds are preventing my spells from healing her! Stop the carriage!”

“We stop and we lose her.” Hadriel chimed in, kneeling over her to inspect the injuries himself. “Just keep pressure on her wounds until we reach Gridania… and give her something for the pain.”

“I can’t…” S’era forced herself to speak, hardly recognizing her own voice. “My... legs…!”

“Era don’t try to move…” R’zevi wiped away the cold sweat glistening on her forehead. “Breathe in. Breathe out. We’re taking good care of you but you have to remain calm okay?”

"Guess sleepin' beauty 'ere finally got done dirt-nappin'.” Only one person she knew had an accent that thick. Across from her sat a rather bruised Lalafell by the name of Conobharo Cobharo; Conor to his friends. His favorite bandana enveloped his right arm, and was stained a deep shade of crimson. “Gave us all a right scare, lass, up an' faintin' an' bleedin' all o'er the bloody place." He winced as pain flared up in his injuries. "Ack… s'pose 'at makes a pair of us, though, aye?"

Sera was hardly in the mood for the inarticulate Plainsfolk's witty rejoinders after all she'd been through. And yet, she had more questions than she knew what to do with, and anything to help get her mind off the dizzying pain in her stomach and her possibly crippled body would be a boon. Curiosity drove her to ask, "What... what h-happened...?"

The bleeding bantam began to chortle, but was interrupted by a blood-flavored cough rising in his throat. “Brain-addled slag with magitek limbs ambushed me. Lucky I'm still availed of all me extremities, lass. Not what I'd trade wounds with ye.” She could barely understand him when she was in perfect health, but simply hearing his voice and mannerisms was enough to put the faintest of smiles on her face. “So… didja skip rope with 'at Tullus feck-shite's innards?"

“That’s enough of that.” R’zevi shot Conobharo a sharp glare. “He’s dead… it’s done.” S’era tried to focus on anything but the pain, but it was unbearable. Her gaze drifted to the front of the carriage to see the backs of K’thalen and Pherond on the reins, driving the whole group away from the chaos she wrought in Mor Dhona; she wanted to ask them if they were hurt, but her jaw was beginning to swell and lock.

Then she looked down. Her left hand was still gripping the warped hilt of her broken uchigatana; she could barely move her fingers in her gauntlet- they would have to cut through the threads to free her hand. She then reached for the pain on her stomach, feeling wetness along her fingers before K’vyna grabbed her by the wrist and forced her hand away. “Don’t touch it!” She snapped. “Don’t look!”

S’era couldn’t help herself; her gaze snapped to her bloodsoaked hand, and the ringing in her head returned once she realized this blood was hers. “She’s panicking…!” R’zevi warned, gently guiding the back of her head into his lap. “Look at me. Keep your eyes on me Era. Breathe in, breathe out.” She looked deep into his eyes but she could barely hear him, the throbbing pain was only made worse the more she tried to move. She tried to force her jaw open to say something- to say anything, but to no avail; she could neither breathe nor think straight, as the fear of death hovered over her like a spectre.

“Restrain her!” Hadriel commanded, moving to pin her arm down while Conor scurried over to help hold down the other. R'zevi continued to stroke her cheeks and temples in an attempt to calm her down, but nothing was working.

"Breathe! Era! … Era?!"

S'era's eyes slowly rolled into the back of her head before she slipped under once again.

---

Mentions: @rzevi-tia-ffxiv @hadriel-ffxiv @conobharo-cobharo-xiv

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richmond58krog · 3 years

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maladaptive-ninja-returns · 4 years

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Kira Vol 2 (2)

The Mistress

CHAPTER 2: You Were Found

Loki x fem!Reader (Kira)

Series: A new chapter begins in Kira’s life. Old secrets, new confessions, surprising allies and unexpected meetings. All of them have one name in common. Loki.

Chapter content: soft feels

Warnings: none

Word count: I’m feeling better today, enjoying the weather, shit scared of thunder and wanting sleep to come early so I don’t wake up in the noon like I did today

MASTERLIST & Taglist in bio, my love

If the air could spell out the emotions floating in this space, it would paint the molecules 'awkward'. But what is more fascinating to witness by anyone who would walk in on the scene is to point out to who is more uncomfortable than the others. You sit across your parents, busy helping serve breakfast around the table, your attention is mostly taken by your grandmother- who is more than delighted to be served fried bread, these little pieces of her favourite edible treasures of fried dough and a hot cup of tea to go with it all. Shireen and Ritviz, your younger sister and brother sit on the other end of the table together, watching you with their piercing gaze as you try to- almost- completely ignore this extraordinarily handsome man sitting right next to you. They dare not blink as this pale sculpted dude looks at the movements of your hands busy at work before landing his haze upon your face. "So-" Ritviz leans in towards Shireen, his eyes still not letting go of this guy who is stuck on his sister for some reason- "this is her boss?"

Shireen hums, narrowing her eyes towards the duo. Taking a cardamom stick from the table basket, she snaps it in half. "Ay, Kira. Give your boss some of that mint sauce you prepared last night." You turn to watch your sister nibble at the cardamom, trying your best to ignore the palpitations and nod with a smile. How does she always know? It is hard to know if the heat your feel at the nape of your neck and cheeks is visible to everyone sitting around you and even harder to let your excited brain find a switch to shut down the anxiety that your body feels on having all the people you love in one room. On the same table. "Have some of this," your mother brings forward an entire serving of her signature chillis fried and spiced in her signature chickpea dough recipe and asks Loki to help himself. "No!" You blurt out when Loki tries to go for them, moving them away to take charge of filling his plate up. "He can't eat chilli," you explain, gathering more judgment from your siblings, "it doesn't suit him." "Tsk. How have you been living with him till now?! You can barely survive without spicy food!" You and Loki turn your heads- quite in sync- to look at Shireen. "Shireen," mother uses her tone to make it known she is crossing some line. But she also makes sure to smile at her daughter's guest and serve him some piping hot tea. "Don't mind her. I dropped her on the floor when she was a baby," you whisper to Loki. Loki blinks and quietly chuckles before turning back to look at Shireen. "We have a cook back home. She makes sure Kira gets everything she wants and needs." There is a gasp forming in Ritviz's lungs right now as he bites into the fried cheese. 'We'? 'Back home'? This dude already planned their retirement?? "So, Loki..." Now all three children turn to look at their mother, knowing full well where this is going the moment she addresses your boss so casually. "Do you have any siblings?" Ritviz facepalms himself harder than anticipated. Shireen grabs a chilli and stuffs it in her mother's mouth while you try to keep a straight face through the embarrassment your family is making you feel. Well, your dad and grandma are an exception because they are more interested in the food. "She doesn't have any idea about what's going on around the world. So..." You trial off with apology bursting through your y/e/c eyes. Your siblings look at your mother with daggers in their eyes, knowing full well she has consumed the Odin family history through the news like an addict ever since you got the job at Sun Corp. More so when you came back home. Your mom can feel their stares. But she too takes her time to look at them and go 'what' like it's a big deal. "Meet me outside after breakfast and I'll tell you 'what'," Shireen threatens her. Loki simply shrugs. "It's fine. I have a brother. He is back in Asgard looking after his father's empire. We don't meet each other much. Mostly because of our work." It is both relieving and painful to watch Loki sail on those words so smoothly and end them with a genuine smile. "These are delicious, by the way," he adds and you have to wonder about a thousand things about your boss in one go. Your mother is won over by that compliment but that does not stop her from prying more into your boss' life. "The business must be going well then?" Loki nods in respect. "We have been going stable. So, that is a plus after the slump the market was facing." "Okay, no business talk on the table," you remind everyone before pouring some soda for you, your grandma and Loki. "The food still might feel spicy. Have the soda first and tea later." Loki pauses between bites and lets that sweet command swirl inside him, his bones feeling alive after so long on hearing that voice talk to him this way. "Yes, ma'am," he replies softly, and you have to hide the flush on your face and the smile on your lips behind your hands. "What happened?" your grandma asks you out of the blue, her strong sixth sense already catching the flutter in your gut. You shake your head and bribe her with the soda. Her focus is redirected instantly, but that does not mean she stops observing you through this heavenly meal. "Why didn't you get married yet?" your mother throws the question out of nowhere, making some people choke on their drink, others groan, and one snicker. "Okay, that's it," you announce, "he's staying at the hotel. Loki, you're staying at the hotel." Your mother's wide eyes look at the usual judgment of the siblings falling upon her. "What? I'm just asking this handsome man about-" "You cannot ask him that, ma," you and Ritvik groan, Shireen tsks and rolls her eyes. Loki, watching this unfold simply smirks at this pure delight he feels sitting in the midst of this family. You get up and go to the kitchen to get some more sauces for the table, all the while glaring at your mother- who chooses to not notice. The fried dough smells and tastes heavenly even though it is one heavy portion for him. Worth it, he shrugs internally and goes for another bite. His right wrist feels a tug and he witnesses the frail wrinkled hand shaking a little before pointing him to the soda bottle in front of him. "Have some sprite," your grandmother urges Loki with a smile in her eyes. Loki feels a tug on the string of his hearts. Those eyes are a mix of green, brown, grey and every mystic power of nature that can be held in the iris of a wise person. That withered face shines bright with plump cheeks and transparent emotions. "I'm...uh...I'm good, Mrs Kane, thank you," Loki reciprocates the smile, "I still have some left in my glass." Grandma nods and pushes her own glass forward. "Then pour me some, will you?" Loki cannot help but chuckle, complying with the orders straight away. "So-" your mother's voice breaks through the soothing air over the table just as you come out of the kitchen- "how much do you earn?" And you walk right back into it.

"Pretty cringy breakfast downstairs." Moving away from the view of the mountains in the near distance, Loki sees Ritvik stand by the rooftop door with a box in his hand. He can see Shireen stand behind him, bluffing disinterest as she pushes his brother away to walk towards the wires and hang the washed laundry to dry under the oddly hot December sun. "Isn't that how families usually are?" Loki smiles in his direction. Ritviz joins the man by the railings, looking at the mountains covered in thick clouds before paying attention to the maroon sweater Loki wears with his midnight blue jeans. The boy cannot help but appreciate the wide knit patterns adorn that white skin with apt beauty. "Nice sweater," he points before turning around to sit down on the platform. "Thanks, it w-" something stops Loki mid-sentence when he remembers the day he found it waiting in his bedroom- "it was a gift." Ritviz hums and smirks. "Good taste," he mutters. Shireen's eyes have been stuck on these two, reading their every word as every fabric getting in her hands is tortured with a sudden flick. "Is she a good assistant? My sister?" the brother asks. Is...that a trick question? Loki blinks at the mountains before smiling at the boy. "The best one I could ask for." A nod of agreement comes from the brother while the sister stands there giving more frustrated flicks to the sweaters. "Cool. Cool cool cool cool. So...she must keep up with whatever it is she's supposed to do." Oh for fucks sake. Shireen groans out loud. "Just ask him already dammit!" Both men turn towards Shireen. One looks at her in confusion while the other widens his eyes in caution at her, shaking his head as discreetly as possible. "Ask...ask me what?" "Nothin-" "How did Kira get hurt?" A crow yells whilst sitting on the top of the malacca as if laughing at the entire situation. Ritviz scratches some itch at the back of his neck while sighing in defeat. "You are supposed to go easy with the questions, Rin. This guy is the reason Kira has a job." "Oh, shut it, Ritz," she scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest, "it's not like he's doing her a favour. She has earned her place, okay? And she got wounded under his care!" Loki can see the scrunched up nose and brows carry on them a rage held in for far too long. Even though those grey eyes have nothing but animosity in them for him, he feels a certain elation on seeing them stand in defence for her sister. "Oi!" RItz is about to yell at Rin but Loki cuts him on the way. "She was in an accident." The chilly breeze takes the words and swirls them around the audience. "The car she was travelling in met with a serious accident. Three of my men died that night. One survived long enough to make sure Kira was all right." The crisp heat of the sun feels warm instead of scorching. Those fine lines on Rin's forehead fade just a little; partially because of hearing those words straight from the lion's mouth, partially because the guilt is transparent to a fault in those smaragdines that shimmer more than they normally should. "I was supposed to be with her that night. I promised to take her home, safe and sound. And I regret every second of not keeping my promise, I assure you that. If there was a way to repent for being careless with Kira's life, I would gladly give myself up for it." The silence that erodes the rooftop brings a lightness to it. Rin sighs and crosses her arms while Ritz cannot bring himself to look at Loki- who is patiently waiting for a word. "Kira told us there were bad guys involved," Rin mutters while letting her fingers play with the wool of her white sweater, "and by us, I mean me and Ritz. Mom and dad have no idea about this. They still think she fell from the stairs." Loki nods. "Did they try to hurt her because of...you?" Ritz cannot help but ask. The weight that has begun to make home over his chest returns after what seems like a while. That uneasy feeling of something scratching over his heart makes him uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, that is not what I meant," Ritz scrunches his face in an apology, "not that she was hurt because of you. What I meant was-" "Yes. I was the reason." "Bullshit!" Rin scoffs and laughs. That...was unexpected. "I'm pretty sure she did something to piss them off. She's done it before and she will def-fucking-nately do it again." Rin is not wrong. And the strong edge in her voice tells him she knows her sister well enough. "What I care about is that now that she works for you, she will be fighting a fight that isn't hers. And, God forbid, if something happens to-" "I won't let it," Loki is already marking down a vow, "I have witnessed it once and I am not going to let anything or anyone make her go through it again." "But you cannot promise me that she won't go looking for danger, can you?" The lift of her brow makes Loki recall why he fell for Kira. "Agreed. I cannot do that. But whatever she brings home with her, I am willing to clean the mess." "You-" Rin has to literally grit her teeth before she can find herself pouring down fire over the man who talks about her sister like... The embers burning inside her bring blood to the surface under her teeth. Of all the goddamn people in this world. She looks at those green eyes shining under the soothing rays; translucent to a fault, standing bare. "Rin," Ritz quietly urges, trying to take her by the arm. "She will get hurt again, won't she?" Ritz stands there, feeling as significant as the wind meddling with the two people standing opposite each other defending their love for the same person again and again. And if they could, they would do it endlessly. "She does not back down from a fair fight," Loki addresses something all three of them already know. "That fight is always to save someone else," Rin adds, never blinking. "One more reason for me to carefully choose my enemies," Loki concludes, never wavering his gaze. A sigh leaves Rin's lungs and she feels her watery eyes closing with a pinch of pain in the eyelids. "The audacity of this bitch," she mutters and walks away, kicking the lone brick in her path that was used to keep the blankets holding drying chilli in place. "Please don't hate her," Ritz presses, sighing at the sight of his sister stomping down the stairs, "she is mad because she does not yet know how to process the emotion of envying you." Loki's brows furrow. And Ritviz can see the question incepting from miles away, making him chuckle and scratch an itch at the back of his head. "Kira stopped singing two years ago," he began, having Loki's full attention at the mention of the name, "all the weird songs and lyrics, all the wacky sound effects and humming disappeared when she fell ill. Of course, to the world, she was suffering from insomnia. But there was so much more. We were worried it would get worse when she left for the cyber city. So easy to get lost there, you know. I knew she cried every night even though she did not say. She always called mom in the morning when she had the energy for another day. I even thought of bringing her back home one day and right that morning she called us to tell us she had landed a job in your company. And her call times got more erratic. But her voice grew stronger. I don't know if it was because of the work or people around her, but she seemed to be better. That was one hope for us till we heard about the accident from you. That must have been hard for you, man. Telling us about her? And at the same time having to tell us to not meet her because of security reasons or whatever was going on? The day she told us she was coming back we thought that was it. That she was done. That she was coming home, done with the world and stuff. The first day she came back home, she was humming." Loki blinks, feeling an old string strike. "She-" Ritz chuckles at his own disbelief- "was covered in bruises and bandages and she was humming. She narrated incidents like she had come back from some great adventure and she talked like could not wait to go back. And the last time I saw her eyes sparkle like that, Loki, was when she had created art. And that was ages ago." Words do not even dare to come up from that lumpy throat. And even though he has no idea, Ritz can only imagine what Loki must be feeling right now. "So, please don't mind if my sister envies the fact that you were able to do something she could not figure out for Kira before. She fears Kira might have experienced a high that might be too dangerous for her. I'm not saying that I completely agree with her, but she might not be completely wrong." Loki exhales, feeling a load leave him as he moves his hand through his hair. "And I'm sure you'll do what's best," Ritz shrugs and smirks, casually pointing at Loki's sweater, "I mean, she doesn't give the best gifts to just anyone." Loki looks down at his sweater and has to take some time to find in himself to chuckle through the smooth roller coaster he was sent on. "Here." He watches Ritz bring forward the box he has been carrying for a while now. "Happy birthday. From me and Rin." There is a pause in every moment in his body. Even on an extraordinary day, it would be unexpected, but this man had stopped keeping expectations from the world a long time ago. No wonder then, that this gesture hits hard right in the chest, squeezing that heart to bring up some buried or burned scripts of having the chance of making new friends and family. It is a melody- on a piano sitting at the edge of a hill, a harp standing by the edge of the sea or a cello right in the middle of a wheat field- slowly but surely engulfing him with a different warmth that he is currently too slow to figure out. The undone ribbon lies on the cemented floor underneath him. The lid hangs in his hand as the ceramic reflects the light in his eyes while he looks with a mixture of confusion and surprise. The polished piece of mug is picked up to watch the animated caricature of two really proud beings leaning next to the words in the middle. One he recognises immediately. He can never miss those golden eyes and that lited brow with a knowing smile. The other? He has a hard time breathing it in because it only ends up making him laugh. The green eyes with the smug look and red sweater with black pants against the pale skin are giving him goosebumps. 'Father of a Big, Bad Wolf' it says.

