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demigod-of-the-agni · 1 month

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Spider-Man India, but... where from India?

A SUPER long post featuring talks of: cultural identity, characterisation, the caste system, and what makes Spider-Man Spider-Man.

I’m prefacing this by saying that I am a second-generation immigrant. I was born in Australia, but my cultural background is from South India. My experiences with what it means to be “Indian” is going to be very different from the experiences of those who are born and brought up in India.

If you, reader, want to add anything, please reblog and add your thoughts. This is meant to be a post open for discussion — the more interaction we get, the better we become aware of these nuances.

So I made this poll asking folks to pick a region of India where I would draw Pavitr Prabhakar in their cultural wear. This idea had been on my mind for a long while now, as I had been inspired by Annie Hazarika’s Northeastern Spidey artwork in the wake of ATSV’s release, but never got the time to actually do it until now. I wanted to get a little interactive and made the poll so I could have people choose which of the different regions — North, Northeast, Central, East, West, South — to do first.

The outcome was not what I expected. As you can see, out of 83 votes:

THE RESULTS

South India takes up almost half of all votes (44.6%), followed by Northeast and Central (both 14.5%) and then East (13.3%). In all my life growing up, support towards or even just the awareness of South India was pretty low. Despite this being a very contained poll, why would nearly half of all voters pick South India in favour of other popular choices like Central or North India?

Then I thought about the layout of the poll: Title, Options, Context.

Title: "Tell us who you want to see…"

Options: North, Northeast, Central, East, West, South

Context: I want to make art of the boy again

At first I thought: ah geez. this is my fault. I didn't make the poll clear enough. do they think I want them to figure out where Pavitr came from? That's not what I wanted, maybe I should have added the context before the options.

Then I thought: ah geez. is it my fault for people not reading the entire damn thing before clicking a button? That's pretty stupid.

But regardless, the thought did prompt a line of thinking I know many of us desi folk have been considering since Spider-Man India was first conceived — or, at least, since the announcement that he was going to appear in ATSV. Hell, even I thought of it:

Where did Spider-Man India come from?

FROM A CULTURALLY DIVERSE INDIA

As we know, India is so culturally diverse, and no doubt ATSV creators had to take that into account. Because the ORIGINAL Spider-Man India came from Mumbai — most likely because Mumbai and Manhattan both started with the same letter.

But going beyond that, it’s also because Mumbai is one of the most recognisable cities in India - it’s also known as Bombay. It’s where Bollywood films are shot. It’s where superstar Hindi actors and actresses show up. Mumbai is synonymous with India in that regard, because the easiest way Western countries can interact with Indian culture is through BOLLYWOOD, through HINDI FILMS, through MUMBAI. Suddenly, India is Mumbai, India is a Hindi-only country, India is just this isolated thing we see through an infinitely narrow lens.

We’ve gotten a little better in recent years, but boy I will tell you how uncomfortable I’ve gotten when people (yes, even desi people) come up to me and tell me, Oh, you’re Indian right? Can you speak Hindi? Why don’t you speak Hindi? You’re not Indian if you don’t speak Hindi, that’s India’s national language!

I have been — still am — so afraid of telling people that I don’t speak Hindi, that I’m Tamil, that I don’t care that Hindi is India’s “national” language (it’s an administrative language, Kavin, get your fucking facts right). It’s weird, it’s isolating, and it has made me feel like I wasn’t “Indian” enough to be accepted into the group of “Indian” people.

So I am thankful that ATSV went out of their way to integrate as much variety of Indian culture into the Mumbattan sequence. Maybe that way, the younger generation of desi folk won’t feel so isolated, and that younger Western people will be more open to learning about all these cultural differences within such a vast country.

BUT WHAT DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH SPIDER-MAN INDIA?

Everything, actually. There’s a thing called supremacy. You might have heard of it. We all engaged with it at some point, and if you are Indian, no matter where you live, it is inescapable.

It happens the moment you are born — who your family is, where you are born, the language you speak, the colour of your skin; these will be bound to you for life, and it is nigh impossible to break down the stereotypes associated with them.

Certain ethnic groups will be more favourable than others (Centrals, and thus their cultures, will always be favoured over than Souths, as an example) and the same can be said for social groups (Brahmins are more likely to secure influential roles in politics or other areas like priesthood, while the lowers castes, especially Dalits, aren’t even given the decency of respect). Don’t even get me started on colourism, where obviously those of fairer skin will win the lottery while those of darker skin aren’t given the time of day. It’s even worse when morality ties into it — “lighter skinned Indians, like Brahmins, embody good qualities like justice and wisdom”, “dark skinned Indians are cunning and poor, they are untrustworthy”. It’s fucking nuts.

This means, of course, you have a billion people trying to make themselves heard in a system that tries to crush everyone who is not privileged. It only makes sense that people want to elevate themselves and break free from a society that refuses to acknowledge them. These frustrations manifest outwardly, like in protests, but other times — most times — it goes unheard, quietly shaping your way of life, your way of thinking. It becomes a fundamental part of you, and it can go unacknowledged for generations.

So when you have a character like Pavitr Prabhakar enter the scene, people immediately latch onto him and start asking questions many Western audiences don’t even consider. Who is he? What food does he eat? What does he do on Fridays? What’s his family like, his community? All these questions pop up, because, amidst all this turmoil going on in the background, you want a mainstream popular character to be like you, who knows your way of life so intimately, that he may as well be a part of your community.

BUT THAT'S THE THING — HE'S FICTIONAL

I am guilty of this. In fact, I’ve flaunted in numerous posts how I think he’s the perfect Tamil boy, how he dances bharatanatyam, how he does all these Tamil things that no one will understand except myself. All these niche things that only I, and maybe a few others, will understand.

I’ve seen other people do it, too. I’ve seen people geek out over his dark brown skin, his kalari dhoti, how he fights so effortlessly in the kalaripayattu martial arts style. I’ve seen people write him as Malayali, as Hindi, as every kind of Indian person imaginable.