For a second you feel like he hasn't heard you walk up to him. You are about to call out his name when a thought slides in from that on itching corner of your mind and tells you to pause and breathe in this picture. Loki, the man responsible for an empire that is both feared and respected today; the man with mysteries surrounding him in as dense clouds as the men and women who have fallen for his shadowed personality. The man who can run the world but right now stands on your rooftop with dewy eyes looking at the mug your brother made for him. The man who smiles the best smile when the world isn't looking. The man you have fallen for. Hard. It is a treat to witness this soft moment and it almost stings a little when he raises his head to let his gaze fall on your face. But more than that sting, it burns so well when his pupils dilate and his face glows on sensing your presence. "Do you like your birthday present?" you have to ask. And you cannot undo this big smile that is stuck on your face today. "Like would be an understatement, darling," he mentions while carefully putting the mug back into the box. Darling. The word still holds the power to send a delicious buzz down to your core. More so when he breathes such magic into it. "Oh," you nod and pretend to question, "then I wonder what will happen when you find out the rest of them today." Those fine lines on his forehead appear for second before excitement mixed with disbelief washes them away. "What?" He is barely able to whisper through the rush that is making his skin flush. And you are loving every second of it. "Happy birthday, Mr Loki, sir," you coo sweetly, licking your lips and taking a step closer to him, "let's not waste our time. We have a lot to do in these eighteen hours." And in this very second, he is certain of one thing when he looks at you. He would make sacred grounds in your name, kiss the dirt you walked in and teach the world what love is by painting a picture of you. He will protect that smile with his life and do everything in his power to make the world safer just for you. "Oh, and for your first surprise," you mention with a skip and jump in your step- something he is witnessing for the first time and loving every part of it- "my grandma seems to like you now." He chuckles with a smile so wide that makes you giggle at the adorableness. "That's good to he-wait. What do you mean now?" But you are already turning the corner to walk downstairs, humming a tune. "Kira, what-Kira! What do you mean now?"

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ellewritesathing · 4 years

Text

So Close - S.S. XXXV

Summary: The universe has a funny way of putting the things you want right in front of you, but just out of reach. Stiles and Y/N have been best friends ever since Scott brought him home, but when Stiles realizes that he might want to be something other than best friends, she leaves to go to some fancy private school up North. Now that she’s back though … maybe he’s got a shot? A Teen Wolf AU in which the reader has always been so close to Stiles and yet so far.

Masterlist Prev. | Part 35

Word-count: 2.9k+

A/N: so it’s a little short but we’re building to some important stuff!! hope you like it

Stiles Stilinski inherited many things from his father, one of which being his love of a good surface to map out his thoughts and clues. Stiles used the clear dry-erase board in his room; Noah used the cork board in his office at the police station. It currently sported a few pages from police reports and photos of Tracy and Lucas.

“Chimeras,” Noah said.

“Two dead chimeras,” Stiles said. “Plus eight new ones. So, ten in all.”

“I’m thinking maybe eleven,” Noah said, pinning a new photo to his current array. A photo of Donovan.

Stiles' heart rate spiked and you gripped his hand a little tighter.

“Our station tech guys confirmed something for me,” Noah went on as he turned around to face you. “They said both the holding cell lock and cameras could have malfunctioned because of something electromagnetic.” He picked up the book Malia and Kira found in Tracy’s room. “You said that, uh, that’s how these guys got into Eichen?”

“So you think that makes Donovan one of their chimeras?” you asked. You walked towards Noah and the board to take any attention off Stiles. “But no one’s seen him since that night-” You picked up his red marker that he used to cross out Tracy’s photo “-so they probably killed him just like they killed Tracy.”

Noah caught your hand before you could cross out Donovan’s photo. “We don’t cross him out until I’ve seen a body,” he said.

“Your board,” you said with a smile. You wanted to fix this but you weren’t sure how, so you settled for trying to get Stiles out of the precinct before he combusted. “Listen, we should probably get going if we’re going to make it to school before the first bell.”

“Of course,” Noah said with a smile. He turned and looked over at Stiles a few feet away; he was looking out the window, biting his nails, and with tense shoulders. “Hey, Stiles, you’re uncharacteristically quiet. What do you think about all this?”

“Well, these are all teenagers, right?” Stiles said. He turned away from the window and let go of his hands. “So shouldn’t we be trying to figure out why these teenagers? If the Dread Doctors- if they went through all that … burying them, killing them, breaking one of them out of jail … They couldn’t have been chosen at random.”

“So they had to have something in common that made them right for this experiment,” Noah said.

“Something that made them special,” Stiles said. He caught your eye and took a breath.

“Well, uh, I’ve kept you kids long enough,” Noah said. “You should get going if you’re gonna make it to school on time.”

“School,” you repeated, running a hand through your hair. “What a concept.”

The school day dragged on once you and Stiles split up to go to your classes. The most exciting part of the day was when you tried to print a paper at the library and it was out of ink, and when you looked up you saw Kira slipping out with about a million copies in her arms.

Those copies came in handy when all your friends gathered in your living room to read Valeck’s book about the Dread Doctors.

“My mom’s book club usually has more wine,” Lydia said.

“Well, they also probably didn’t read books that cause violent hallucinations,” Stiles said.

“I’m guessing that’s what the wine’s for,” you said, leaning down to pick up one of the copies.

“Maybe I should have my mother read it,” Lydia said. She picked up the book and flipped through the pages. “She might remember a girl with a tail leaping off the ceiling and attacking everyone.”

“Yeah, if it works,” Stiles said.

Lydia’s voice was much smaller when she spoke again. “It has to.”

“What do you mean, Lyd?” you asked, touching her arm lightly.

She straightened back up and spoke clearly again. “I mean I think I saw them during my surgery. And when I look at the cover of the book … it’s almost like …”

“A memory trying to surface,” Theo said.

You still didn’t like having him around but Scott was insistent you trust him, at least for now, so he was here for book club. Even if no one wanted him here.

“Isn’t that what Valeck wanted when he wrote the book?” Kira asked.

“If they did anything to me,” Lydia said. “I want to know what it is.”

Lydia stormed off, book in hand, to find a place to read while everyone else grabbed a copy off the coffee table. You touched Stiles’ lower back lightly to get his attention as he squinted at the title page and nodded at one of the nearby armchairs.

The two of you settled in, your head resting on Stiles’ upper bicep and your legs tangled up over the coffee table. Every now and then, Stiles would reach up and run a hand through your hair in an attempt to keep himself focused. Your efforts, on the other hand, weren’t so valiant and you fell asleep somewhere around chapter ten.

When you woke up again, Stiles coaxed you into helping him make coffee for everyone. You sat on the kitchen island as he worked, making each cup the way each friend preferred - it was sweet. The lack of words made things feel familiar and secret.

And Theo strolled in.

“Need any help with that?” he asked.

“No, we’re, uh- we’re all good, man,” Stiles said, nodding at him over his shoulder.

Theo nodded and reached his hand out. He said something about understanding and then patted the top of Stiles’ shoulder twice, a bit roughly, before you had the chance to intervene. “Woah, you okay, dude?” he asked when Stiles tensed and muffled a groan.

“Yeah, I just pulled a muscle,” Stiles lied easily. His heart didn’t falter for a second. “You know how it is with the back-to-school rush.”

“Right,” Theo said, drawing out the word. It was clear he didn’t believe him but he dropped it, opting to talk to you instead. He turned to you with an attempt at a friendly smile. “So what do you think of the book?”

“I think if it helps me find the people hurting my friends, then it’s worth it,” you said, sliding off the island and not breaking eye contact. “Because if there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I don’t let anyone hurt my friends.”

Theo’s smile changed in a way that unsettled you. He dropped his eyes for a second before looking back up at you with a low laugh. “Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m trying so hard to be one of your friends.”

“Right,” you said.

“Coffee’s up,” Stiles said, breaking through the tension. “Hey, Theo, if you wanna help, you can go get everyone.”

“Yeah, sure,” Theo said, looking over to give Stiles a smile before heading out of the kitchen.

Stiles turned to you and mouthed the words ‘what the hell do you think you’re doing’ and you gave him a noncommittal shrug that said you’d do better next time. He rolled his eyes and handed you a mug. “Just drink your coffee and don’t punch anyone,” he said. “Alright? Please.”

“No promises,” you hummed over the rim of your mug. You took a sip of the coffee and relaxed slightly. “Okay, let’s finish that book.”

---

School felt more like a dream the next day than anything else, especially with Stiles and Lydia going to the hospital to investigate her repressed memory. You were just going through the motions until someone rushed into your English class asking if anyone had an inhaler. The shock of it grounded you in the real world and you dug through your bag to get Scott’s old inhaler before running for it.

“Scott?” You pushed through the crowd of students that formed around the door to the biology class. “Scott!” He was leaned up against the desk and wheezing but Scott turned his head to look at you. You dropped to your knees and pressed the inhaler into his hands and up to his lips. “Scotty, you gotta breathe, okay? On three I need you to take a big breath, you understand?”

Scott nodded and you counted down. When he breathed in, you pressed down on the inhaler and hoped for the best.

“There we go,” you said gently, pushing back some of the hair on his forehead. “Welcome back to the land of the living. Well, you know what I mean.”

“Where did you get an inhaler?” Scott asked, deep frown lines still on his forehead. “Wait, is this ... my inhaler?”

“Someone had to keep it around when you started leaving it at home,” you said, sliding your hand up to his face while the other held onto his neck. It was an asthma attack, not the flu so you weren’t sure why you were checking for a fever but it made you feel better.

“But I haven’t had an asthma attack in like two years,” Scott said.

“Yeah, and today you did.”

“Are you two okay here?” Ms. Finch asked. You looked over at her and forced a smile, hoping that it conveyed your desire to be left alone. “Okay, the rest of you, clear out!”

Even though Scott insisted he was fine, you didn’t want to leave him alone, and when the lights went out later in the day you rushed over to find him. You found him with Theo, both of them coming out of the stairwell that led to the basement.

Scott explained how Theo came to check on him when the lights went out and they went down to the generator to investigate - the wires were ripped out by another chimera - and now they were trying to get a hold of Malia and Kira.

“Hey, you okay?” you asked when you saw Malia coming down the stairs.

“Yeah, we both are. Kira’s still at the library,” she said, nodding over at Theo and Scott. “Where’s the others?”

“Stiles and Lydia are still at the hospital trying to figure out what happened during her surgery,” you said, running your hand through your hair. You’d feel a lot better if they were with you.

“How long are they gonna be there?” Malia asked.

“They said they’re just waiting for the power to come back on,” Scott said.

“Which is why we’re heading there now,” you finished as Theo pushed open the doors to the parking lot. You mumbled a thank you and pushed ahead to the car,

Turns out that wouldn’t be the last interaction you and Theo had; Scott’s plan was for him to find your mom, Malia to find Lydia, and you and Theo to find Stiles. He ignored your protests about splitting up but Theo grabbed your arm and started pulling you towards the elevator.

“What the hell are you doing?” you asked, yanking your hand back to your body.

“Can’t you smell that?” Theo asked. He took a breath when you stared at him. “Chemo-signals. Stiles’ chemo-signals, specifically. He was here and he was anxious.”

“He’s always anxious,” you said quietly as Theo punched the button on the elevator. It bothered you that you hadn’t noticed it before.

You got off at the same floor that Stiles did and followed the smell of his anxiety all the way to the roof. The last time you were up here was when the alpha pack was still terrorizing your friends - you never thought you’d miss that experience. But in that instant you couldn’t miss anything, you were too overwhelmed by the sight of one of the kids in your homeroom class trying to rip off Stiles’ face.

“Josh?”

Either Theo didn’t go through the same shock that you did or he just recovered faster. He rushed forward, pulled Josh off of Stiles, and then threw him across the roof. They started fighting amidst all the sparks from the ripped up generator but you didn’t pay any attention as you rushed to check on Stiles.

“Hey, hey, you okay?” You held his face in yours but he was still staring at Theo and Josh. How many times were you going to find him delirious and covered in blood? “Stiles, can you hear me?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I-” Stiles blinked over your shoulder and looked back over at you. He lifted his hand to your face for a second before pointing over your shoulder. “I think you should go help him.”

Sparks flew and you lunged over to cover Stiles. They burned your back but you’d heal. By the time it was over and you were back on your feet, Theo was holding onto Josh by the neck. He tore out his throat before you got a chance to stop him. Josh fell to the ground and choked on his blood.

“Stiles …” Theo took a step forward and you pulled Stiles behind you. Theo looked hurt by the action. “You guys can’t say anything. Please- please, don’t say anything.”

“Why the hell not?” you asked, doing your best to maintain eye contact and not look at the body of your dying classmate.

“Because I never said anything about Donovan,” Theo said.

You let go of Stiles’ hand and marched closer, wrapping your other hand around Theo’s neck and pushing him back against the generator. Another mini-explosion of sparks went off as his body collided with the fence, but your hold on his neck didn’t falter. Stiles was right behind you, ducking slightly when the sparks flew but right behind you a second later.

“What did you just say?” you asked.

Stiles called out your name and started to say something but he got cut off. He put a hand on your lower back, but he was still focused on Theo.

“I know what happened to Donovan,” Theo said. “I know everything.”

“You don’t know anything,” Stiles told him.

Theo started struggling under your hand but you gripped tighter, claws coming out to keep him in place. After a shallow laugh he looked over at Stiles. “I was there- at the library.” Stiles nodded at you and you loosened your grip ever so slightly. “Malia found the book. She was texting us to see where you guys were because she said she left the two of you at the library and she hadn’t heard from you since then. I told her I was close by. When I got there, I heard the scaffolding come down.”

Your blood ran cold. That was why she tried to call the other night. If you answered your phone, would you still be in this position now? Would Stiles?

“You saw him?” Stiles asked.

“Just the body,” Theo said. Stiles rubbed your lower back, a signal to let go, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Theo looked down at your hands for a second before continuing, “I watched you come out. I was gonna say something but then I saw the cop car.” He paused and looked down at where Stiles was holding onto you. “And then the body was gone.” Theo’s eyes drifted back to meet Stiles’. “I don’t know who took him. I only saw what you saw, and I didn’t say anything because you didn’t.”

You looked over to see what Stiles was thinking but then you heard the sirens. The very familiar sirens of cruisers that belonged to the Beacon Hills Sheriff Department.

“That’s not an ambulance, is it?” Theo asked.

Stiles shook his head and started walking away. He needed the movement to think clearly.

“We need to get out of here,” Theo said, moving against your grip. You pushed him back again and he held out his hands in surrender.

“I’m not leaving Josh,” you said.

“Fine, then let’s take him,” Theo said. Stiles spun around to face him. “Someone’s stealing the bodies anyway, right? Here’s our chance to find out who.”

“Stiles, I-” you shifted uncomfortably. “He’s got a point.”

“He killed him,” Stiles said, looking between you and Josh’s body.

“In self-defense,” Theo said. He looked close to crying. But his heartbeat was steady under your hand. “He was going to kill you and he was going to kill me.”

“You didn’t even wait for me-”

“If we stay-” Theo talked over you “-We’re either going to have to tell the truth or we’re going to need a pretty convincing story. It’s your choice.” He looked down at the floor for a second. “I’m not going to ask you to lie to your dad.”

You tried to get Stiles’ attention without saying anything. It was time to come clean. He looked at you for a second but you could see he’d already made up his plan.

“Don’t worry,” Stiles said. “I’ve had plenty of practice.”

“Stiles-”

He walked over to Josh and was already pulling him up by his jacket. It was jarring to see your boyfriend picking up the dead body of the goofy kid in the back of the class. The blood that ran down his cheeks made you feel sick.

“If you wanna leave-” Stiles was quieter when he spoke to you but he was still very clearly on edge “-I’m not gonna judge you.”

Reluctantly, you let go of Theo so that you could walk over and pick up Josh’s other side. You caught Stiles’ eye before saying, “I’m not going to leave you.” You hooked Josh’s arm around your shoulders and held him up by his waist.

Theo took hold of Josh’s other side from Stiles.

Whether you trusted him or not, you were in this together now.

Part 36

#stiles stilinski #stiles stilinksi imagine #stiles stilinksi x reader #stiles slow burn #mccall!reader #so close #teen wolf #teen wolf au #teen wolf rewrite

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rawbiredbest · 5 years

Text

It’s All in Your Head

Contains: Fluff, Angst, Unconventional Relationships, Telepathy, Demons Fandom: Marvel (comics) Relationships: Stephen Strange/Victor von Doom Characters: Stephen Strange, Victor von Doom, Wong, Boris Word Count: 6103

Out of the blue, Stephen Strange and Victor von Doom find themselves telepathically connected.

No squealing, remember that......

Content warning for canon typical violence, profanity, implied sexual activity, and a single usage of homophobic language by a very bad individual.

Graciously commissioned by @osheets! Wanna do the same? Check my info!

Read here or on AO3!

- - -

The breakthrough comes with rapturous spontaneity. It’s like Victor von Doom has been standing on the shore of a Latverian loch, and in the blink of an eye, the grains of sand have become an orchestra, the surf their masterful conductor, and he the sole audience. He has captured their forms in glass and steel, multiplied ten million fold in the casings of complex machinery, and the entire laboratory sings the path to a bolder, brighter future. In all of his years of experimentation, innovation, desperation, he has never heard this music before. It pours from every screw and bolt, vibrates along every copper wire, thunders out of every piston and valve. The engineers below him, controlling and monitoring the device, are Gods of melody and time. Doom himself has transcended divinity, rising high on sublime notes of praise. He is Emperor, Encapsulated Universe, and his feet do not touch the floor as he glides to the heart of his machine, his veins coursing with silver beauty. Hydrogen atoms dance into the arms of their palladium partners, and their heat is love, love for each other, love for nature, love for him, and it is a primordial force unlocked from decades of ridicule and shame, and he has set it free. Genius. Monarch. Ultimate.

And then it goes. Slowly, a receding tide. It slides from his bones, leaving them aching. He braces himself against a panel, cold sweat sticking to his brow. His heart hammers in his chest, a lone drum holding a marching beat long after the band has departed into the moonless night. The engineers gape at him, oblivious to the miracle that has deafened their ruler.

Doom touches the shielding glass of the operating CMNS reactor, and its vibrations are an idiot hum. He blinks salt from his eyes, breath condensing on the machine.

Four thousand, five hundred and six miles away, a doctor and his best friend leave Madison Square Garden, wearing concert merch, beaming like loons.

- - -

To Stephen, it’s a tsunami.

He’s watching TV. The nightly news. He could tap into the Eye and view the entire world as it turns, but he doesn’t want to. It isn’t very often he feels human, let alone vegetable, so any opportunity to vegetate he takes with gusto. Stretched across his couch, he tugs down the hem of his shirt, leans his head on his hand, and waits to absorb the country’s woes.

He gets a sharp pain on the nape of his neck instead. He swats at the spot, looks at his palm. “Ow.”

Wong looks up from the email he’s writing. “Are you okay?”

Strange frowns, settles back down. “I think there’s a mosquito in here.” They’re talking about the Amazon fires. Stephen’s heart aches for the birds who will drop from the sky, their lungs full of smoke, voices forever silenced.

And then pain rips down his back, like his spine is torn out by an iron hand from his neck to his waist.

He can’t help but yell then, clutching the cushions. A heavy ache lingers in his vertebrae. Gingerly he sits up, breathing hard, eyes clenched shut. Something a bit like petrichor, a bit medicinal, a bit hot fills his nose.

Wong runs to him, but Strange raises a hand. “I’m fine,” he says, though he already braces against the thick lump rising next to his heart. As it crests, it dissipates throughout his body. He forces his eyes open, expecting to see the black trails of tiny spiders beneath his skin. Nothing but unmarked flesh.

“Should I call Doctor Carter?” Wong asks, thumbing toward the antique phone. It’s enchanted to call anywhere, anytime, any-plane.

“No, no.” Stephen leans on his knees, rubbing his temples. The pain is moving, changing. “This isn’t exactly her--”

--forte, he wants to say, but he is cut off by trees. Huge trees. Trees that consume the sky in fractal tangles of evergreen. Primordial, pristine trees, the definition of trees. The little things that crawl beneath and flit between, some carrying light, some with rigid jaws.

It’s a psychic attack. Strange has weathered them before. This one is weird. As he waves for Wong to get the Eye, he endures the spikes of pain that impale his senses to grab a closer look. This entity is lumbering, gigantic in scope yet wet around the edges.

It’s being born, he realizes. It’s waking up.

It hurts, it hurts but he’s curious. He sees New York now, its spires and streets lined up like so much circuitry. He feels the rough brush of concrete, hears the car horn concerto, smells the burn of rubber, and all throughout are rules, parameters, reasons. The thing is learning, feasting on information, and gathering more at an exponential rate. A tidal wave of green descends on the city, picking and plucking at this imaginary world.

And as it eats, thousands and thousands of hungry mouths devouring America, it hates. It hates the excess, the cruelty, the inefficiencies. It roars, barreling down the Sanctum, thousands upon thousands of tons of incomparable loathing.

Wong presses the Eye into Stephen’s hand.

“Pardon my French, dear friend,” Strange says.

The Eye bursts open, and the Sorcerer Supreme throws every ounce of his mystic might at the slavering invader. The living room cascades with dancing whorls of light as he raises his arms, funneling a solar flare, and cries a spell that every New Yorker knows by heart.

“FUCK OFF!”

Utter obliteration. When he opens his eyes, glittering motes trickle from the ceiling. The pain is gone. The TV has gone to commercial.

The phone is ringing.

Wong answers it as Stephen sinks to the couch. He slips the Eye around his neck, and its weight comforts. He thinks he’ll sleep with it tonight.

“It’s for you.”

Strange massages his ear. Vulgarity is embarrassing, but faced with an immaterial infant in the depths of an unholy tantrum doing everything in its power to cram a fork in a magic electrical socket, seemed like a good idea at the time. He takes the phone. “Hello?”

“Doctor! The master -- Victor -- something has happened, I do not know-- I--”

“Boris?” Stephen sits up. “Boris, it’s all right. Slow down. What’s going on?”

Behind the old retainer’s words, a siren wails. “The master--” He hesitates. “His newest Doombot. He turned it on for the first time. All was well, and then it exploded! And now Victor -- he is breathing this flame, this plasma! It burned through his mask! Doctor, what do I do!?”

Strange inhales deep. Counts to three. Lets it go. “He’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? I do not mean to doubt you, but--”

“It will pass. Give him an ice pack and put him somewhere dark and quiet for a few hours.”

“I trust you, doctor, but please, when you can, come and see him. The violence of it, it scares me.”

“I know. It’s fine. Just something he ate.”

Boris thanks him and hangs up.

Stephen wishes the couch would eat him as he heaves a sigh. “Wong,” he asks, “Is it too late to rescind discovering my bisexuality at the ripe age of however old I am now?”

“I don’t know,” Wong replies, “To both parts of your question. I lost count in the five hundreds.”

Strange curses again.

- - -

“So. We have a telepathic link. Any idea how it got there?”

He may as well be speaking to a wall of granite. Doom, arms folded, sneers at him across the table.

Stephen links his fingers together. “I have nothing. It’s rather disconcerting. I don’t believe it’s malevolent, which is always a plus, but it’s unremarkable, which isn’t. So I’d appreciate any insight, Victor. Whatever you’d like to...you know. Get off your chest.”

Doom’s eyes are cold.

“Anything at all. Need to vent? I know you can get heated.”

The table weighs over three hundred pounds, yet Doom flings it at him like a feather. Strange cuts it in half with a bolt of solid light as Crimson Bands constrict around his other arm. They serpentine and splinter into smaller tendrils, their tips unhinging into fanged blooms, and a thought comes to Stephen as the king charges him: he was born in a forest. It’s nature’s fury that fills his head, a cacophony of hellish noise, the wild hunt calling for his spilled blood. Doom’s rage in concentrated, psychic form, howling down their link.

The Daggers of Denak, blades spinning, do an admirable job trimming the vines, their severed heads still snapping, and Strange summons the Winds of Watoomb to push Doom away. The gale staggers him yet he presses forward, arcane runes flashing a ice blue aegis on his gauntlet. Step by step, forcing him back towards the wall.

He lunges. Strange is ready for it. Doom’s arm comes up, Stephen’s arms fan out. Before the king grasps his throat, he calls a pair of razors into his palms. Victor’s grip is suffocating. Strange holds his head between two guillotine blades. An impasse.

Doom’s voice rasps, thin and scorched. “That. Hurt.”

Stephen sips the tiny breaths he can. Something’s pressing into his belly. Sweat beads on his brow. It’s a gun. It’s the stupid gun Doom carries in the stupid pouch on his stupid belt. Why does he even have it? For shooting idiot sorcerers, he thinks. He swallows hard, knows Doom can feel it through the metal. Not so evenly matched as he thought.

And then he notices it. Hiding deep under the screams is a layer of fire. Reaching through the link, he touches it. Color rushes to his cheeks.

“Seriously?” he ekes out, “This is turning you on?”

Doom’s grip loosens. A minuscule amount, enough for Strange to squeeze a few more words. The fire leaps into his psychic palm, eager, aggressive.

“There’s no shame in it. You’re good at what you do, Victor. Very few people can put me in check. Look at you. You’ve pinned me to a wall like a butterfly. That’s impressive. I--”

The king leans closer. Stephen smells ashes on his breath.

“Hoary hosts.”

The gun is holstered. A steel thumb strokes his cheek.

“Reap what you sow,” Doom mutters.

- - -

The aches and bruises will last for days, but the coolness of Doom’s armor against the carpet burn on his back is soothing. He rests a hand in the king’s own. Anything else feels too strenuous. “Was that your first time having telepathic sex? It’s intense, isn’t it?”

Victor takes in the state of the room. Paintings smashed, furniture so much firewood, stone walls fractured and cratered. How much destruction is his? He has no idea. One or the other had to have held back. The castle is still standing, after all.

Neither man speaks. Stephen ventures a glimpse down their link and gets only an image of black curtains. Doom’s already set up defenses. Though some of his own are raised, he lets some satisfaction flow between them. An olive branch.

A quiet, amused huff. “At times, Strange,” Doom says, and already his voice sounds better, “Your physical merits outweigh the strenuous mental exertions you put me through.”

“I never much cared for the medieval aesthetic myself, yet here we are.” He grunts as he looks over his shoulder, thighs twinging. “How drunk were we that night?”

“Doom was sober.”

“Oh no, your golden goblet saw plenty of refills. You were, at the very least, tipsy.”

“You question Doom’s memory?”

Stephen cups his chin, looks deep into dark brown eyes. “I question, my lord, why you claim to remember, with crystal clarity, a night you could have easily decreed never happened at all.”

Nothing comes. No biting remark, no caustic humiliation. Doom only holds his gaze, and under the black curtains flashes something bright, something strong. It lasts for only half a second before the king gets up, using Strange’s shoulder for support. “This link shall be insufferable. Do your part to get rid of it.”

Stephen frowns, annoyed that his legs work. He wonders if Victor left any of his clothing intact. “Right. Ground rules. Stay out of my head, and I won’t make you cough up another star. Deal?”

“Stay out of Doom’s head, and you shall not know pain unending. You have a deal.”

- - -

This lasts for two months.

- - -

On Day 51, a current of malicious satisfaction slithers through Strange’s mind. Gooseflesh rises up his back. The half-chewed wad of pastrami and egg in his mouth goes sour. He spits it out, bracing himself on the dinner table, and without thinking of thinking, he thinks: what have you done now?

The smirk on Doom’s face reminds him of the crocodiles at the Bronx Zoo. The thing Victor is smiling at reminds him of shop class. He can’t begin to make heads or tails of it. Like many of the king’s devices, it could have come off the set of a sci-fi movie. Sleek and chrome, rigged with multicolored wires, pumps, and gauges, a porthole reveals the heart of the machine, a vile purple light. Stephen’s gut tells him that color would eat him alive if it could, tear into his flesh and drip his blood from its teeth. Stephen trusts his gut.

Strange, Doom replies, smile quickly fading into a scowl, We had an agreement.

You broke first. I felt you. My spidey sense tingled.

Victor’s gauntlets ball into fists, and he sends a wave of serrated anger barreling toward the magician. A chained wolf, barking and snarling. An executioner waiting for the condemned to dig his own grave deeper.

Stephen curses. He didn’t mean to think that out loud. Look. Just tell me what it is and I’ll leave you alone.

The black curtains rustle, then lift like a wing. Swimming in the purple light are mathematical equations, coiling around metal rods. It makes perfect sense to Doom, but to Strange it’s a form of gibberish undecipherable by any eldritch tome.

Then he hears it. It’s not coming from the machine. It’s from Doom. Subvocalized lyrics. A silent song. He could recognize the tune anywhere.

He bought its album at the concert.

This is cold fusion.

Stephen snaps back to attention. Cold fusion. Should I be worried?

Victor folds his arms. That I built a safe, eternal form of energy for myself and my people? Yes, Strange, cower and quake. Your country shall never have it so long as I draw breath.

There are many dangerous rebuttals to that he could say. Names he could drop. Yet Doom promised pain unending. Fifty-one days into their connection, Strange has no leads into its inner workings. Finding out if he could make good on his word is a risk Stephen is unwilling to take.

I don’t like this, the sorcerer thinks, but I have to believe you. Don’t misbehave.

His own mental defense is a never-ending subway express train, its doors and windows a veil of golden thorns. Sighing, he sits back down. What’s left of his sandwich has the appeal of wet newspaper.

Doom was right. The link is awful.

- - -

On Day 60, despite the blazing fire in the hearth, Victor’s feet send ripples through a puddle.

He regards it from his antique armchair throne with indifferent curiosity. Through the filters in his mask, he smells the green, pungent scent of foliage rot and seawater. In the puddle itself swim millions of plankton. A frenzy of eating, fucking, dying, and birthing unfolds beneath his alloy soles.

From the corner of his eye, he watches the puddle extend an arm of water across the floor. Sliding under a wall, a line of slithering damp turns the paint a moldy gray. Moisture fans across the entire side of the room in a pattern like falling stars, like skeletal hands trailing through a river. The scent grows stronger as the puddle expands. He rises before it consumes his chair. The leather sinks until it is a speck of mahogany in the brine. Gloom washes over it and it is gone.

Doom folds his arms. A breeze teases the tail of his cloak. Murmuring a quiet word, he puts out the fire with an arc of a finger, and turns around into another world.

It is eternal night. It has no sun, and what few stars can be seen are lucky glimpses through a lush canopy of branches and black, web-like leaves many hundreds of feet above. The grass under him has a sticky grip, but gentle. If grass could want for anything, it would like to give the king safe passage on his journey. He isn’t the sustenance it’s looking for. That comes on the wind, in the form of tiny shards of detritus falling from forest layers high overhead. It shimmers as it tumbles down, the only source of light in this hadal garden.

He doesn’t need to go far. Half-concealed behind a root far taller than he, Doom watches himself and Stephen Strange on the next mound over.

The magician talks with grand gestures, sweeping an arm over trees as dark as ink. Doom remembers himself speaking little, allowing Strange to tell him the highlights of the world. No recorded examples of predation. Negligible changes in evolution for millennia. A slow world. A place of peace.

Stephen steps into the water. Waist deep, he holds out his arm. His garb drips off him, revealing pale skin. He smiles, bare and inviting.

The other Victor undoes his belt.

“And you complain when I get you out of the house.”

Doom peers at the Stephen Strange sitting in lotus position beside him. “You drag me into your affairs with no concern for my well-being or sanity.”

“Please. The times you dig your heels in are cursory, at best. And then we end up doing things like this.”

Across the mound, the other king’s armor sits in a neat pile, and the two doctors stand in each other’s arms, their lips meeting and parting only to inhale.