I’ve also seen him be written where he’s subjected to typical Indian and broader Asian stereotypes. You know the ones I’m so fond of calling out. The thing is, I’ve seen so much of Pavitr being presented in so many different ways, and I worry how the rest of the desi folk will take it.

You finally have a character who could be you, but now he’s someone else’s plaything. Your entire life is shaped by what you can and can’t do simply because you were born to an Indian family, and here’s the one person who could represent you now at the mercy of someone else’s whims. He’s off living a life that is so distant from yours, you can hardly recognise him.

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, yeah? But, again, you’re looking at it from that infinitely narrow lens Westerners use to look at India from Bollywood.

AND PAVITR PRABHAKAR DOESN'T LIVE IN INDIA

He lives in Mumbattan. He lives in a made-up, fictional world that doesn’t follow the way of life of our world. He lives in a city where Mumbai and Manhattan got fucking squashed together. There are so many memes about colonialism right there. Mumbattan isn’t real! Spider-Man India isn’t real!! He’s just a dude!! The logic of our world doesn’t apply to him!!!

“But his surname originates from ______” okay but does that matter?

“But he’s wearing a kalari dhoti so surely he’s ______” okay but does that matter?

“But his skin colour is darker so he must be ______” okay but does that matter?

“But he lives in Mumbai so he must be ______” okay but does that matter?

I sound insensitive and brash and annoying and it looks like I’m yapping just for the sake of riling you up, so direct that little burst of anger you got there at me, and keep reading.

Listen. I’m going to ask you a question that I’ve asked myself a million times over. I want you to answer honestly. I want you to ask this question to yourself and answer honestly:

Are you trying to convince me on who Pavitr Prabhakar should be?

... but why shouldn't i?

I’ll tell you this again — I did the same thing. You’re not at fault for this, but I want you to just...have a little think over. Just a little moment of self-reflection, to think about why you are so intent on boxing this guy.

It took me a while to reorganise my thinking and how to best approach a character like Pavitr, so I will give you all the time you need as well as a little springboard to focus your thoughts on.

SPIDER-MAN (INDIA) IS JUST A MASK

“What I like about the costume is that anybody reading Spider-Man in any part of the world can imagine that they themselves are under the costume. And that’s a good thing.”

Stan Lee said that. Remember how he was so intent on making sure that everybody got the idea that Spider-Man as an entity is fundamentally broken without Peter Parker there to put on the suit and save the day? That ultimately it was the person beneath the mask, no matter who they were, that mattered most?

Spider-Man India is no less different. You can argue with me that Peter Parker!Spidey is supposed to represent working class struggles in the face of leering corporate entities who endanger the regular folk like us, and so Pavitr Prabhakar should also function the same way. Pavitr should also be a working class guy of this specific social standing fighting people of this other social standing.

But that takes away the authenticity of Spider-Man India. Looking at him through the Peter Parker lens forces you to look at him through the Western lens, and it significantly lessens what you can do with the character — suddenly, it’s a fight to be heard, to be seen, to be recognised. It’s yelling over each other that Pavitr Prabhakar is this ethnicity, is that caste, this or that, this or that, this or that.

There’s a reason why he’s called Spider-Man India, infuriatingly vague as it is. And that’s the point — the vagueness of his identity fulfils Lee’s purpose for a character that could theoretically be embodied by anyone. If he had been called “Spider-Man Mumbai”, you cut out a majority of the population (and in capitalist terms, you cut out a good chunk of the market).

And in the case of Spider-Man India? Whew — you’ve got about a billion people imagining a billion different versions of him.

Whoever you are, whatever you see in Pavitr, that is what is personal to you, and there is nothing wrong with that, and I will not fault you for it. I will not fault you for saying Pavitr is from Central due to the origins of his last name. I also will not fault you for saying Pavitr is from South due to him practising kalaripayattu. I also will not fault you for saying he is not Hindu. I also will not fault you for saying he is a particular ethnicity without any proof.

What I will fault you for is trying to convince me and the others around you that Pavitr Prabhakar should be this particular ethnicity/have this cultural background because of some specific reason. I literally don’t care and it is fundamentally going against his character, going against the “anyone can wear the mask” sentiment of Spider-Man. By doing this, you are strengthening the walls that first divided us. You’re feeding the stratification and segmentation of our cultures — something that is actually not present in the fictional world of Mumbattan.

Like I said before: Mumbattan isn’t real, so the divides between ethnicities and cultural backgrounds are practically nonexistent. The best thing is that it is visually there for all to see. My favourite piece of evidence is this:

It’s a marquee for a cinema in the Mumbattan sequence, in the “Quick tour: this is where the traffic is” section. It has four titles; the first three are written in Hindi. The fourth title is written in Tamil. You go to Mumbai and you won’t see a single shred of Tamil there, much less any other South Indian language. Seeing this for the first time, you know what went through my head?

Wow, the numerous cultures of India are so intermingled here in Mumbattan! Everyone and everything is welcome!

I was happy, not just because of Tamil representation, but because of the fact that the plethora of Indian cultures are showcased coexisting in such a short sequence. This is India embracing all the little parts that make up its grander identity. This scene literally opened my eyes seeing such beauty in all the diverse cultures thriving together. In a place where language and cultural backgrounds blend so easily, each one complementing one another.

It is so easy to believe that, from this colourful palette of a setting, Pavitr Prabhakar truly is Spider-Man India, no matter where he comes from.

It’s easy to believe that Pavitr can come from any part of India, and I won’t call you out if the origin you have for him is different from the origin I have. You don’t need to stake out territory and stand your ground — you’re entitled to that opinion, and I respect it. In fact, I encourage it!!!

Because there’s only so much you can show in a ten minute segment of a film about a country that has such a vast history and even greater number of cultures. I want to see all of it — I want him to be a Malayali boy, a Hindi boy, a Bengali boy, a Telugu boy, an Urdu boy, whatever!! I want you to write him or draw him immersed in your culture, so that I can see the beauty of your background, the wonderful little things that make your culture unique and different from mine!