Victor kneels on the grass. “Even you are capable of stumbling onto a good idea.”

Stephen’s lip curls upward. “I think about this often. This place is beautiful. This memory pleasant. I took effort not to broadcast this to you. My apologies if I disturbed you.”

Doom looks away. “You did not.”

“Oh? Your Royal Highness, we had an agreement.”

“Am I not allowed to reminisce myself?”

“Ssh. Meditate with me.”

He closes his eyes. Strange’s hand creeps into his own, and he lets it stay.

Perhaps he was wrong. The link isn’t so bad.

- - -

Wake up! Wake up, wake up, wake up!

Stephen rolls molasses slow toward awareness. The bedroom is pitch black, swimming in unholy hour of the morning disorientation.

Your wife is in trouble!

He cracks an eye open, shifting in the sheets. “Clea?”

No! Your big green wife! Get up, right now!

Those aren’t his thoughts. It’s a voice he’s never heard before, coming from inside his head. He holds very still and feels something slither over his brain.

He snaps wide awake.

I’m sorry we have to meet like this, the voice says, but we must hurry. The whole world is at stake!

In any other circumstance, Strange would interrogate the voice within an inch of its life, but its fear is genuine. Swinging out of bed, he yanks some pants on, startles the Cloak of Levitation from of its own sleep, and pulls open a portal to Latveria.

Curse me for a novice! the voice squeaks, That can’t be good!

Enormous rends in reality drape over the castle. Shimmering in the air, some bisect the stone in clean, monomolecular cuts. One vomits a steady stream of magma, causing a massive fire in the castle courtyard. Through each of them Stephen sees other dimensions. Another hole fans out from the keep itself and drops a mass of red crystals that crush an entire rampart.

Please! Hurry!

Stephen slams the portal shut, imagines his destination, and wrenches open a new one directly to Doom’s lab. The room is bathed in sunset colors and thick, acrid smoke. At its heart lies the fusion reactor, which is now anything but cold. The purple light pounds waves of energy, reverberating off its containment and magnifying a new tear in the world.

Victor stands in front of the machine. His motions are jerky, abrupt, a marionette controlled by a mob of children. He lifts a twitching hand and the tear throws itself through the castle to join the others outside.

Sister-Brother! the voice cries, Stop!

Doom’s arms drop, strings cut. The voice that comes from his mind is higher than the other.

No, I don’t think so, it says, I think I’m going to continue. You’re more than welcome to burn.

“You’re the link,” Strange says.

Just figured that out now? Sister-Brother asks, Wow, Brother-Sister. You sure drew the short straw. My host is incredible. I’ve mapped every gyri and sulci in here and it’s gorgeous. I’d stay forever if I could. It’s almost a shame he has to die.

Stephen glares, raising his hands, fingers glowing with magic. “As Sorcerer Supreme, I command you to release Doctor Doom!”

The laugh that echoes down the link is nails on a chalkboard. You have no idea what we are.

“You’re playing with fire. You’re threatening the dimensional stability of all of Doomstadt. And when I find you, you’ll have hell to pay.”

This host has already seen hell, Sister-Brother chides, What better place to grow up than in a body demon-touched? Have you considered that I’m doing him a favor? This is how it plays out. This is fate.

Doom turns around without his mask.

A bloodcurdling shriek ricochets across Strange’s mind, his hand thrusts forward with a will not his own, and a thunderbolt connects with the king’s head. Victor flies against a control panel, smashing it with the weight of his impact. Groaning and creaking, the reactor starts to power down, sprinklers in the ceiling damping the flames.

His face, Brother-Sister whispers, Gods, oh gods, what’s wrong with his face...

Stephen contains his screams until he kneels at Doom’s side, hefting his body into his arms. The scent of burning meat fills his nose. He howls for someone, anyone, to help him, royal blood seeping onto his chest.

- - -

He awakens to the beeping of the heart monitor.

Doom feels like mountainsides have taken residence on his eyelids. Slowly sliding them open, he takes inventory. The room is bright, sterile, no windows. He’s propped up in a bed. His hands are bare yet weigh like continents. He looks to his left.

“Hello,” Stephen says.

The sorcerer looks terrible. Ashen skin, reddened eyes, a frown threatening to rip his mouth off. The clothes he wears belong to any servant of the castle. The hands clasped together between his knees shake worse than Doom has ever seen.

“You’re on a morphine drip. You’ve been unconscious for the past twelve hours. You’re in the castle. We set up a makeshift triage room. For a while...” He takes a deep breath, steeling his voice. “We didn’t know if you would make it.”

Doom thinks, and his head is wonderfully quiet.

“Thank every deity you know that your skull is almost as hard as your armor. You’re going to be in a lot of pain for the next few days, but the alternative...I don’t want to think about. And I got rid of the link.” Strange picks up a jar from a nearby stand. “Meet Brother-Sister and Sister-Brother.”

Floating in cerebrospinal fluid are two worms. One is storm cloud gray bracketed by navy blue. The other is dark yellow-green with flecks of red. Flat as ribbons and only an inch long, they give each other a wide berth.

“Pineal parasites,” Stephen continues, “Stuck to the undercarriage of our minds, learning how to be through our eyes. They talked together through us. Saw magic through us. Deciphered grand machines through us. And now they’re ready to go home. That’s what yours was trying to do. They were looking for a place where nothing changes and nothing happens because all who go there are hijacked and killed. Not such a good idea after all, was it?”

Doom blinks.

Putting the worms down, Strange digs his wrists into his eyes. “Victor, I swear to you on everything I am I had no idea. I thought you’d like it. I thought you could forget being so angry, forget the Four if only for an hour, and be happy. Now you--”

He stares at the door, fist to his mouth. Swallowing his heart, he says, “I’m bringing them back. They’re not at fault. They’re just following their life cycle. Despite what they’ve done, they deserve to live.”

Birds that will choke on ashes, he thinks, Countless trees turned to dust. No more. No more death.

“The best doctors in your kingdom are here for you. I’ll be back.”

“Doom will go with you.”

Victor’s voice is quiet but steady. Stephen shakes his head. “No. You’re in no shape to get out of bed, let alone travel dimensions.”

The monarch shuts his eyes. Heavy footsteps pass through the door. A doppelganger in emerald and steel, the Doombot bows its head to its ruler.

“Doom will go with you,” Victor repeats.

Strange blows a ragged breath. By Doom’s creased brow, that wasn’t easy. “Okay. Rest now. Don’t do anything until I return.”

Victor says nothing. Stephen waits until he drifts to sleep, presses a kiss to rough lips, and departs, robot in tow.

- - -

Q-4301 is indistinguishable from the real deal, from its ramrod straight spine to its folded arms, yet there’s no look of wonder in its lenses, no human, if royally restrained, sense of adventure in its copper and silicon heart. It doesn’t care about the bits and pieces of gold falling from the alien canopy, the grass patting its boots. It stares at Strange, emotionless, and that very lack of feeling gnaws at the pit of the sorcerer’s stomach.

They’re on the same black water island mound as before. He can pick out the tree Victor pressed him against from all the rest. Had the microscopic eggs that birthed the parasite twins been attracted to their sex, or had it been sheer luck? He doesn’t know and doesn’t want to know.

In his hand is a candle made from the blood of priests. “Do you have them?” Stephen asks.

Q-4301 lifts a corner of its cloak. Sewn into the cloth is a glass vial. Brother-Sister and Sister-Brother are inside.

Strange nods. “I don’t know if Doom programmed you to feel fear. Either way, let me do the talking. If all goes well, you won’t have to do anything.”

The Doombot says nothing. Taking a deep breath, Stephen snaps a spark between his fingers and lights the candle.

The world goes silent. The wind ceases, and so does the steady fall of golden bits and bobs. The grass curls into tight nubs. The only indication that time has not stopped entirely is the gleam of flame like an undulating eel on the surface of the water. Stephen’s breath is deafening in his own ears.

The voice that speaks is low and obsidian slick. “Well, well, well. Look what the fags dragged in.”

The demon, descending from the trees, blends perfectly into the dark. Its teeth are yellowed and pitted from a diet of rot. It moves on long, soundless talons. Its eyes are cherry red, pupils like mouths.

“Doctor Strange,” the khat murmurs, “You honor me with your presence. I’ve heard so much about you. You’re a cautionary tale among khat-kind, you know. A warning about too much power in frail, mortal meat. Like stuffing a sun into a stomach, it’s only a matter of time till it bursts.”

Stephen purses his lips. “Cut the shit. I have something for you.”

The khat’s grin splits up to its ears. “A gift? Is it your heart? Your humanity? Your soul? Please tell me it’s your soul. I would so like your soul.”

“Come closer and I’ll show you.”

The demon pads on water, leaving no ripples in its path. “Is it the thing beside you?” Nostrils flaring, it sizes up the Doombot. “Not the usual breed of lost lambs you lead to slaughter. What sort of lies did you tell it to follow you? An offer of redemption, perhaps? Anything desperate enough to flaunt about in a green skirt would listen to you.”

“Desperation is for the weak,” Q-4301 snaps.

Strange swallows the ball of curses on his tongue and hopes it doesn’t show. Doombots fall for bait. Exactly like the original.

The khat stops. “Everything has weaknesses. You were once a babe in your mother’s arms, no? Look at your companion. The Doctor Strange, Sorcerer Supreme, can barely keep a friend around, let alone alive. No, no, no, there has to be a reason he wants you here.” It lies on all fours, rests its cheek on its fist. “What sort of gift was it again?”

Stephen starts to speak. Q-4301 beats him. “The only gift a demon like you deserves.”

Red eyes narrow in amusement. “Oh, it’s too much for a single khat to bear! Let me call my brothers. We shall find out together.” Rising into a crouch, it takes a deep breath.

There’s still time to salvage the plan. Strange shouts, “Do it!”

Q-4301 lunges into the water, tears the vial from its cloak, and thrusts its arm out. As predicted, the khat opens its toothy jaws and swallows the punch up to the Doombot’s shoulder. Payload delivered, they need to flee.

The portal spell is halfway done when Stephen spots Q-4301 motionless.

For a second, the khat too is still. Then, beaming around the steel in its mouth, it bites, and tears Q-4301′s arm off.

No robot could replicate the spray of blood and scream in agonized terror.

Strange doesn’t realize he’s also screaming. The khat snatches Q-4301′s shoulder and slams it beneath the surface. The water boils in the struggle. Shadows like hellish stalagmites reach for the leaf-choked sky as the sorcerer calls his magic. Black muck splatters the trees, the grass, Stephen’s legs as he gathers flame in his shaking palms.

The blast turns the water to steam as the garden sees more light than it has in billions of years. He looks for a target, finds nothing but the bare riverbed quickly flooding to fill the void.

The khat geysers up behind him, grabs his leg, and wrenches him into the water. The Cloak of Levitation has enough time to flip him face up before a heavy paw pins it down. Eyes stinging, heart hammering, Strange fends off the khat’s snapping jaws with novas in his palms. It takes all his training to anticipate where the teeth will be, vision obscured by plumes of bubbles, and not lose a limb.

Claws curl in his suit and drag him through the brine. His head connects with a tree root and all of reality goes sideways. His breath whooshes free, and sour liquid fills his throat.

The demon hauls him out, shoves him against a tree. Three blurry khats grin in Stephen’s eyes. Dozens of fangs.

“The gift is all three,” it says, “Your heart, humanity, and soul. Why were we ever warned about you? You’re nothing.”

It opens its mouth.

LEAVE HIM ALONE!

Stephen shakes water and blood from his eyes. The khat is frozen save its eyes, which widen in shock. Two voices erupt from its gullet. One, higher-pitched, screeches an incoherent string of profanity.

By the hoary hosts of Hoggoth, the other cries, I demand you let him go!

If he squints, Strange can see two ribbons in the khat’s belly. One yellow-green and red, the other gray and blue.

“What have you done,” the demon barks, “What have you done to me!?”

The claws pry open. Stephen beats a hasty retreat, flying to the unfinished portal. As he works to complete it, something moves at his feet. The grass scuttles bits and pieces of shattered human along pathways only it knows. He reaches down, grabs a fragment, and rage flows through him hot enough to make his skin glow, heat radiating from him in convection circles.

The khat breaks free of the parasites’ control, smashing its head against the tree for good measure. Screaming, it leaps for him. Strange sidesteps into another world -- home -- closes the portal, and waits until his ears stop ringing.

His anger he keeps. He storms through castle halls, eager to strike while the iron is hot.

- - -

Doom must really try this relaxation thing more often. It isn’t bad. Balcony doors open, letting in sunshine and a floral breeze, he reclines in his seat, sips his tea, and listens to the vinyl spinning on the antique phonograph.

I’m coming down, coming down like a monkey, but it’s all right Like a load on your back that you can’t see, oooh but it’s all right

The song has been in his head for months. It’s nice to hear it in the open. Doom smiles. Stephen has good taste in music.

“Bastard!”

The chair spins around and Doom is confronted by a feral magician. Strange notes the king’s simple garb: no steel in sight, just a cotton shirt and pants. He aims for Victor’s face but his quaking hands botch the throw. It bounces off his chest and lands in his teacup. “You’re not white!”

Doom looks at his tea. The blue eye in the tea looks back. “About time someone noticed,” he deadpans, extracting the orb by its optic nerve and setting it on a napkin.

The chair bucks like a bronco and Victor spills out. Stephen catches him with magic, hangs him in the air. The cup breaks into a thousand pieces and the king’s disappointed frown makes Strange want to throttle him. “Who was in the Doombot?”

“A nuclear engineer working on the CMNS reactor.” Doom sounds bored. “He tweeted about the parasite-induced euphoria I experienced. Called it an episode. Implications of weakness are illegal. Justice -- and the parasites -- were served. Two birds with one stone.”

“You killed a man for a tweet.”

“Whatever creature you encountered in the garden slew him, not I.”

Stephen drops him, relishing Victor’s grunt as a shard of teacup cuts his foot. It’s a slimy pleasure, and his face contracts. “Bastard. There isn’t an ounce of goodness in you.”

The king pulls the porcelain out of his flesh and points the bloodied end of it. “I have my ways just as you have yours. Until you grasp this concept, we shall always be at odds.”

“Be at odds? I saved your life!”

Doom brushes back his hair. Black stitches stretch from one ear across his head to the other. “You scarred me.”

They’re on thin ice. Strange dials back his fury, fists clenched. Monstrous tyrant or not, Victor is recovering from brain surgery. “You had a worm in your head.”

Tossing the shard aside, Doom sinks back in the chair in a position Stephen calls the regal slouch. “The sentence for weakness implications is community service. The engineer served his community. The sentence for injury to the royal person is death.” A scowl darkens his face. “I have half a mind to not let you leave this room alive.”

The sorcerer shuts his eyes.

“However.” Doom thinks, picking his words. “The extraneous circumstances surrounding the crime cannot be ignored. A different punishment is called for. It shall be made at a later time.” He draws a holographic display before him. A tigress pants in her den, lozenges squirming at her belly. “Three cubs were born at the Latverian Zoo this morning.” He looks at Stephen. “I find myself preoccupied with some wildlife conservation of my own.”

The sigh comes from the bottom of his heart. One day Victor will come out and thank him. Today is not that day. It will have to do. Strange rubs his eyes. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Speak.”

“Exile. A break. Another two months, or two years, or two hundred years. I’m not picky. I just don’t want to see you for a while.”

Doom looks back at the panel. “Your suggestion carries weight. So be it. Begone.”

That’s that. Another story concluded. Feeling empty, feeling light, Stephen turns to go.

“Strange.”

Fuck, so close. The sorcerer looks over his shoulder. “What?”

“When next we sojourn, for Doom knows we shall--” Victor’s lip turns up, the smallest hint of a smirk. “--I shall pick our destination.”

#doomstrange #doctor doom #doctor strange #victor von doom #stephen strange #rawbi's writes #commission a small bird

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of-nodus-tollens · 4 years

Text

Those Who Matter

Summary: Tony may not have the best childhood, but that does not mean he is without people who matter. (An AU look back at the people in Tony's life who made a difference).

Word Count: 5892 | Rating: General | Pairings: None | AO3

A/N: This is me getting back into fanfiction to deal. This was written a while ago but I’m starting to expand on it so posting on here to hopefully force me to type up four notebooks worth of stories. This is a self-indulgent fic - Lucy is my OC and my way of exploring the mcu. Not beta’d so apologies for grammatical errors.

Tony was 4 when he believed achievements was the way to gain his father’s affection. So he built his first circuit board, using scraps from his father’s discarded pile. If he found the wires and mechanics were easier to comprehend than the nuances of human interaction, he was too young to understand it. The times Howard had taken the time to talk to him were about work and Captain America’s achievements, so Tony thought it was time he did something his father would be proud of… but Howard barely glanced at the complex mechanism before brushing Tony away, failing to see the heartbreak in his child’s eyes or the smoldering heap in the garden the day after.

~*~

The Starks’ were busy people unless you are a child, in which case you get left behind a lot. With his parents' absence, Tony found solace in the only adult who would listen to him - Jarvis. And it wasn’t because it was his job, as he seemed genuinely interested in what Tony said and does, helping him with his projects. Plus it helped that he treated him like an adult, despite offering him milk and cookies.

~*~

Tony was two months shy of his seventh birthday when he built a V8 motorbike engine. Impressed and awed, Jarvis helped him put together the outer body, painting it royal blue with gold accents. On the day of his birthday, Jarvis presented him with a helmet with matching colours and allowed him to ride it in the sizable driveway on the condition it is only to be used under his watchful eye and out of sight of his father, to which Tony readily agreed.

~*~

School had never been Tony’s strong suit, not because he’s not intelligent but because it bored him to tears. He was mouthy, proud, and wore his arrogance as an armour when the looks and whispers came his way. He’s different, his mind constantly on the run while everyone menders behind. It’s exhausting and lonely. So he talked to himself, to his work, to the familiar doorway as he is ushered out of his father’s presence, to the bland smile on his mother’s face… maybe someday, someone will talk back.

~*~

Maria Stark was not your conventional mother. Then again, the Starks are not your typical family. She’s a socialite who balances out her husband’s brashness and arrogance with politeness and diplomacy. And while the public was surprised by Howard’s move to settle, Maria was the partner he needed to keep him steadfast. The perfect wife, a struggling mother. She at least tries, even when she least wanted to and there’s no doubt she cares, asking after her son even as she wearily toes off her heels at the door. She listens but forgets, humming her response in lieu of answering questions and employed material possessions in place of emotional support.

~*~

Tony ran away from home when he was ten, having been told for the umpteenth time how useless and selfish he is by his father. A whisky bottle thrown in his general direction aided his decision. It wasn’t planned and he was hardly prepared, as evidenced by his lack of shoes but that was the last thing on his mind. He was certain he would not be missed when a car pulled up next to him on the dark, empty road. The passenger door popped open.

Aunt Peggy was one of the few people that Tony respected, so he clambered into the car while she waited silently behind the wheel. Tony waited expectantly for the lecture as she drove but it never came. Instead of home, she drove to a diner where the bright lights chased away the darkness. Aunt Peggy bought a banana split for him and a cup of coffee for herself. This was not what he expected, sitting in a rag-tag diner in the middle of the night, with muddied feet and blood-shot eyes.

“Stop staring, it’s unbecoming.”

Tony snapped his eyes away and started slowly into his ice-cream. Half-way through, Aunt Peggy helped herself to some too.

“Aren’t you going to yell at me?” Tony finally demanded.

Aunt Peggy raised an eyebrow, looking almost offended. “And what will that achieve?”

“Just tell me what I already know, that I’m a waste of time and space, that I’ll never be like Captain America and that I’ll amount to nothing.”

Aunt Peggy finished off her spoonful before setting down her spoon and dabbing her lips with a napkin. She planted her hands before her and fixed him with a hard look. “Anthony Edward Stark, I will only say this once so listen carefully. Just because your father is an idiot, does not mean you get to be one too. He may have many problems but you are not one of them, no matter what he says. Stand up and be brilliant. If you let people continue to tell you what you are, you will not get anywhere. We need to be our own heroes and not imprints of someone else. Do I make myself clear?”

Her expression left no room for argument. “Yes ma’am.”

“Good. Now it’s quite late. Let’s get you home.”

Once home, Aunt Peggy left Tony in Jarvis’ capable hands, turning down his proffered cup of England’s finest in favour of “business to attend to”. Sharp steps found its way to Howard's office, the snap of the door, then the dulcet tone of her voice echoed through the mansion.

“So yelling does help.” Tony quipped when Aunt Peggy stepped out of her father’s study an hour later.

“Only when the recipient does not listen,” she replied, smoothing down her blouse and entirely unruffled.

“Thank you, Aunt Peggy.” It was heartfelt and sincere. Tony ran off before Aunt Peggy can respond.

~*~

Lucy is a mass of black curls, sharp edges, perpetual scowls and invisible scars. She is the result of Howard’s past indiscretions, a secret hidden in plain sight, a responsibility shoved onto others as a form of goodwill, for the Jarvis’ had always wanted a child.

(Tony wondered if he would be in the same position if not for his mother).

He was sworn to secrecy - the family’s reputation and business on the line. If the request came from anyone but his mother, he was not sure he would have agreed. As it is, he was amazed he was allowed to spend part of his summer vacation with the Jarvis’.

His intentions were not entirely innocent - part curiosity and part vindictiveness at finding proof to put a hole in his father’s holier-than-thou image.

The Jarvis’ live on a ranch (Maria Stark’s family ranch to be exact), a dream of Ana’s since childhood, complete with horses and stables and more green space than Tony knew what to do with. But the Jarvis’ put him to good use, fixing equipment and improving the machinery. It was good to feel useful and appreciated as Ana fussed over him.

Unsurprisingly, Lucy resented his presence, going out of her way to stay out of his way. Admittedly, Tony might have laid on his Stark-ness a little thick, showing off in an effort to ensure he would not be another passerby. It never occurred to him that she would be jealous, not for being him or the fact that he’s a Stark, but of his relationship with the Jarvis’.

Tony has never hit a girl before but that was before Lucy tackled him and then they were brawling in the hay and god knows what else, fists and hay flying, the horses' protests adding to the cacophony of their incoherent yells.

It ended in a splash of cold water, both literally and metaphorically, when Tony saw Jarvis’ face and realised he may have failed one of the few people who cared about him.

They were separated and tended to - bruises and scratches and what will be an impressive shiner on Tony’s face. There was confusion and anger and disappointment too but… “You have never and will never fail me, Tony. I know your heart and that is what matters.”

Tony remained quiet, unsure if this comment would be whipped away at a moment’s notice or safe to use as a balm to soothe the cracks in his heart. But Jarvis’ hand on his shoulder told him this was his to keep.

There was a new calm in the air now the storm has passed. Tony wasn’t sure what was said to Lucy for she was now civil and her glares had dulled around the edges.

It probably helped that Tony has stopped pushing her buttons.

Howard showed up two weeks short of his stay. Things must not have gone well at the meet for he was particularly ferocious with Tony. It was nothing he hasn’t heard before, a tape played so frequently on repeat that Tony had it carved behind his eyelids. Maybe because it was the disruption to the peace that Tony had found here but he bit back, words of hurt and anger flung as weapons.

Lucy found him sitting on the barrels behind the barn, fuming at the open fields. She had a rifle slung across her back and another in her hands which she wordlessly held out to him.

Tony blinked. “Are we going to have a battle to the death?”

He was graced with an eye roll. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“If you’re going to be difficult, I’ve got better things to do.”

He jumped off the barrel with all the vitality of a 13-year-old and took the proffered weapon. She led him to the outer fields where cans lined a crooked fence before giving him a thorough drill on firearm safety and showing him the basics on operating the gun (filled with blanks of course). A quick demonstration showed off her prowess. Tony hit the fence and the air several times before he tagged his target with a satisfactory clang. He grinned.

“Not bad, kid.”

“I’m only 2 years younger than you.”

“Not bad, brat.” She took another can down. “But brats don’t deserve to be treated so poorly.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” A beer bottle flew backwards.

“That’s why we’re here, and why I’m probably going to have my head handed to me if we get found.”

“The Jarvis’... your parents, they’re cool.”

There was a pause in which Tony waited for Lucy to accept the olive branch he was offering - an apology and acknowledgement.

“They are. You’re welcome to borrow them once in a while, but you gotta return them at the end of the day.”

Tony smirked. “Deal.”

(They did get caught but Tony took full responsibility. They were let off the hook with full night duties and knowing looks.)

~*~

Having a nanny at 14 is still a sore point for Tony. Not only that, but she’s also a small-time thief, taking items from the household and snooping around, constantly trying to get into Howard’s study to no avail.

Even worse, Tony is now stuck with her for 3 days whilst his parents visit Germany on a business trip.

He was woken up on the second night by a tapping on his window and Lucy hanging off his window ledge.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, then “How did you get here?”

“Helping a lad in distress. I heard about your nanny troubles.”

Tony groaned. This is about as flattering as it can get. “And what are you going to do about it?”

Lucy had a plan. It took the rest of the night to set it up and half of the next day snooping around and ensuring Lucy wouldn’t be found (“I took a break from a sleepover. They were wasting perfectly good cucumbers.”)

The end result had the nanny screaming from the house, babbling something about ghosts and a haunted house.

Back inside the house, or more specifically, Howard’s study, an empty television crackled merrily, an illusion still in effect. Lucy peered out from her hiding spot on the balcony, while Tony sat on the floor in his ghostly apparition get-up, a big grin on his face.

(Tony denied all knowledge of what happened as his father questioned him, claiming he was in bed and yes, his study has always been locked and no, he has not seen any ghosts, there are no such things.)

~*~

MIT came knocking and Tony received an early acceptance into one of the most prestigious schools where his intelligence was appreciated by his peers, rather than scoffed at.

Still, he kept his guard up, learning from an early age that appearances are deceiving, The Stark name carried a certain grandeur and value, and with it jealousy and those who seek to use it for their own gain.

So he kept up an easy facade of sarcasm and humour, building his charisma and charm. He partied (and drank where he could) and still passed everything with flying colours.

~*~

Honestly, he should have learnt by now that his confidence will get him into trouble. Being the youngest and the smartest can rub people the wrong way, especially for those who enjoy a certain stature.

He had been attempting to keep his drinking to a minimum by keeping busy but there was only so much he can do before the emptiness around him spurs him out, lest he even tries to call home.

The local watering hole was never short of people and before he could change his mind, Tony was enveloped in a group that he pretty sure despised him. But it seems alcohol changes much of that as they pushed more and more drinks onto him until he started agreeing to the most obscene things like making a cocktail explosion.

If he weren’t so drunk, he would have felt the solid presence behind his back before the voice spoke. And even then, it was like a delayed transmission to his brain as he struggled to stop the room spinning.

“Kid, are you alright? Are these guys bothering you?”

“Not a kid,” Tony mumbled.

“If you’re here visiting someone, I can take you to them.”

Tony shook his head which was a very bad, not good idea.

“Dude, relax, he’s with us.” one of the guys laughed.

“He shouldn’t be here.”

The voice grew louder. “You want to know who shouldn’t be here? You and your kind.”

More words were traded and a scuffle ensued. Tony's inebriated mind processed everything in slow motion.

“Hey, back off!” It took a moment for Tony to realise that those words came from him and he was suddenly standing, but the ground refused to stay still.

(Decades later, during his best man’s speech, Rhodey will fondly recall the moment that a very drunk Tony knocked himself out in an attempt to defend him. But the way Tony remembers it, was that Rhodey had his back first.)

~*~

It seemed like the unlikeliest of friendships - the straight-laced duty-bound future colonel, with a smart-ass, crazy, rich playboy. But Rhodey never judged, he took Tony the way he is and went with it, occasionally steering him back in the relatively right direction.

And Tony found, between Rhodey and Lucy, school was actually quite enjoyable, if not for educational purposes.

~*~

Rhodey and Lucy’s initial meeting was far from ideal.

Living only an (in)convenient 10 minutes away from Tony at Tufts University, Lucy became Tony’s designated driver by default. He should not be drinking, of that everyone agrees but unless there is someone tethered to him, his actions were his own. So Lucy did the next best thing and made sure someone was there for him on the condition that nights like this only occurs once a month. More often than not, she would show up in her pyjamas, study notes in hand and Twizzler in mouth as she bundled Tony into her vehicle.

So after one of those nights in which Tony managed to convince Rhodey to take a break after midterms, Tony woke up to his head being blown apart by the scream of death. Apparently, opera is a very good form of torture.

“Turn it off! Turn it off!”

By the time the request was heeded, Tony was sure blood was leaking from his ears.

“It’s not, but given how I might not even pass my exam at this point, I may not be the best person to ask.”

How passive aggressive, Tony thought.

“You know you’re speaking out loud right? And I have full control of the music.”

Tony groaned, peeling one gummy eye open to see Lucy sitting cross-legged on the bed, chewing lazily upon her favourite confectinary, “Goose, have mercy.”

“Is this going to be a thing now? Having your honey bear tag along?”

“I’m not his honey bear,” Rhodey mumbled from beside him.

“I’ve got photographic evidence,” she sounded entirely too gleeful for Tony’s liking as she waved said evidence before him. Closer inspection of the Polaroid revealed him and Rhody entwined with one another on their current mattress.

“Looks like she’s outed us, honey buns.”

“I hate you,” Rhodey groaned, then directed his unfocused gaze to Lucy, “And I don’t know you but I hate you too.”

“Now that’s what you call gratitude. You guys better hope I pass this exam or this picture is going public.”

She nudged Tony with her foot on her way out. “Water and aspirin are on the bedside table and you better be gone before I get back. Apparently, I’m getting enough action on the rumour mill without adding another person to the mix.”

“Help me out here, I’m not sure whether I should be disgusted or pleased for you.”

The answering slam of the door was unnecessarily ferocious.

“You have the most wonderful friends, Stark.” Rhodey commented.

“Don’t be jealous. You’re still my favourite, platypus.”

~*~

Tony unveiled DUM-EE at the MIT Robot Design competition, his first limited-awareness artificial intelligent robot with the personality of a gambolling puppy, eager to help but damned if it does.

It almost strangles Rhodey in its attempt to help him with his tie and ends up spilling white wine on Lucy in its enthusiasm to get her a drink.

“It’s fine, I’ve had worse things spilt on me before,” Lucy said as she wiped herself down. “Besides, it was just trying to help.”

She blinked as DUM-EE’s singular claw wrapped around her wrist and tugged it up and down. “What’s it doing?”

“DUM-EE’s saying thank-you,” Tony translated.

“Aw, you’re cute,” Lucy patted the robot.

“Hey, no, it’s not meant to be cute,” Tony intervened.

“Especially after it tried to kill me,” Rhodey added.

"Well I think he's sweet," Lucy laughed as DUM-EE swung her wrist happily.

"You would," Tony grumbled good-naturally while Rhodey struggled with the knot his tie had turned into.

Almost everyone showed up, including Jarvis and Ana. Everyone that is except his parents. Tony really shouldn’t have expected any less, but it still stung, the childish part of him hoping to hear some sort of approval. He brushed away the tightness in his chest and focussed on the people there with him.

He won first place and he tried to feel happy about it.

~*~

“Build something of value before asking me to waste my time,” was his father’s response when Tony had the very bad idea to call home.

He then proceeded with an even worse idea of mixing alcohol with sleeping tablets, and the next thing he remembers is waking up to the steady beep of a machine and a red-eyed Lucy, looking both relieved and extremely pissed off.

“Have you been crying?” he asked, only it came out as more of a croak.

She did a quick preliminary check before being satisfied enough to say, “You are a complete shithead. Try that stunt again and I will kill you myself.”

Tony wanted to point out that the point of being a doctor is not to kill people, but Lucy had already stormed out.

“I ditto what she said,” Rhodey spoke from his spot in the corner, looking tired.

“Not fair,” Tony pouted, “I’m sick and need looking after, not to be ganged up on.”

Rhodey gave him a wane smile, “She’s a spitfire that one. No way will I be getting on her bad side. Almost came to blows with your old man.”

Tony was about to make a joke when the rest of the sentence registered, “Wait, what with my father?”

“Dropped some truth bombs.” Rhody looked sombre. “Not really my place to talk about it. Best to talk to her.”

Tony debated the best way to get the story out of Rhodes when his best friend got up and stretched, eyeing the doorway where a nurse is being waylaid by Jarvis. “Looks like visiting hour is over for us. You going to be okay, Tones?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Rhodey looked sceptical but clapped Tony on the shoulder, “I'll be around if you need anything.”

Jarvis came in after Rhodey’s departure, eyes sad as he took Tony in, straightening the cover out of habit as he took the seat next to him. “You gave everyone quite a scare.”

“Obviously, not everyone.”

Jarvis acknowledged that comment with a tilt of his head. “Your father was here while you were asleep but something unexpected came up.”

“Lucy.”