And, as many friends have said, it’s so common for Indian folks to be migrating around within our own country. A person with a Maharashtrian surname might end up living in Punjab, and no one really minds that. I’m actually from Karnataka, my family speaks Kannada, but somewhere down the line my ancestors moved to Tamil Nadu and settled down and lived very fulfilling lives. So I don’t actually have the “pure Tamil” upbringing, contrary to popular belief; I’ve gotten a mix of both Kannada and Tamil lifestyles, and it’s made my life that much richer.

So it’s common for people to “not” look like their surname, if that’s what you’re really afraid about. In fact, it just adds to that layer of nuance, that even despite these rigid identities between ethnicities we as Indian people still intermingle with one another, bringing slivers of our cultures to share with others. Pavitr could just as well have been born in one state and moved around the country, and he happens to live in Mumbattan now. It’s entirely possible and there’s nothing to disprove that.

We don’t need to clamber over one another declaring that only one ethnicity is the “right” ethnicity, because, again, you will be looking at Pavitr and the rest of India in that narrow Western lens — a country with such rich cultural variety reduced to a homogenous restrictive way of life.

THE POLL: REINTERPRETED

This whole thing started because I was wondering why my little poll was so skewed — I thought people assumed I was asking them where he came from, then paired his physical appearance with the most logical options available. I thought it was my fault, that I had somehow influenced this outcome without knowing.

Truth is, I will never really know. But I will be thankful for it, because it gave me the opportunity to finally broach this topic, something that many of us desi folk are hesitant to talk about. I hope you have learned something from this, whether you are desi or a casual Spider-Man fan or someone who just so happened to stumble upon this.

So just…be a little more open. Recognise that India, like many many countries and nations, is made up of a plethora of smaller cultures. And remember, if you’re trying to convince Pavitr that he’s a particular ethnicity, he’s going to wave his hand at you and say, “Ha, me? No, I’m one of the people that live here in the best Indian city! I’m Spider-Man India, dost!”

(Regardless, he still considers you a friend, because to him, the people matter more to him than you trying to box him into something he’s not.)

#long post + more tags that kinda spiral away BUT expand on the points above AND kinda puts everything together concisely #BROS THIS IS AN HONEST TO GOD ESSAY #THAT HAS BEEN COOKING IN MY HEART FOR A WHILE NOW. SIMMERING FOR MONTHS BEFORE FINALLY BOILING OVER IN THE LAST WEEK #genuinely hope you read MOST of it because yes it has Quite A Lot Of Exposition but it all matters nonetheless #put in a lot of thought into this so i expect you to do your part and challenge your thoughts as well #you see how i'm not asking for you to listen to me. but to actually Think. i want you to cook your thoughts and add some spice and flavour #and give it a good mix so you can come out of this a little more wiser than before #because!!! yeah!!!! spider man india is just that!! he's indian!!!!! we don't need to collectively agree on where he comes from #bc it gets rid of that relatability factor of spider man. at the most basic level #think of it as a schrodinger's. he is every single culture and none of them at the same time. therefore none of us are wrong!! sick!!!!#pavitr's first priority is making sure HIS PEOPLE are safe. that's probably as far as we can go that relates him back to peter parker spide #he loves his people and working in the name of justice to FIGHT for HIS PEOPLE is just the duty/responsibility he takes up #it makes sense that he loves everyone and every culture he engages with bc that's the nature of spider man i suppose #if peter parker spidey acts as the guardian for the regular folk.. then in my mind pavitr spidey stands as the bridge uniting the people #because society as its core is very fragmented. and having pavitr act as a connection to other folks.... mmmmm beautiful #that's what i'm talking abouttttt !!!#anyways guys this is literally 3001 words on my document EXCLUDING THE TITLE. THAT'S 7 PAGES AT 11pt FONT. i'm literally cryingggg wtf #pavitr prabhakar #spider man #spider man india #desi #desiblr #atsv #across the spiderverse #atsv pavitr #indian culture #india #desi tumblr #what the fuck do i tag this as #agnirambles

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traffic-light-eyes · 8 months

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Ninja as Marvel Superheroes

Lloyd:

To me, this is the most obvious. He would be Spider-Man; Spider-Man is young, witty, and learning the ropes along the way. I'd imagine he'd make his design off of a green lynx and still keep the ninja motif with baggier pants, maybe. I just genuinely think he'd be Spider-Man if anything.

Nya:

Hear me out. Iron Man. Her being iron man makes so much sense!! It calls back to her days as Sam X with her mech. And don't even bother talking to me about how it's Iron Man, I really don't care. She'd be, like, Iron Samurai or Iron Maiden (because I totally think she'd name herself after a killing machine). She's techy, incredibly smart, and resourceful! Maybe a bit prickly at first, but that's her <3

Zane:

This one is kinda a tie between Hawkeye and Vision. Skill wise, I feel Hawkeye would fit more, but personality and being, well, a robot, Vision fits better. So, I think I'll go with Vis! Like I said earlier, both are robots/nindroids/synthezoids, and both have a very similar personality! Even the Ice Chapter could fit in with what happened to Vis in WandaVision (I won't spoil!). It's definitely a good pick!

Kai:

He was a bit difficult. I feel like he gives Black Widow vibes, though. He is very skilled, stealthy, and not above killing for the people he loves. He's a fierce protecter of his people from the shadows and a bit standoffish at first - just like Nat! I just feel that Nat is way more suave than he could ever be.

Jay:

FALCON!! It calls back to when he tried to make wings from the junkyard! This was probably the easiest one to choose!!! I think that instead of his wings being from the military, he made them himself. He loves his people and wants nothing more than to do what is right. I don't think that a single person could fit him better.

Cole:

Hulk or Cap! I feel like using Hulk is a bit of a cop-out because, well, big strong man smashes things woah. Seems too easy. He doesn't have much in common with Bruce aside from strength, really. So I didn't want to fully choose him. Cap, however, seems like a much better fit. Cap had spent his days as a show-pony, basically. Singing, dancing, the likes. This feels similar to Lou's pushiness to the arts. Similarly, Cap (if you didn't know) loves to draw! Two confirmed drawings in his sketchbook are the monkey riding a unicycle and a little sketch of the city in the corner of the page. This really draws back to Cole. Not to mention, both Cap and Cole seem like the grounding glue holding the team together. The mother-hen. The face of the team. (Don't even lie to me and say he isn't. You don't have to be the main character to be the face - he's not even my favorite character, and I completely agree that he's the face. Everyone I know, when asked, says that they had a crush on Cole. It's ridiculous.) I just love the idea of Cole as Cap!

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tuxedaaron · 1 year

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This pair of pics was intended to reveal the design of Hobgoblin I came up with for the Spectacular Spider-Man animated series, just to give everyone a little preview of a series of Spectacular Spider-Man fanfics I wanted to write. Because I had so many stories in this series to write, there was simply no way I could POSSIBLY do it on my own. So I took it upon myself to draw some pics of some of the broader concepts I have in mind, in the hopes that it might draw interest from other fanfic writers to help me. Hobgoblin was definitely one of the first pics I wanted to get out there, because I plan for him to play a BIG role in these stories. Those who are well-versed in their comic book history will undoubtedly recognize the first image as being inspired by 1983's "Amazing Spider-Man", issue #238, “In the Shadow of Evil’s Past”, which marked the Hobgoblin's first appearance. Granted, on that cover, the Hobgoblin is seen destroying Spider-Man's costume, but replacing it with the Green Goblin costume, to me, was far more significant in its symbolism. After all, let's be honest, folks. We ALL know that Roderick Kingsley is the ONLY Goblin that matters.^_^ I have to admit, though, that is the most dubious I'd ever been on any art project I've worked on to date. While I refused to be deterred and continued to press onward, even as I moved from the pencil work to the hard lines, the whole thing just looked like a jumbled mess and I really couldn't tell which way was up, just by looking at it. It wasn't until I started adding the color in that everything started to finally come together. Still, while I was reasonably pleased with the outcome, the final product still seemed overly cartoonish, even by SSM design standards. The second image was definitely better, as I sat down and started putting a proper design together. The head turned out to be the easiest part. Just like with the comics, I simply took the original Green Goblin face, gave it less exaggerated features, demonic red eyes and voila. It was maybe two minutes of work and I was just like, "There. That's it. THAT'S my Hobgoblin". But THEN, I had to start designing the actual COSTUME and THAT'S when I ran into problems. Most of the issues stemmed from the fact that I was getting too focused on "classic" Hobgoblin and those elements I wanted to have from the comics. I even wanted the curled-up, pointy shoes. But as I went back and looked over the SSM Green Goblin design, I realized just how many things were radically different. For one thing, he wasn't wearing the pointy elf hat, but more like a flight cap without the goggles. And he didn't have a tunic over his chest, either, it looked more like chest armor. And then, there was the jack-o-lantern belt buckle and the loincloth and the big, honkin' space booties. And I was just like, "Uuuh-hhhh...how do I make THIS work?". Because I couldn't get tunnel-visioned on the classic stuff and end up doing a total tear-down of the design. One of the aspects of Hobgoblin was that both he and Green Goblin shared the same basic design elements in their costumes. So how was I going to maintain the spirit of the new SSM design and still input the things I wanted? That was when I realized I had to take a step back and look at the whole concept objectively. And when I was at work that night, I started thinking about Roderick Kingsley's mindset in the comics when he started knocking around the idea of becoming the Hobgoblin. While he liked the whole Goblin concept in general, which is why he kept the basic elements intact, the one thing he knew he DIDN'T want to be was another GREEN Goblin. Because as far as Kingsley was concerned, Norman Osborn was a clown and he LOOKED like one. And Kingsley decided right out of the gate that if he was gonna DO this thing, he didn't want to look like a clown. He wanted to look like a BADASS. So that's what got me thinking, how do I take all the elements that made the Green Goblin look GOOFY and turn them around to make the Hobgoblin look DANGEROUS? And that was when all these ideas started flooding into my head, which I just HAD to get on paper the next morning. I took the jack-o-lantern belt buckle and turned it into a skull, ripped up the loincloth and the cape, threw in some chains and leather straps and even added spikes on the boots...which, if you notice, actually allowed me to give Hobgoblin the curly boots I wanted without ACTUALLY making them. And as for the glider, I went and added horns. Basically, the whole idea was to make him look like some demon who had just escaped from Hell, and despite the cartoonish look of the SSM character designs, I think I pulled it off quite nicely. All-in-all, I'm quite happy with this pic and even if the stories never get written, I hope everyone else at least likes the image. ^_^

#tuxedaaron #fanart #marvel #spectacular spider man #hobgoblin #marvel comics #spider man

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martianbugsbunny · 9 months

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Secret Admirers Are For The Subtle (A FrankenWolf Fic)

*sitting on the wall like Spider-Man* so basically this idea spawned bc one, I'm obsessed with the idea that Victor draws a lot, even though he only sketched in like one episode lol, and two, I was having a convo with @stardreamer28 about how Victor is the least subtle person in the universe, so why not combine the two into one fic? The gist is that he sent Ruby flowers anonymously so he could drop by the diner and "notice" them and stick around to sketch them, but Ruby is totally onto him and knows he's the one who sent the flowers. Also, the stuff Victor eats/drinks is absolutely just what I was craving when I wrote the fic lol, there's no significance in it. Read on and enjoy!

Victor closed the door to the diner behind him and hung his jacket on the coat rack next to it. He had found in it Gold’s shop, and although it had belonged to him in his old land, had paid the promise of extra attentive medical care in the future, should Gold need it. It was his favorite jacket, or he wouldn’t have bothered: dark brown, made of a thick material for lab work (or cold), and the buttons were all round gold ones.

He noticed a large bouquet of flowers sitting on the counter, the vase conveniently close to his usual stool. He went over and sat down, pulling his sketchbook and a pencil out of his crossbody bag.

“New flowers, huh?” he said conversationally. Ruby, handing another customer a plate of fries, turned towards him and smiled.