“Among other things.”

“I’m sorry, Jarvis,” Tony was not one to apologise easily or at all, having been told that it was a weakness by his father. But with Jarvis, he has lost count of the number of times he has apologised and yet, it always seems inadequate.

And without fail, Jarvis responds the same way, “You are forgiven, Master Tony,” and the shame in Tony deepens all the more.

“Just promise me you will cease this unhealthy behaviour. You will do well to remember that you have those who care about your well-being.”

“I know, Jarvis. I’ll try.”

Jarvis smiled kindly, “That’s all I ask.”

~*~

It seems the Stark men are not known for their timing. By the time Tony has completely stopped caring for what his father thought of him, Howard was trying to reach out to him, claiming there are things Tony needs to know, needs to be shown but Tony hardly cared for any of that now. It’s easier not to care than to open himself up to ridicule again. Never let people see how you really feel, wasn’t that another life lesson Howard imparted to him?

“You must hate him,” Tony stated.

It was Thanksgiving. Lucy had invited both him and Rhodey to the Jarvis’ where they had finished off an interesting Hungarian feast made by Ana and now sat around a bonfire, drinking hot chocolate and roasting marshmallows.

It was nice and homely and Tony wished this was how home is.

Lucy glanced in the direction Rhodey had gone to retrieve more refreshments. He may know about the family secret but it’s not something she is comfortable talking about, even with Tony.

“To be honest, I’m pretty indifferent to him bar a couple of things.”

“He abandoned you.” Tony pointed out.

“He did, and I think we can all agree it was a shitty thing to do, but look at what I received instead,” she gestured towards the house where they can see Jarvis and Ana dancing in the living room, unaware of their audience.

“I’m not a fan of his work and I hate the way he treats you,” she absently picks at the grass at her feet. “But Jarvis has always said that family is what you choose it to be, so you know…” she gave an offhand shrug.

Tony gave a sly smile. “Careful Goose, it almost sounds like you care.”

“I will Nerf you in the ass.”

“I’ll sic Rhodey on you.”

“I’m not your bodyguard.” Rhodey retorted, settling himself down with a pack of drinks.

“Then why do I have you around?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking that question?”

“You’re a glutton for punishment, we both are.” Lucy shook her head sadly.

“Here, here.” Rhodey’s bottle met hers with a clink of solidarity.

“Jarvis, I’m being ganged up on!” Tony protested, as his friends sniggered next to him.

~*~

Maria Stark was not unobservant to the divide between the two most important people in her life. The problem is she doesn’t know how to resolve it other than being the buffer; to keep the fire from spreading too widely. Tony appreciated the efforts, futile as they may be and he hated how it seem to hurt her.

“Talk to him,” she requested one day, eyes pleading in an attempt to salvage whatever moment they have left of Christmas, and Tony wished it was something as simple as him taking the first step… but it was always him and he was tired of being burnt.

“Have a good trip,” he said instead. “Love you, mum.”

Maria smiled sadly at him, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he turned away to avoid the look of disappointment in her eyes.

Afterwards, he only wished he walked through the fire instead.

~*~

He doesn’t remember much of the funeral, just a blur of white noise and touches from acquaintances and strangers. Rhodey was deployed somewhere (despite his best efforts to get back) and Lucy couldn’t attend for obvious reasons. Jarvis and Ana hovered close by and it was their presence which grounded him.

Lucy snuck into his room during the wake, where Tony had already retired to his bed, the tie long discarded, the buzz in his head refusing to go away. She laid down beside him, hand wrapped around his wrist. They watched the sun’s ray crawl across the ceiling until the darkness swallowed it whole and the noises faded away.

~*~

Tragedy followed in quick succession when Ana’s health took a turn for the worst and passed away shortly after. Jarvis followed in her wake. The doctors said it was old age, but those who know Jarvis understood it was from a broken heart.

The funeral was small and intimate, rather than crawling with corporate friends. Many were unsure how to approach Lucy, who is an unknown in their mind - present but unaccounted for. Instead, they offered their condolences to Tony, whose grief was hidden behind sunglasses and dulled by alcohol.

He was unsure how to offer comfort the way Lucy had to him - what does he say? What does he do? Why does he feel so inadequate? He drinks as he ponders each question until everything blurs away and the action becomes routine. There were missed calls and unopened letters and knocks on the door that goes unanswered.

That was until the day he was rudely woken up by a rush of ice water. By the time he had finished spluttering his indignation, a garbage bag was thrust into his face by a very unimpressed Peggy Carter.

Bags of accumulated bottles and cans were thrown out, surfaces wiped clean and the windows thrown open, chasing away the stench of a month’s worth of self-pity. By the time he stepped out of the shower, Tony was feeling somewhat human.

The strangest vision hit him when he followed his nose to the kitchen and found Aunt Peggy, regal and intimidating as ever in her older years, cooking him a full English breakfast.

“Stop gaping and eat.”

And eat he did. Tony was famished as he unashamedly polished off the contents of the plate in record time, no doubt demonstrating his ability as an adult to look after himself.

Silence descended when he settled his cutlery, waiting for the lecture that was sure to come. But Aunt Peggy continued to sip her tea as she perused the morning’s paper.

With a sense of deja vu and feeling very much twelve again, Tony said, “Aren’t you going to yell at me?”

“Would it help?” she turned a page. For all his mouthiness, Tony just shrugged.

“You know what is wrong with the picture here. This is to ensure you start fixing it,” she levelled him with a firm but kind gaze. “Grief should enhance your purpose, not dull it. Now, you would be glad to hear that short of kicking your door in, purely due to the distance I suspect, Colonel Rhodes has successfully filled your answering machine to capacity with some rather colourful messages. There are also some earlier letters from him, accompanied by some rather crude drawings, courtesy of Dr Ogden.”

Tony’s spirits lifted for the first time in a month, which must have shown on his face for Aunt Peggy said, “You are not without people who care about you, Anthony. It is not something to be taken lightly.”

“And before you ask,” Aunt Peggy went on. “Your privacy was invaded for security reasons. Your father made many enemies and they would find this an opportune moment not to be missed.”

“Actually, I was going to ask how you knew about Lucy,”

“I worked closely with your father for many years. Mr. Jarvis too, who was my ‘sidekick’ for a while. His words, not mine.” she added unnecessarily with a small smile. “He was my confidante and I his. So yes, I know about Lucy.”

Shame welled up in Tony as it occurred to him that he wasn’t the only person to have lost someone he cared for.

“All is not lost, Anthony. If you want to prove your father wrong, make your own mistakes, don’t tread in his footsteps. Stop living like a Neanderthal, mend your bridges, and use that intelligence under all that belligerence.”

~*~

Admittedly, Tony still had a lot to learn about mending bridges. Calling was a lot harder than apology gifts. Same with home visits. He just can’t seem to make that reach. Shame and fear continued to tighten his chest.

The decision was taken out of his hand when he received a phone call from Metro-General hospital. He arrived in a daze, positive that he had broken half a dozen traffic laws but uncaring in the least.

He was directed to a room where he was pulled up short by Rhodey’s presence, looking calm and collected. Approaching footsteps preceded a harried-looking Lucy, who took one look at the occupants of the room (eyes resting on Tony for a moment longer), glanced back down at the pager in her hand and asked, “How the hell is this a 911?”

Rhodey crossed the room and locked the door with a click. When he turned around, he had pulled himself to his full height and even without his dress uniform, his stance commanded authority and respect. It was impressive, if not at all imposing.

“You two are going to be quiet and let me talk because this has gone on for long enough.”

Lucy groaned. “I really don’t need another lecture.”

At Rhodey’s look, she sighed, lifted both hands in surrender and leaned back against the wall.

“I don’t know if this is a Stark family trait but you two should know better. You,” he pointed at Lucy, “need to stop running away. And you,” he turned to Tony, “need to stop throwing money at problems to make them disappear. You two need to talk and we’re not leaving here until you do because as emotionally stunted as you guys are, I’m not going to sit by and let this crash and burn.”

Tony was scrutinising Rhodey in what he thought was a subtle way, “You’re mad at me,” and the fact that he seemed resigned like it proved him right, made Rhodey’s chest hurt, even if he was pissed off. But he had to remind himself that Tony had spent his short life being proven he was a disappointment to the person who mattered the most to him and expected everyone to do the same.

“I’m upset,” he acknowledged and Tony nodded expectantly, “because you expect me to walk away and not care as if our friendship doesn’t matter. You’re an ass but you’re my ass and that won’t stop me from punching your face if you make a flippant remark right now because I don’t need it. You’ve made your feelings about me clear but I’ll be damned if you two sink too.”

It was more than Rhodey had expected to say but it’s out in the open. At least it won’t be a complete waste of his requested leave of duty.

“It does matter, Rhodey. Our friendship,” Tony clarified, hesitant and uncertain. “I’m just not so good with the whole - “ he gestured aimlessly.

“They’re called feelings, Tony.” Rhodey supplied, amused despite himself.

Tony made a face. “Is that what it is? Yuck.”

“Glad to see age hasn’t affected your maturity.”

“I’m a dick and that probably won’t change but I’ll try to do better,” Tony promised.

“Okay.”

Tony raised an eyebrow, "Okay?"

"Okay." Rhodey reaffirms.

A shrill beep interrupted the moment and they both turned to Lucy, who glanced at her pager before pocketing it. Somewhere between Tony and Rhodey’s heart to heart, she had deposited herself on the floor, cross-legged.

“Goose?”

She shook her head even as she avoided his gaze, “No, you don’t get to call me that anymore.”

“I tried to get in touch with you,” Tony thought of the time he hovered outside her apartment building, working up the courage to knock.

“She went AWOL.” Rhodey provided, tone non-accusatory, just a simple fact.

“I was travelling.” Lucy snapped. “Whose side are you on?”

“Just trying to mend bridges here,” Rhodey said calmly.

“You can only mend something if it was there to begin with.”

Ouch.

Glances were exchanged between the guys and Lucy’s ire grew to expand the hurt in her heart, the one she refused to acknowledge as she traversed unknown terrains in an effort to escape what she thought she knew. And as much of a genius as Tony is, it occurred to him he knew nothing at all if he only just realised what must have been going through Lucy’s mind. He crouched down before her.

“I’m sorry Luce, I didn’t mean to leave you. I just didn’t know how to help you the way you helped me.” I didn’t want to leave a damaged boy for you to look after.

There was a sniffle, “Goddamnit, Tony, I just needed you by my side. Not your money or your status, just you.” Her eyes were wet as she finally looked at him. “But you weren’t there even when I reached out. So yeah, I ran because it’s easier than being unwanted. And now you’re making me cry and you just really suck.”

Tony reached out tentatively to grasp her wrist, the way she use to comfort him. “I know I do and I know it’s a bit late to say this but you’re not unwanted. I’m here if you’re crazy enough to want me around and I promise I won’t leave, no matter how annoying you are.”

A wet laugh escapes Lucy. “I’ll hold you to that.”

(Later, Lucy would drag herself back to her shoebox apartment, eyes blurred with exhaustion and proceeded to throw herself onto the couch, only to scream with terror at the bodies that were already on there, as well as the box of cold pizza. The next morning found Tony and Rhodey with bright pink toenails - a sign their relationship has returned to normal.)

#mcu #mcu fanfiction #mcu ff #iron man #iron man fanfiction #tony stark #tony stark fanfiction #marvel #marvel fanfiction #my writing

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riddlesandqueries · 5 years

Text

Mild Intervention

A conversation between Edward and @askcelsiwilson following the events of Roman Sionis’ intervention.

The bistro that Edward had picked was awfully posh, all things considered, for such a little place. Upscale but private, and he waited by the door, dressed in a friendly sage green linen suit. "Good afternoon, Celsi." Edward smiled, quite polite. "How are we?"

Celsi walked up, feeling really nervous about this. She knew she had stolen and attempted to steal from Edward quite a few times. But after the last time, he was promptly placed on that no stealing list. She looked up when she saw him. "Good afternoon. I'm doing well, thank you."

"Let's go in, before we start chatting." He gave his 'name' to the reception desk, and the Ambage party of two was taken to a booth in a fairly discreet corner: the rest of the restaurant was visible, but their booth was in a world of their own.

"Two waters to start, please, a twist of lime for mine...and my dear, order what you please." said Edward, taking his seat as he directed the waiter.

"Um... a lemon in mine please?" She said softly, completely confused right now. She didn't know what was going on. "Um, pardon me for asking but did I do something wrong?"

He waited until the waiter leaves before hanging his hat. "No, but I do need to have a serious talk with you, before things get much further as they are. It's just easier when there's food and a neutral space."

She nodded. "I'm all ears. And um... " She passed over a small box. "A white flag of sorts. I'm returning what I had stolen from you before."

He peeked into the box. What was it? it’s been ages, after all...Ah. It was a few of his question mark pens and a tie. "Thank you...you know, I have to ask: why did you take these?"

"I was in a bad place at the time. The orphanage was pretty abusive, and the police would never listen to us. I thought I would break into rogues' place to try to earn a bit of money. And if I got caught, you guys would have to be kinder than the orphanage." She rubbed the scar from her recent bout with Black Mask. "I was wrong about that."

"At the time." he repeated, setting aside the box. "But it's different now, isn't it?"

"Yeah. I have to break out of the habit I have of hiding things. Arkham Jr did a number on me. But I am trying."

The waters are served: are they ready to order?

Celsi looked at her menu. "Um.. May I get a burger and fries please?" She asked.

The waiter was a bit nonplussed, as this is not quite that kind of place, until he saw Edward's expectant expression. Yes, yes. Certainly. Edward ordered the salmon over wild rice pilaf, Brussels sprouts on the side, and a coffee. The waiter absconded, and Edward turned back to her. "Do you intend to continue being a thief?"

"I mean... I want to. But the list of people to not steal from is getting longer by the now." Celsi said softly. "Plus the one jewelry store heist went south so quickly. I didn't know Black Mask owned the store. I thought I was doing a good thing by getting a store that was selling drugs to kids."

"And why do you want to continue to be a thief?"

"Because it seems like a rush. It's fun. And if I can learn to target those who are doing wrong in the world, I can feel like I'm giving them some well deserved karma. It's a challenge for me."

He sipped his water, considering her with some degree of scrutiny as his coffee is delivered and left in a hurry. "...how's that scar of yours?"

"It is getting better, but I have a feeling it's going to stay with me forever. It's the one thing that's making me reconsider staying a thief."

Edward nodded, then pointed to his shoulder. "Gunshot, through and through." He taps his head. "A few concussions, three by the Bat." He tapped his chest and torso in various spots. "Explosive shrapnel, broken glass, knives." His leg. "Open fracture, this one took months of physical therapy. I still carry a cane for a reason."

With that, he prepared his coffee. "Celsi, I'll do something I don't usually afford to people and tell you directly: you're at the point where you don't have to be a thief. You're in a safe home with loving parents and a girlfriend, and the potential for a safe and healthy future. There's plenty of other things that will delight you, inspire you, and you can target wrongdoers in any line of the humanities."

With that, Edward took a sip. "I'm not here to tell you how to live: it's your life. But I am telling you now, in no uncertain terms, that you'll either have to get very good very fast, or you ought to get out while you safely can."

She nodded. "I've been thinking on that for a while, since I had that run in with Black Mask. I've actually got an idea. A way to earn money and challenge myself legally while still in a way doing what I love. I mean, I could test the security systems. See how easy they are to get through, and then help fix the problem. But that's only for the rogue gallery. If they are not in the rogue gallery, I can mess with the system, and then they're wide open for you guys."

"How so, precisely?"

"I found that I really like hacking. It challenges me in a way that breaking into places never did. I mean stealing the same things over and over can get boring after a while. But there's always new things to hack, and more secure things to try to break through. So messing with the system means I can rig the alarm to go off several times, and make it a false alarm. That way, I'm not in danger. Also.. if all that fails, Dad says I could sell my art to museums."

Lunch is served, thank you. Edward chuckled, arching an eyebrow. "Then I have some serious advice for you: do your research. Don't overstep into danger needlessly, and most important of all: study physical systems most of all: there's no need to code when you just need to pull one wire."

She nodded in agreement. "I will definitely be doing that. But I am confused. Why did you want to help me?"

"The rogue life isn't for everyone, and I consider it a poor first choice. In fact, it's a last resort, and a waste of alternatives when you have them."

"So maybe I should just stick to my art?"

"That's your choice, ultimately."

She went silent for a bit, thinking long and hard on her choices. What Edward had said seemed to sink in with her. "You know what. I think I'm going to stick with my art."