“Yeah. Funny thing, but they didn’t come with a note or anything,” she said. “And the delivery girl only knew that they were for me, not who sent them. But they’re beautiful,” Ruby added, smiling wider and brushing her fingertips across the yellow center of a daisy.

“I guess you have a secret admirer,” Victor said, trying to keep himself from turning pink. She liked the flowers.

Ruby laughed, leaning in to sniff an orange flower with lots of small petals that Victor didn’t know the name of. “There’s a first time for everything,” she said. “What do you want to eat?”

He didn’t need a menu; he had been to Granny’s more times than he could count during the Dark Curse, and several times afterwards, too. “Grilled chicken with a side of—”

“Mashed potatoes and gravy?” Apparently Ruby didn’t need him to even finish his order anymore. “And to drink?”

While Victor liked the same foods at Granny’s that Whale had, he didn’t like iced tea, which Whale had ordered with most of his meals. Victor had tried several other beverages since the curse broke, and hadn’t been too enthused with any of them.

“Surprise me,” he said. Ruby grinned, and he was definitely blushing this time. Flustered, he opened his sketchbook and began to outline the prominent yellow rose in the floral arrangement. Those were the easiest.

As the afternoon passed, Victor painstakingly absorbed himself in his drawing. After bringing back Regina’s fiancé with no more success than he’d had with Gerhardt, Victor wanted to do something truly creative, that couldn’t hurt anybody; only sit there on the page and be beautiful. And he’d found himself wanting to be near Ruby since…well, forever, really—even during the curse, there was a certain spark between them—but especially since she had stepped up as Prince Charming’s right hand. She was feisty and strong, and she cared about the town, and Victor dared to hope maybe one day she would care for him.

He downed four glasses of Ruby’s mystery beverage (after all, he had to do something to justify taking up a seat in the diner) before remembering to ask what it was. He had just finished filling in the petals of a small, sort of scrawny-looking daffodil, one of the last flowers he had to color in.

“Hey, Ruby, what is this?” he asked, gesturing towards his empty glass. She had been sitting next to him for a while, since the dinner rush was still a couple of hours away. While he sketched, she read a book of fairytales from the Storybrooke Library—“To see what they got wrong,” as she had explained.

She looked up from the story about Sleeping Beauty. “Canada Dry.”

Victor stared at her. Not just because the light coming through the windows was reflecting off her eyes like gems, but because he was somewhat surprised. “You’re kidding me. This is ginger ale? I should’ve tried this twenty-eight years sooner.” Whale had never been much of a soda drinker; he was too enthused with his iced tea, and ginger ale’s reputation as a beverage of choice for the elderly had made it sound dull. “I should have you pick all my drinks,” he teased.

Ruby laughed. “If it means you come to the diner for your meals, then alright. It’s a deal.” She had been sitting with a stool between them—now, she moved over onto the one directly next to Victor’s. “Can I see what you’ve been so busy with?”

He wasn’t about to show her the small portraits of her that he had been working on; it might come off as creepy, he wasn’t sure. (But she did have the perfect profile for sketching, and he loved capturing her smile when she wasn’t looking.)

The flowers, however, had turned out rather nicely, and there was nothing creepy about those…unless maybe it was that he had sent them as an excuse to spend time with her and she had no idea—but he had been a lot less bold since the Curse ended, and he was nervous about actually asking her out.

“You’re very talented, Victor,” Ruby said softly. The way her eyes lit up looking at the sketches made something in Victor’s core absolutely melt. His fingers itched to pick up the pencil again and draw that ephemeral expression before it faded away.

“Thank you,” he said, impressed with himself for keeping his voice from shaking. She was right there, after all, leaning over his shoulder, the fabric scent of her flannel shirt all he could smell.

Ruby smiled again, brushing her dark hair behind one ear, and hopped off the stool. She went back around the counter as a couple of customers entered the diner, lightly tracing the petals of that bright yellow rose on her way.

Victor checked his watch and began hastily packing away his pencils and his pastel crayons. His shift at the hospital started in twenty minutes.

As his hand was on the doorknob, Ruby called after him. “Hey, Victor?”

He turned around, his heart pounding. “Next time you send flowers, add a note,” she said. Victor couldn't get the grin off his face all the way back to the hospital.

#ouat #once upon a time #ruby lucas #victor frankenstein #frankenwolf #ruby x victor #victor x ruby #fic #secret admirer #...or at least he thinks so lol #granny's diner #martianbugsbunny writes fic

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inknopewetrust · 3 years

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Manipulate Me

Summary: As Peter travels Europe as a normal kid, the world’s peril throws a wrench in his plans. With you by his side chaperoning the trip as an undercover S.H.I.E.L.D agent, the mysterious introduction of Quentin Beck leaves you breathless.

Pairing: Quentin Beck/Mysterio x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: None!

A/N: Thanks so much for requesting this @mrs-blooooom ! I had a great time writing for Quentin Beck again. For context, reader is Peter’s older sister but also happens to be a shield agent (it was the easiest route of explanation as to why she would be meeting with Fury and Maria Hill). Requests are currently OPEN and you can check out who I write for in my request guidelines tagged in my bio. Thanks for reading! :) *gif not mine* I do not own any of the dialogue from the film.

“May-”

“-And don’t forget the passports! Oh! The passports!”

“May!”

May stopped scrambling around the apartment only to find that you had the two passports already in your hand. The tired aunt pushed her disheveled hair out of her face, pushing her glasses back up her nose, and slowly calming down. It was fine... Peter had you, Peter had all his friends, Peter would be fine in Europe.

“Everything is going to go fine. I’ll be with him at all times and if he decides to wander off and do his Spiderman stuff––well then I’ll just have to call in some Avengers to stop him.”

“I trust that you’ll be able to keep him out of trouble if it comes down to it.” May picked up Peter’s suitcase off the floor and listened to his heavy footsteps draw down the hallway and into the living room where you had gathered with her.

“All ready?” He asked with those inquisitively wide eyes that reminded you so much of your mom. May handed him the suitcase but not before capturing the boy in a tight hug. Her “motherly” instincts grew since she returned from the blip. It was strange without the two of them. You, stuck here in New York without a leader in either Fury or Tony and the remaining members of S.H.I.E.L.D, Avengers and then the developed Sword, were left to pick up the pieces and build a life without them. That was the most difficult part.

“Promise me that you won’t get into any trouble?” May asked Peter who in reply rolled his eyes with a chuckle.

“It’s just a school trip. Besides, Y/n is going to be there and I’m sure she’s told you a million times that she can keep me in check.” You smacked the side of his head but he just ignored you and turned to the door, opening it with a rough pull with his spider-y force.

“We’ll see you in a few weeks, May!”

If you were able to take back all the words you said and never go to Europe, you would ask Stephen Strange to reverse time.

Venice was a mess. The water-creature-man-thing...? had erupted the small city into a chaotic terror with locals and terrified students trying to find cover. Peter was somewhere flying with webs while another hero whom you had never seen before was assisting him. After a few minutes of trying to guide a group of students to safety, you secured cover underneath an awning in front of a store.

“Ms. Parker! What do we do!?” Flash was almost in tears from fear which you couldn’t help but judge. It was water? the kid survived Thanos’ snap so he could survive this. Not to mention Fury would have your ass if any of the kids died on your watch.

Out of nowhere the ground started to fill up with water and cracking of concrete or bricks began echoing throughout the small courtyard you trapped them all in. The green man came swooshing in with a cloud of smoke, almost like an illusion, and stopped the water with the sheer force of his magical abilities. The creature reformed into what looked like a water man and the green man dodged the attack with made the sound of bricks tumbling increase in intensity. Suddenly, the tower to your right began crumbling and you pulled as many students as you could closer to the building you sought shelter next to.

“Get back! Get back!”

“Who is that guy!?” Jason, one of the students shouted out but you couldn’t answer the question because you didn’t know.

“I don’t know, but he’s kicking that waters ass.” Brad voiced exactly what you would have said.

The green man continued to fight the water as the tower crumbled beside you all and then, like the blink of an eye, the monster was gone and the water scattered, soaking your shoes with a safety that was much welcomed. The man landed to sounds of cheering from the students and locals that found themselves in the same spot as you. But something was different.

Maybe it was the fact that you couldn’t see his face, or maybe the fact that you had never heard of this hero and you literally worked for the agency that worked with them all. Maybe he wasn’t from this world? Space? Another universe? You could have sworn that you heard of the idea of a multiverse.

But maybe it was the fact that beneath all that smoke and mirrors that made up the helmet of the mysterious man, it felt as though when he looked around at his admiring fans, his eyes trained on you, staring through your soul with some feeling that wasn’t welcomed or unwanted either. Intrigue, that’s what it was. And when he flew off, everyone was left with a curiosity that sparked a great debate throughout the entire world. Who was this man?

Well, the T.V. at the hotel identified him as Mysterio. Peter managed to make it back in one piece which you were able to celebrate in a brief moment outside before the voices of interested students and the television interrupted the moment. Betty and Ned were searching every website for some kind of clue but nothing other than what the news reported was to be taken as fact. It wasn’t aliens, it wasn’t witches, it was just another hero.

So that was what you went with. That was until you opened your door to Fury sitting in a chair next to the window.

“Oh my God!” You shrieked and Fury laughed, laughed, at you.

“You scare too easy.”

“What are you doing here? I thought you were in spa-”

The slight reveal of a green hand made you shut up. "Fury” tilted his head with a slight “Ah, well.”

“Is this about that Mysterio guy?”

“We’ve got him at a site. Says he’s from another Earth and that these creatures destroyed his own and intend to destroy this one too.”

“Another Earth? So, the multiverse.. it’s real?”

“Fury” didn’t respond to that, but he simply rose and gestured over his shoulder to the window.

“There is a car outside. Go and wait in it while I go get Peter. The big man told me I need to scare the kid.” You smiled at the thought as the man left to go retrieve your brother.

You had been part of the world of superheroes far longer than Peter had. You had been there when Loki first attacked New York way back when and that seemed like so many years ago. With the blip, it seems like an entire eternity. Nick never let you in on his secrets of his relationship with Carol Danvers, but you had met the Skrulls when you went on a mission three months ago to visit Monica Rambeau in space. Unlike her, you weren’t blessed with some badass powers, though she didn’t always have them.

Peter looked terrified walking out to the car and when he saw you inside, he breathed a sigh of relief that he wouldn’t be alone. The site of S.H.I.E.L.D in Italy wasn’t far from where you had all taken up residence for the last day or two, but it was secluded, down in the catacombs of old buildings that no one would suspect. It reminded Peter of a Mission Impossible movie that you had watched with him before the two of you left for Europe, he felt more like a spy than a superhero in that moment.

As you walked behind the two down the long corridors of the abandoned treasure that was used as a make-shift S.H.I.E.L.D, you were surprised to see Maria at a computer, though now knowing about Fury, you were sure it wasn’t even her. The center of the room was filled with scattered agents who you weren’t familiar with and then a projection in the middle of the room, along with the man without the helmet.

You weren’t one for fawning over men. Jesus, you worked with Thor sometimes and while you were aware of his Godly looks, you never gawked. But this man, he wasn’t a God, he was just naturally beautiful. Dark hair, blueish-gray eyes that surely did pierce your soul, and a stature of a man who knew how to carry himself with power in the world. It was like he walked out of your dreams and into reality.

“This is Mr. Beck.” Fury introduced you and Peter to the man. Mr. Beck approached Peter with a small smile and held out his hand. Peter looked nervous but responded with his own shake.

“Mysterio?”

“What?”

“It’s just what my friends were calling you.”

“Well, you can call me Quentin. You handled yourself well out there today. I saw what you did with the tower. We could use someone like you on my world.”

Peter looked puzzled but Quentin looked behind the boy to you. He held out his hand with another smile which you returned. Maybe there was a shock when you touched hands, but you were sure it was just your imagination.

“Y/n Parker, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“It’s good to meet you, Y/n.”