He nodded, and gestured to her burger. Eat, it's fresh. It's a fantastically made meal. "A hard decision is the one most worth making."

She nodded, starting on her meal. "I know. And it's the least likely to get me killed." She said with a smile. "Do you mind if I add you in my family list?"

"...family list?" Edward hummed, glancing up.

"Well.. I mean... I'm asking if it's okay to consider you family?"

"Celsi, though I appreciate the gesture, you don't know me well enough for that, nor I you." Edward said calmly. "Just because I'm being good counsel doesn't qualify me for that level of closeness: consider it later once we've got a bit more interaction under our respective belts, hm?"

Celsi nodded. "Friends, then?" She asked.

"Acquaintances." he nodded primly. "I have my own social strata: call it what you will, it's based on obligation. At any rate: I look forward to seeing what you do with art. And speaking from experience, if it doesn't work out, you can always go into rogue work." He smiles a bit.

She nodded again. "Thank you for everything, Edward."

"You're welcome. I thought it was fairly important, and I appreciate your patience in hearing me out." said Edward, setting in. "Now, let's get to lunch properly."

#askcelsiwilson #narrative #dcau askblog #askcalendarman #askkiteman #don't mistake it for kindness dear readers

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codeinecocacola · 5 years

Text

some dumb catradora au drabble idk

She looks like brimstone and fire under the late-evening wash of sunlight, the edges of her Midas-touched hair displaced by a million shades of amber and ambrosia. It's so ineffably dumb, this picture, this little play you're participating in—

Ent. Catra, The Fool

—and the base of your trachea burns a smidge, a low and smoldering sensation, like maybe you wolfed down too much over-processed food, too quickly, and now you're enduring the consequences.

Except you haven't eaten anything today, and the figure standing approximately six feet away is the very pillar of all your fears, and somehow Adora hasn't noticed your presence yet.

Sometimes her obliviousness is a blessing. Sometimes it's a curse.

You stand there for another excruciating thirty seconds, each momentary blip tickling the back of your neck, as though you're the one being watched and not the other way around. There's an incessant buzz simultaneously humming in the furthest pits of your stomach, making you feel a little sick.

This is so dumb.

You do what you do best. Swallow your emotions, tuck them away, violently sweep them under the rug—it's a lot easier than letting them simmer right beneath your tongue, acrid and hot.

So you do what you do goddamn best. Drag your hand down your face, don a smirk as you wrap composure around yourself like a pliant cape, and book it towards Adora as fast as your wired legs will allow. You pounce on her shoulders, throw your weight on her like the universe on Atlas's shoulders. Your legs swing upwards with the momentum and (of course) Adora instinctively grabs them.

"Hey Adora," you purr, all smooth and suave right into her neck.

"Hiiiiii Catra," she drawls, sounding equal parts endeared and exasperated. You sorta hate (and sorta love) how nonplussed she is about your sudden materialization around her shoulders. You hop down and lazily throw your hands behind your neck, paragon of impish nonchalance that you are. Meanwhile some meager part of your brain is still batting away the hypotheticals and the unwanted sparks of emotion attempting to bubble to the surface of your thoughts.

"You weren't at school today," you say, picking at your cuticles like it's a minor detail. Like you weren't missing her at lunch, like you aren't internally taking a baseball bat to your brain for even missing her in the first place, because it was one fucking day and it's this excessive clinginess you can't stuff down that's really driving you in—

"And you knew I'd be here." It's not really a question. It never was, not when it comes to Adora. It's weird, the duality shrouding your relationship with her; it's weird, being so blatantly certain of someone and so witheringly uncertain all at once. But that's just another trail of thoughts you swat away.

"What's up?"

Your way of asking what's wrong without saying it.

"I guess you didn't see."

"See what?"

She fiddles with her phone and brings up a news article, holding the device up with an extended arm for you to look at. You can't read it properly like that, of course, but your eyes pick out the key words standing out in the title. You see Horde Orphanage and unethical practices in the same line. You blink. Something grimy and ice-laced slither around your stomach; it's a good thing you're so good at dismantling and dismissing your emotions, because you cooly reply with, "And?"

"And what? Catra, that's where we grew up!"

You snort. You feel yourself slipping under the currents of unsavory disposition but can't care, not right now. "You're acting like you didn't know that place was awful."

"Um hello, Earth to Catra, did you forget we learned everything there?"

"Sure. I'm just not that surprised is all."

She gives you this look, this vaguely mournful and possibly disappointed expression, and you look away for about two seconds before you decide it's easier to be angry. It's easier to summon a flickering flash of warmth and crimson irritation that acknowledge the weight settling over you. "Oh don't give me that," you scoff. Next you'll be telling me Weavera was actually a good role model."

She splutters for a sec. It's cute, but you think that in a borderline sardonic way. "I—well I mean, she—she taught us how to protect ourselves from the world. And to suddenly learn that it was fake? That we were being used?"

"Jeeze, get over it princess. It's not the end of the world, plus, we don't even live there anymore."

"I don't... how can you be okay with this?"

You stare at her for half a second but

—

anyway yep that's the drabble, very cool, idk where the rest of the story is ): it's gone just LIKE ADORA IS!!!! )))):

#catradora #catradora fanfic #catra #adora #she ra #catra fanart #catra art #catra edit #epic gaming

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impracticaldemon · 5 years

Text

A little ErLu for the inimitable @sassyhazelowl in honour of Femslash February ♥ in under the wire on February 28! This is almost entirely fluff and fun, but why not? Hope you enjoy it!

~ Imp

No-Longer-Valentine’s-Day Day

What do you give a woman who already has the ultimate wardrobe of expensive dresses and fine armour? Not to mention accessories ranging from hand-painted fans (with steel reinforced edges) to pennant-decked horse lances.

Lucy was flipping morosely through a catalogue of swords that included everything from Japanese katana (second blade 50% off!) to Scottish claymores (for life with a little extra swing—ideal for beheading your immortal enemies), trying to pick out the perfect No-Longer-Valentine’s Day gift. They’d agreed that Valentine’s Day could be overdone, although it was still a good opportunity to pick up strawberry-creme chocolates. Plus, they’d stocked up on bath bubbles and scented candles the day after at a significant discount.

Not that they hadn’t supported their friends. Nothing wrong with celebrating Valentine’s Day in traditional ways, or on the traditional date. Juvia had gone all out, and foregone her usual—as in every single day of the year usual—blue in order to dress up as the Queen of Hearts, complete with tiny red velvet miniskirt, gorgeous, lacy, black bustier, thigh-high black and red boots, and a crown. Cana had adored it, even though Juvia had muttered that it looked odd with her blue hair, and the two of them had gone off laughing into the night, on their way to both an extravagant masquerade ball, and a waterfront dive.

Lucy hadn’t been envious. By celebrating Valentine’s Day in their own way, she and Erza could make it more personal, and less commercialized. …At least, that was the theory. She flipped the magazine closed with more force than necessary, and managed to give herself a nasty paper cut across the tip of one finger.

Okay, okay, we can do this. Ignore massive PAIN radiating from little finger, focus on being creative and different! Juvia dressed up for Cana way outside her comfort zone, wrong colours and everything. Cana bought tickets to a fancy party, even though it’s not really her crowd–and she’ll behave perfectly, too, just for Juvia.

The sound of familiar footsteps brought Lucy up off the couch in a bound. It wasn’t much, but maybe there was something she could do for Erza today. And after that she would make a suggestion. More of a recommendation, really—a firmly-worded, emphatic recommendation. Next year, they would do Valentine’s Day with everybody else, and wallow in commercially-induced, over-priced froth. They were both far too addicted to following advice from magazines, and the “celebrate on a different day!” advice had sounded better in principle than in practice.

Fortunately, Lucy knew exactly where to find what she was looking for, and after several years around Team Natsu she was an expert at dressing quickly. Mentally, she ticked off the list of preparations that were already done: candles—lit; sparkling wine—chilling; chocolate-raspberry cookies—baked; window—locked against unwanted guests.

She emerged into the living room just as Erza was hanging up her coat and turning to admire the sights and smells of Not-Valentine’s-Day.

“Lucy—this is amazing! I really appreciate—” And then Erza stopped, having finally gotten a good look at her girlfriend, who was lounging against the door to the bedroom. “…Oh Lucy…”

After the fateful Grand Magic Games, Lucy had brought home their uniforms, and washed, and scrubbed, and gotten help patching up rents and tears and scorch marks. Their victory on that last day of the Games had come at a high cost, but they’d been a team, and she knew how much that had meant, and still meant, to Erza.

“Glory days?” Lucy asked, softly, but with just a hint of provocative hip, and her best I-think-you’re-gorgeous smile. The indigo-purple uniform, emblazoned with the Fairy Tail crest, hugged her torso, and swirled around her thighs, leaving most of her legs bare.

“Eh, yes—I suppose… You look so pretty!” Erza was an affectionate, demonstrative lover, and she hurried over to Lucy now, and gave her a tight hug, before pressing a happy kiss to her lips. Lucy melted into Erza’s warmth, returning the kiss, and reaching out to twine her fingers into one, calloused, strong-fingered hand. A moment later, she winced.

Erza drew away, concerned. “Lucy?”

Embarrassed, Lucy laughed. “Just a paper cut! Funny how the smallest things can really hurt, you know?”

“This, from the woman who survived Minerva at her worst!” Erza’s words were gently teasing—she’d spent many long nights, and days, too, helping Lucy cope with the aftermath of her least pleasant experiences of the Games. At this point, they’d both come to terms with what had happened—and with Minerva of Sabretooth. Erza lifted Lucy’s hand, and examined the thin red line across the top of the pinkie. “I suppose I’ll have to kiss it better…”

Lucy hummed happily, and then with a little heat, as first her ‘injured’ pinkie, and then her other fingers, were caressed by Erza’s soft lips and attentive tongue. It took an effort to pull away.

“Why don’t you get changed, and I’ll pour the wine? And I made your favourite cookies…”

Erza was always—almost always—surprisingly compliant when it came to doing things as a couple. Lucy suspected that her beloved enjoyed being able to relax out of the ‘leader’ role when they were together like this, although of course it depended on the day, and whatever else was going on.

When Erza got back, shyly holding a small gift wrapped in white lace and fancy red ribbon, Lucy was waiting for her on the couch. She let Erza set down the gift, and handed her a glass of wine as she took her place on the couch beside Lucy.

“Now then,” said Lucy, “I have a gift for you, too, but I didn’t get to wrap it.” She cleared her throat. “I left my shopping a little late, you see. But then I realized that I can give you something much better than just a new weapon to add to your… collection.” They grinned at each other, since Lucy usually referred to Erza’s assortment of weaponry as her ‘freakishly insane personal armoury’.

“Well I can think of several better things, actually,” Erza told her, raising both of her elegant brows. Then she blushed. Erza was still endearingly embarrassed by physical intimacy at times, despite the very racy novels she read in private.

“Ahem! I’m trying to make a grand gesture here—don’t interrupt!”

“Sorry, sorry…”

“As your very special It’s-Not-Valentine’s-Day present, I, Lucy Heartfilia, will help you to choose a new weapon.”

Erza blinked, obviously confused. “But, Lucy—”

“Seriously, try me! It just occurred to me that I haven’t spent years with you—not to mention the last four weeks with your favourite catalogues—without learning how to speak the language of sharp metal things. Bring it on!”

Still puzzled, Erza tried to comply. She rarely discussed weapons with Lucy, since it wasn’t an interest they had in common, and Lucy didn’t even really like weapons much.

“I was thinking, recently, that I should improve my range of middle-to-long-reach swords—”

“Sure, no problem—I would suggest something in either the medium-heavy end of the katana, or possibly the true longsword of the Europeans, which was originally more like the katana, in the sense of being a sword requiring two hands to heft and direct with precision. This type of longsword was also referred to as a hand-and-a-half sword, or bastard sword—although that seems like a rather rude name, to me.

“Anyway, let me draw your attention to page twenty-three of this catalogue, and we can start by discussing the relative merits of the katana they have in stock at the moment.”

“Lucy?”

“Talk to me baby!” Lucy reached out and pressed Erza’s hand, before handing her the catalogue. “I know I’m not always up to talking sword dynamics, but that doesn’t mean I can’t. I’ve got a surprisingly good memory, you know!”

“…Are you sure?”

“Yep. This attractively-attired celestial mage is here to get serious about blade curvature and tang length. Feel free to debate speed versus power with me—or more likely yourself—to your heart’s desire.”

Erza’s astonished expression finally relaxed into a very soft kind of smile. “This could end up being a very… invigorating… discussion. After all, what person doesn’t like being asked to talk about herself, or her favourite interests?”

“I’m counting on it,” Lucy responded, eyes bright with humour and anticipation. She set down her wine, and patted her lap invitingly. “Come lay your head on my lap, and talk dirty to me about your favourite grips, and the benefits of real leather over synthetics.”

Much, much later, a sleepy Erza murmured to a sleeping Lucy:

“Next year, I want to celebrate Valentine’s Day and No-Longer-Valentine’s Day…”

[END]

tags: @shell-senji @nalufever @eliz1369 @lockandk3yfiction @furidojasutin @miss-zei @strawberryliaelleth

#fairy tail #ft fanfiction #erlu #erza scarlet #lucy heartfilia #impracticaldemon #imp writes #sassyhazelowl #femslash february #and in under the wire!!#lol february has been a rollercoaster for writing gadzooks!#almost pure fluff #hope you enjoy it!

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gillytweed · 6 years

Text

Insubordinate and AWOL

I started this in September and I’m only just finishing now. Jesus, I have no time to write. Stupid school. Either way, I’m trying to write when I can, even if that means only a sentence every now and again.

Anywho, enjoy Clexa in spaaaaaaaaace (not really space, more like a scifi setting)

The lights of the ship's console flickered and soft beeps filled the cockpit as she set the vehicle down lightly on a ridge near the base. A nice outcropping of trees gave her a decent amount of cover so she had little fear of her ship being discovered, but she bit her lip in worry as she looked at the screen that displayed a set of vital readings. Clarke took a deep breath as the heart reading remained steady, seeing it beep at regular intervals calmed her as she began to get her gear together.

She slipped into her compression suit quickly, followed by her armour. With a few adjustments, her own vitals soon displayed on the console next to the other screen, the heart readings slightly out of sync, the first one slower, more relaxed, like they were sleeping.

“Please just be sleeping.” She murmured quietly as she tucked her hair securely in her helmet. It only took a few more minutes for her to be ready. A quick check of her weapons, an energy pistol and blade, as well as a double check of the extra power packs she had strapped to her belt, and then she was at the door.

She paused to sync the two vital readings to her suit, feeling calmed by the steady and gentle beeping that filled her ears. So long as she could hear it, everything would be alright. She took a deep breath and tapped the communication module on the side of her helmet, then waited for the static to clear.

“Hey Griff, you read me?” A slightly crackly voice came through her comms, a few more taps on the module and the static cleared completely.

“I hear you, Rae. Has Jaha figured out I’m gone yet?” She heard a hesitant hum, meaning the answer was most likely yes.

“I mean, it’s not like he can stop you now. Plus it is his fault he didn’t send you with Lexa in the first place. He really should have seen this coming.” She hummed in agreement as she popped the ship's hatch, stepping down onto the planet's surface. Her suit hissed a little as it adjusted to the atmosphere, despite the air being well within a safe range for humans.

She stalked over the ridge, hiding behind the trees as best she could and took in the base. It was a small installation which they’d initially believed to have few guards, which had been her bosses, Jaha’s, reasoning for sending her partner in alone. However, their group worked in a partner system for a reason, and the unexpected influx of guards was a perfect example. Now, 100% against orders, she was going to save her girlfriend.

She clenched her jaw as she ran for the fence that enclosed the compound, spotting a gap in the patrols. Her suit made her practically invisible to cameras thanks to Raven and Monty’s genius, so all she really had to worry about was the human guards.

She vaulted over the fence without much trouble, the electricity running through it doing no harm as the material of her gloves didn’t conduct it. She landed, rolling up into a crouch near the compounds back wall. A door was a few feet to her left. She only had about a minute before the next set of guards rounded the corner, so she had to move quickly.

The door was protected by bio-scanners, another thing quickly bypassed by the Nerd Squads tech. Raven, with a bit of help from the medical team, had found a way to read and then replicate one of the valid hand prints that activated the door, so all she had to do was place her gloved palm firmly on the scanner and the tech did the rest. The door clicked open after a moment, letting her slip inside undetected.