“Likewise.”

Did time rush by faster when you were in the presence of someone you were obviously attracted to? Yes, because before you knew it, the night was over, and Fury was leading you and Peter back out to the car. Peter was absolutely smitten with Quentin and could hardly break conversation. The man gave the attention to Peter like Tony did. It was like life imitating itself in another time. Quentin reminded you so much of Tony. Smooth with words, handsome, gifted in almost an unfair way, and he took an interest in the last piece of close family you had. You wanted nothing more than for Peter to have a figure in his life to give him a positive purpose. With Tony gone, he’s struggled trying to find his niche again.

“See you, kid.” Quentin looked disappointed but hopefully that his and Peter’s paths would cross again one day, even with Peter trying to avoid being identified by his class or the world. At some point, someone would figure it out if they hadn’t already.

“Yeah, see you.” Peter said as he walked out, following Dimitri, who Fury ordered to keep Peter in check with you. You were more than capable of doing it yourself but for some reason, Fury felt the need to send another agent.

“Good luck, Quentin.” You told him and he nodded his head, glancing at the holographic map of Venice next to him.

“I fear I’ll need it. But I’m hopeful that the good luck will be for more than just winning this fight.”

Swoon. That’s what you did for the remainder of the night and into the early morning. You couldn’t sleep a wink after the revelations that Quentin relayed to you and Peter about the elementals. That worried you too. How in the world was Peter supposed to sit by while other heroes with indisposed and couldn’t help? Sam and Bucky were on their own missions, Carole and Monica were off, Stephen and Wanda were no use and Thor was off on his own adventures with that team of riff-raffs from space–you know, the one with the talking tree.

But somewhere in all the jumble of thoughts, the scenery of the canal that had been a scene of something far different, calmed the noise. Enjoy the trip. This was the first time in years that you had traveled for something other than work and yet it was still filling every thought and moment. The thoughts were so loud and invasive that you didn’t register the person coming up to your right, ready to take the bag off your shoulders. You felt the tug and turned around, ready to punch the person but they dogged it, pulling it off your shoulder. It was a game of tug of war for the bag, but the person was strong.

“Let go! I said let go!” You pulled as hard as you could, therefore the bag came flying back to you and its contents spread across the sidewalk. The person glanced at the wallet on the ground and then back at you before you both dove to the ground. They grabbed it first and you tackled them to the ground. Wrestling with grunts and yells, you hadn’t noticed the audience of one that rushed to help. A blast of green light shot the person off of you and you clutched the wallet to your chest tightly, trying to reel in your ragged breath.

“I heard yelling from my hotel...” The hero started only to realize that it was you and with a turn of your head, you had realized it was him, Quentin.

“Oh! Are you alright?” He extended a hand, which you readily took to stand. He then helped collect the scattered items and put them back in the now ripped bag before handing it back to you.

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

“It’s no problem.” There was a brief, awkward lull but you weren’t sure what else to say.

“So, do you always wander around at night in a city you don’t know?” It was an icebreaker, a line that he knew would make you at least chuckle.

“No... I just had a lot on my mind. What you told us in there–it’s a lot of information to retain.”

“I’m sure an agent like you could handle it though.” You smiled bashfully at the compliment. Quentin gestured over his shoulder and shoved his hands in his pockets. You realized he wasn’t wearing his uniform anymore but just a pullover sweater and some dark jeans. How he shot the green light in the first place you didn’t know, but all heroes worked a little differently you suppose.

“Would you like to take a walk? I promise I won’t try to steal your wallet.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” The conversation was so light, and carefree that for the first time in a long time, you felt like a normal person. Quentin returned your cheeky smile and began walking.

“I’m pretty sure a woman like you could figure out who trust and who not avoid. Isn’t that what they train you for? Agents?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“Can I ask you something?” You asked Quentin and he looked at you with a nod of his head.

“How did you know the elementals would turn up in our Earth?”

“Intelligence. My wife, she had worked for our version of your agency. Before they came to destroy our city, one had already manifested itself in Mexico. It was as if there would be a pattern to follow. So when she passed, I used her intelligence to figure out where they might be, which led me here.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, it’s been some time now. She would be glad to see Peter helping me, and you helping out with the cause.”

“Peter really took a liking to you. I could see it in the way he could barely contain himself.” You laughed, changing the heavy subject to one more light.

“He’s a good kid. You’re related I assume?”

“My little brother.”

“You should be proud of him. He is doing a lot of good for the world. I just wish he was more confident in his abilities to realize identity protect isn’t everything.”

Quentin was right, it wasn’t everything. But it was more than identity for Peter. It was also no Tony to lead the way, his want to be a normal kid, his need to have friends and well, MJ to like him. But neither of you would know what it was like to be a teen hero, that was a lot of unneeded pressure.

“It seems that I brought you around full circle.” The sound of Quentin’s voice broke the silence and the realization that you were outside the barely standing hotel. You sighed and tugged the bag on your shoulder.

“Thanks for saving the day, Mysterio.”

“Anything to help protect Agent Parker.”

If you hadn’t just met him a few hours ago, you would have asked him to come upstairs but that was far too forward for the world you created for yourself, so you extended your hand as he had earlier.

“May our paths cross again.”

He grasped your hand tightly and agreed.

“Hopefully under better circumstances.”

You watched then as he walked away, unaware of the man underneath the facade of Mysterio. How he already knew who you were, knew all your secrets, and was ready to manipulate you to take down the institution that denied him success so many years ago.

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annab-nana · 3 years

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Is There Something There - Tom Holland

During an interview that you were doing with Tom for Endgame press, some of the questions catch you both off guard and one leads to you two talking about something you’ve both been feeling about each other.

A/N: I’m going to be honest. I don’t really like this one because I already feel like I use a lot of dialogue as a writer and this is an interview so there is a lot of dialogue, but I also like the story here so that why I decided to post it. Also, it’s my first Tom fic so I hope you all enjoy and feedback is greatly appreciated!