Beyond the door was a short hallway, one she recognized from Lexa’s suit cam video before she got captured. The camera itself was rather standard, strapped to an agent’s chest so the support team could see what was happening. From the video Monty had managed to recover, Lexa had made it to the main terminal of the base starting from this hallway, downloaded the files she was sent to get, then some of the extra guards that they hadn’t known about had walked in. After some digging, it had turned out three extra squads of soldiers had been transferred to the installation the day before as a layover until they could get a ship to take them to another, larger base in the same system. ‘An unfortunate miscalculation,’ Jaha had called it, saying they couldn’t risk giving a connection between Lexa and their organization, Arkadia, thus there would be no rescue mission. As if that would stop Clarke from going anyway.

Their suits were rather standard for freelance bounty hunters and mercenaries, with a few enhancements a la the Nerd Squad, and Lexa had destroyed her camera and comms module, the only things that could really give any connection to Arkadia. So, really, the commanding officers of the base would have had no choice but to write Lexa off as a freelancer hired and sent by a rival corporation, and really that was probably the reason they’d kept her alive. They didn’t know who’d sent her, so they needed to find out.

Clarke snuck down the hall, having no idea where she was going. A few random twists and turns found her in a different section of the building, one filled with offices and labs, which luckily meant computers. It barely took anything at all to get into one of the offices, the bio-scanners no match for her enhanced glove. She kept the lights off, so as not to draw any suspicion, and took a moment to rest. She plopped down in the surprisingly comfortable office chair and plugged her suits computer into the terminal, the extendable cord protruding from her gauntlets embedded computer.

She let herself relax as Ravens hacking software sorted through all the files, listening to Lexa’s vital monitor. It had remained steady as she’d snuck in, a good sign considering anything else probably meant she was being hurt or worse.

“Hey, Griff, I think I know where she is.” Raven’s voice broke her from her thoughts. The older girl had remained silent since their conversation outside, knowing Clarke needed to be able to concentrate. “There’s a holding block a few halls down and the records say they placed a new prisoner in cell seven. Her status is ‘Currently under sedation after failed questioning.’” Clarke swallowed, her jaw flexing.

“Does it list any injuries?” She was honestly afraid to know.

“Not sure, doesn’t say in what's been decrypted.” Clarke nodded despite Raven not being able to see her.

“Okay, I’ll go find her.” Raven didn’t respond, forgoing her usual teasing and banter to let Clarke focus. On normal missions Raven would chatter all the way through, but it was obviously not the time.

Clarke unplugged the cord and let it contract back into her glove, and with a deep sigh, she moved back over to the door, crouching low. She waited, hovering under the doors window for the next guard rotation to pass, however when it did, she raised a brow at their conversation.

“Honestly, did the drug even work? Like, she kept rambling about her girlfriend instead of actually telling us anything.”

“It’s designed to make a person share information, doesn’t specify what. Maybe she really wanted to talk about this Clarke person? I don’t know, I’m not a scientist, man.”

Clarke had to hold in a laugh. Rambling about your girlfriend was certainly one way to avoid interrogation.

She waited for the two men to pass, then slipped from the room. She followed behind the guards as they did their rounds, slipping away as their route passed by the holding block. She gave them a couple seconds to turn down another hall before breaking into a sprint. She practically flew past the cells until she skid to a stop in front of cell seven. She could swear that the closer she’d gotten to Lexa, the louder her vital reading became.

The door was sealed with an old fashioned card scanner, which she quickly popped the plastic casing off. Honestly, if they thought old, practically antiquated tech would confuse rescuers then they were sadly mistaken. Raven whispered instructions into her ear, telling her which wires to cut and fuse until the door unsealed with a light hiss.

She took no time to shoulder it open, falling to her knees next to Lexa’s prone form. The brunette was sleeping softly, or rather drugged into unconsciousness, laying on a bench at the back of the cell. A bag of fluid was hanging above her, the IV line connected to the soft meat of her shoulder as it seemed the soldiers couldn’t have been bothered to completely remove her compression suit. A fact that she was grateful for as it kept Lexa’s vitals signal broadcasting.

Clarke gave herself a moment to gaze at her girlfriend, relief washing over her. She wouldn’t have known what to do if Lexa had turned out to be dead. They’d been girlfriends for years, and partners even longer than that, so to lose Lexa now would have left her disoriented and confused, unsure of where to go.

“I found her.” She breathed into her comms. On the other end she heard Raven yell in victory, but she ignored her in favour of focusing on the drugs being slowly pumped into Lexa. She examined the label on the drip bag, sighing in relief when she found it was just a general anaesthetic rather than something more harmful. She cut off the drip and gently removed it from Lexa’s shoulder, brushing strands of brown hair from her forehead as she did so.

“Come on pretty girl, time to wake up.” She knew it would take a while for Lexa to come to, but she couldn’t help gently cupping her face and brushing her thumbs along her cheekbones. An ugly purple bruise stretched along the brunette’s cheek, going down to her jaw, and just the sight of it made Clarke swallow in fury. She wanted to go and beat everyone who’d laid a hand on Lexa into the ground, but she knew her desire was unrealistic, so for now she’d focus on getting her girlfriend to safety.

She couldn’t help the slight hitch in her breath when Lexa started to stir a few minutes later, eyes fluttering and a low groan rumbling in her chest. It took several more long minutes for her to finally open her eyes, blinking blearily up at the flickering fluorescent lights.

“Hey pretty girl, how’re you feeling?” She murmured softly. It took another minute, but eventually Lexa managed to focus on her, squinting as she looked through her helmet's visor.

“Clarke…?” Lexa let out a low groan that ended as a soft sigh. “What happened?” Her words were ever so slightly slurred, most likely from the drugs still in her system.

“You were captured on a mission, I’m here to get you out.” Lexa chuckled, somehow finding her response funny. It made Clarke furrow her brow in worry.

“I knew you’d come and get me. Those idiots didn’t even know what’s coming.” The brunette punched lazily at the air, words still slurred. “I told em how amazing you are.” Clarke couldn’t help but smile at Lexa’s look of absolute adoration, but her brow still remained furrowed. Whatever drug they used to interrogate her must still be in her system, along with the remains of the anaesthetic.

“Come on then, let’s get you out of here.” She helped Lexa sit up, supporting her carefully as she tilted and slumped over. She slid an arm around her waist, and pulled one of Lexa’s over her shoulders. The brunette stumbled but managed to stay standing, giggling softly as she leaned against the blonde.

“Ya know how I always act grumpy when you call me pretty girl in public?” Clarke hummed in response as they moved forward. “I actually really like when you call me that. S’nice.” The smile crept back on her face as she poked her head into the hall and looked for guards. They’d never talked about the nicknames they would use for each other, mostly because they never really needed to. They had always been good with letting each other know when one of them wasn’t okay with something, so when Lexa hadn’t actually objected to the name she’d continued to use it. She’d just never known how much Lexa actually liked it.

“You like it, hm?” Lexa hummed in agreement, leaning her head against Clarke’s shoulder. “Then I’ll call you it as much as you want once we get out of here, but right now we gotta be quiet, okay?” Lexa hummed again, stumbling as she was gently pulled from the cell.

“Um, is Lexa okay? She seems out of it.” Raven’s voice rang in her ear. She’d almost forgotten that technically the older girl was there with them, watching and listening.

“Yeah, she’s just really drugged. Should be fine.” She rolled her eyes at Raven’s low chuckle and murmur of ‘blackmail,’ deciding to instead focus on keeping Lexa quiet as they padded down the halls. They needed to move quickly because unlike her, Lexa wasn’t shielded from camera’s so they needed to get as far as they could before anyone noticed something amiss.

They’d made it about a third of the way out when she felt a hand pawing at her side. Turning, brow raised in question, she found her girlfriend trying her best to get at the energy sword secured to her belt.

“Do you want something?” Clarke chuckled as she pulled them around another corner. Lexa continued to paw at her side, whining lowly and acting like a small child. It was a rare sight to see really. Clarke could only ever remember seeing the older girl like this when she had fallen sick, which was also a rare occurrence. “Use your words.”

“I want a weapon. I need to protect you.” Clarke’s heart melted at that, making her smile softly. Lexa was always so determined and protective, having lost so much when she was younger, and now she was unwilling to lose any more after having found some form of happiness. It was one of the many qualities Clarke admired about her.

“Um, you’re currently under the influence of unknown drugs, and seeing as you aren’t allowed a weapon on cold medicine, you can’t have one now.” In response, Lexa stopped pawing at her side, instead pouting and leaning more heavily on the blonde, huffing sadly. The sudden extra weight made Clarke stumble, and she realized things would start to get a bit harder if she didn’t keep her drugged girlfriend appeased. “Come on pretty girl, I’ll make it up to you later. I’ll bribe Rae to let us try out the new weapons.”

“Like you could actually bribe me.” Raven scoffed in her ear, making the blonde roll her eyes. Really she just needed Lexa to be convinced until they managed to get out of the base and the drugs flushed from her system. Once that happened, Clarke could think of several other ways to make it up to her girlfriend, most involving staying in bed together for hours on end. Either way, Lexa seemed convinced, straightening a bit and taking more of her own weight.

They were a few hallways away from the exit when the alarm finally sounded. It was loud and blaring, making Lexa cry out as she slapped her hands over her ears. Clarke’s eyes widened in worry. The alarm wasn’t so loud that it caused pain, although her helmet did muffle it a bit, so it could only be assumed that whatever drug they’d given the brunette also made her hearing, and possibly other senses, more sensitive.

She guided Lexa down another hall, quickening her pace. Just a little bit more then they’d be home free. Another turn and she slammed her shoulder against the door she came in, not caring to be stealthy now that they'd been discovered.

They tumbled through the door, Lexa sighing in relief as the alarm became muffled by the building's thick walls. Clarke took a moment to ensure they were steady before looking up and deflating at the sight of several soldiers pointing their guns.

“Well, shit.” Raven’s voice mumbled in her ear. Taking a deep breath, she readied herself for combat, reaching for the pistol on her hip. Before she could do anything however, Lexa was darting forward with a yell, laser sword, the one she had explicitly said not to touch, in hand and drawn.

Grunting in annoyance, Clarke rolled to the side as guns began firing, drawing her pistol as she did so. She lay down covering fire as Lexa swung, dodged and rolled. Even drugged she was skilled, showing exactly why she was one of Arcadia’s top agents.

Her acrobatics were a bit sloppy, her muscles weighed down by anaesthesia, but her blade was as precise as ever. Slashing and hacking at the weak points on the soldier’s armour, joints and points of flexibility where the armour was thinner, all while continually moving.

Once all the soldiers were down, Lexa straightened, grinning cheekily like she was about to say ‘see I’m totally okay to have a weapon when drugged’ but her expression quickly turned into a frown when she stumbled and collapsed to her knees before emptying her stomach onto the ground. Clarke jogged over, holstering her pistol and taking the laser swords hilt from Lexa’s hand and returning it to her belt before supporting her girlfriend and rubbing her back. The drugs were definitely messing with Lexa’s equilibrium, most likely affecting her inner ear. It would explain her sensitivity to sound, the stumbling, and the vomiting. Once Lexa was done being sick, Clarke sighed and helped the brunette stand.

“You good?” The only answer she got was a soft groan as Lexa leaned a bit more against her.

“Damn, they did a number on her, huh?” Raven commented as they began stumbling towards the gate. Clarke didn’t bother to be discrete, unsheathing her sword and slashing through the electrically charged wire to create a path.

“We just need to flush everything from her system and she should be fine. I’ll do a full body scan on the ship.” Raven hummed in confirmation, falling silent while they stumbled up towards the ridge where she’d hidden the transport.

Other soldiers would most likely be coming soon, and if given enough time, reinforcements from the larger base a few planets over. They needed to disappear as quickly as they could. She considered their options as she opened the ship’s hatch.

She couldn’t go back to Arcadia, not yet at least. Lexa could have a tracker on her, or some other spy device, which they couldn’t afford getting into their base. So maybe a trade hub? A smuggler's den could also be an option. Really so long as they covered their trail accordingly they’d be just fine.

She helped Lexa stumble to the cot set up in the back of the ship. The small living area was sectioned off from the rest of the ship, a bit more homey and comfortable than the bare steel walls of the cockpit and cargo area. The cot was shoved against the back wall, a small eating area was set up in the centre, near the ration dispensers, and a shower and toilet was sectioned off by small walls next to the door to the rest of the ship.

Lexa sighed as she sprawled out onto the cot, not moving as Clarke stretched safety straps over her chest and legs in preparation for taking off. The blonde slipped off her helmet, breathing in fresh, unrecycled air. It wouldn’t last forever once they got into space, but she’d enjoy it while she could.

“I’ll be right back, just gonna get us off this rock and heading somewhere safe, okay?” The brunette hummed in acknowledgement as Clarke pressed her lips to her forehead before padding to the front of the ship.

She tossed her helmet into the spare seat as she plopped down in front of the controls, strapping in quickly before bringing the ship to life. The monitors warned her about approaching soldiers, but she ignored them, instead focusing on revving the engine, setting the launch trajectory, and calibrating the stabilizers. Raven, the ever helpful support tech she was, remotely started the calculations for a hyper jump to a system over, then provided a list of possible places to lay low until Clarke could determine if it was safe to bring her girlfriend home.

They were in orbit before she knew it, the ship counting down the seconds until the hyperdrive was ready to activate, then they were shooting through the stars at light speed. After ensuring everything was stable and on course, she unbuckled her safety straps and returned to her girlfriend.

“Hey, you. How’re you feeling?” Lexa just mumbled and hummed softly, not moving as Clarke removed the straps keeping her in bed. She still seemed out of it, attention wandering, but her eyes were clear as she watched Clarke strip out of her armour.

Underneath everything, the armour, the compression suit, Clarke wore a simple tank top and shorts. Lexa wore the same, although hers was sweat soaked and days old, thus, along with her compression suit, they were stripped away. Clarke felt her muscles uncoil, a tension she didn’t know she had easing as her hands touched Lexa’s bare skin.

She couldn’t help but smile as she watched Lexa stretch languidly, a low groan rumbling in her throat, then curl up on her side. The tattoo on her spine was stark against her too pale skin.

“Do you want to eat something?” Clarke murmured quietly as she began setting up the medical scans. A quick flash of light surveyed the bed, scanning Lexa in less than an instant, then a low beep signalled the start of the analysis.

Lexa groaned softly, sounding indecisive.

“At least drink some water.” She grabbed two bottles of water, one warm and one cold, from the food area, and pressed the cool one against the back of Lexa’s neck. Her girlfriend squirmed, yelping at the sudden chill. Clarke laughed as she stepped away from the bed, narrowly dodging the pillow Lexa threw at her.

“You’re so mean to me.” Lexa buried her face in the remaining pillow and stretched out her arm, her fingers clenching and unclenching until Clarke handed her the bottle of water. While Lexa drank the water and shuffled around to get comfortable, Clarke grabbed a cloth from storage and soaked it in warm water.

She went to work wiping the cloth over Lexa’s arms and torso, giggling when Lexa squirmed away as she found a particularly ticklish spot on her side.

“I’ll throw this at you too.” Lexa shook her half full water bottle. She’d settled on her back, propping her head up with the remaining pillow.

“No you won’t.” Clarke smiled and leaned down to press a kiss to Lexa’s cheek. She put the warm water and cloth aside so she could crawl on top of her girlfriend and continue to rain kisses on her skin.

Lexa hummed, smiling as Clarke nibbled lightly at her collarbone. Having Clarke stretched atop her, her weight and warmth, made her feel grounded. The sensations lessened the fog in her head, instead letting her feel like she was floating rather than suffocating in a drug induced haze.

“Shouldn’t you be playing doctor?” Lexa’s words turned into a huff as Clarke settled entirely on top of her, Clarke’s body covering her own like a shield.

“I already have the analysis running. I’ll get up when it’s done, but till then I’m perfect right here.” Lexa chuckled at her response, closing her eyes as Clarke pressed her face into Lexa’s neck.

Slowly Lexa fell into sleep, exhausted from her ordeal, but Clarke remained awake. She watched the progress bar of the health scan slowly creep towards completion. She felt better having Lexa underneath her, the sound of her heart beat in her ear, but the results of the health scan brought a whole new wealth of reasons for her to be anxious.

The soldiers could have done anything to Lexa, hurt her in ways that were invisible to the naked eye, so Clarke refused to sleep until she knew what had happened. Once she knew, she’d be able to help, as well as have some peace of mind. Until then however, she’d remain where she was, acting as a blanket for Lexa, a barrier between her and the rest of the world.

#clexa #clarke griffin #commander lexa #clarke x lexa #my writing

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