Warnings: some curse words

Word Count: 4.1k+

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“I can’t believe you didn’t know who Obadiah Stane was,” you giggled with Tom as you two left the room you had just been in doing an interview to head to another one in a few minutes.

“He asked what an Obadiah Stane was, so I thought it was a thing, not a person,” he defended, his smile stretching as his words brought you more laughter.

“I’m sure Robert would love to know that his little buddy didn’t even know the name of the villain in the first Iron Man movie,” you teased Tom while he chuckled along with you. “But I will give you the infinity stones question. All I could remember was the reality stone and the time stone, but you rattled off the first five in a matter of seconds and then the last one came to your mind shortly after. It was impressive.”

“Thank you, thank you,” he stated sarcastically with a bow and a tip of his head. “You know what was funny? When you said Sebastian would be a bad baby name. That was hilarious,” he brought up before dying of laughter again at the joke you made earlier in the interview.

“Yeah, and I can guarantee you that he said my name too when they asked him which MCU name would be the worst as well,” you told him while laughing along with him.

“This is it I think,” the man who had been leading you to your next interview announced to you both before opening the door.

“Ladies first,” Tom said to you while holding a hand out to show you the way. You playfully rolled your eyes at the dork you had been paired with for the day as you walked into the room.

It was no secret that Tom Holland could not keep his mouth shut when he needed to. He just gets too excited and has to tell someone. He along with Ruffalo were terrible secret keepers and when it came to interviews, they had to do them with someone who could pay attention to them and catch them before they slip up. Benedict got paired with Mark and you obviously were with Tom.

“Good morning you two! I imagine you both have been very busy today,” the woman who would be conducting the interview asked when you and Tom walked over to her and got settled in your spots on the couch after you each shook her hand.

“Yes ma’am, we have been busy, but it has been loads of fun I would say,” Tom responded first while he got comfortable on the couch and stretched his arm to lay against the back of it before you nodded your head in agreement at his previous statement.

“Super fun especially since we get to do it together,” you spoke to the lady before meeting the dashing brown eyes of your partner for the day.

“She’s just saying that because she has to be with me. She actually hates me,” Tom teased while you rolled your eyes at him.

“I do not hate him. Does he get a little aggravating from time to time? Yeah, but I don’t hate him,” you played along with the boy’s joke as he chuckled lightly at you.

“Wait, y/n has to be with you, Tom?” the interviewer inquired, her eyebrows drawing together in confusion as to why you were forced to be with him. She probably thought it was a little weird that you, the actress who plays Guardian of the Galaxy Willa Adler, and Tom, the actor of Peter Parker who was also known as Spider-Man, were doing press for Endgame together. If she saw Infinity War, she knew you were both onscreen together a good bit in that movie, but still she most likely was wondering why you were not doing interviews with Chris Pratt like you normally were since he played your older brother figure in the past few Marvel films you have done.

“Well, yeah, someone has to be with me because I can’t keep my mouth shut and y/n is good at telling when I’m about to say something I shouldn’t, so she is here to help me not spill the beans on anything,” Tom laughed while a slight blush of embarrassment dusted across his cheeks.

“Yeah, I have been told I’m good at reading people and we’ve become really good friends lately, so I guess I better at reading him than some of the others. I don’t know. I think it’s funny that he has to be with someone, or he’ll spill all the information on everything,” you giggled as you responded to the question too.

“Oh well, I guess it’s good you two have been paired together and later on I’ll have some questions specifically for the both of you. Anyway, I spoke with Anthony Mackie and Sebastian Stan and that pair,” she paused for a chuckle, “They like to tease you two, don’t they?” As soon as she mentioned their names, you both knew where the question was headed and you and Tom both nodded towards the woman.

“Yeah, we have quite the rivalry with those two, don’t we?” Tom led the answer for you to continue.

“Yes, but it’s all out of love,” you reassured the interviewer while you all shared a laugh.

“It’s all love, for sure. I think it’s because we are the youngest and easiest to pick on because we take the jokes well and we’ll shoot them right back. I find it funny how it's them against us. We will tease them and they’ll tease us, but at the same time, we split it up and it’ll be me and Mackie going at each other, and y/n and Stan will pick on each other quite a bit. It’s like the big brothers teasing their younger siblings and they each have their favorite one to pick on. I love it. I find it so hilarious,” Tom told the woman, a chuckle falling past his lips.

“Especially the juice box joke,” you laughed. “That one is my favorite.”

“Juice box joke?” she asked, her emerald eyes dancing between you and Tom while you both wore huge smiles on your faces from all the laughing you both had been doing.

“Yeah, Mackie likes to joke and say that ‘I need my juice boxes or I’ll go crazy without them’ that I need the sugar or something,” Tom expressed using air quotes with his fingers to show Anthony’s words. “They say I need juice boxes and y/n needs water bottles.”

“Why’s that?” the lady quizzed at the second part of his sentence as a light laugh escaped her mouth. You audibly groaned, knowing which story was about to come up next.

“She forgets to drink water sometimes and then she’ll get dehydrated and when we’re shooting harder scenes or if there’s a lot of light on her and it gets hot, then it doesn’t end well,” Tom told the interviewer honestly before she looked to you to continue or confirm his statements.

“It was one time and I just forget to drink water sometimes. I’m okay,” you reassured before taking a sip of water from the glass next to you.

“One time?” the blonde woman inquired further. You loved doing these interviews, but at times the people conducting them tended to be a little pushy and don’t pick up on the hint that you don’t want to share this story. You knew she wasn’t going to give so you spoke.

“Tell the story, Tom,” you instructed with a sigh before turning in your chair to face him better. His hand still rested on the back of the couch behind you and he brought it down slightly to rub at the top of your back and play with your hair a little, a friendly and comforting gesture that you were very thankful for at the moment as he was about to share one of your more embarrassing experiences.

“Okay, so you know that scene in Infinity War where the Guardians, Strange, Tony, and I are in that spaceship and the Guardians are coming at us because they think we’re with Thanos?” When she nods her head, Tom continues with the story.

“Well, that particular day, y/n forgot to drink basically anything and in the makeup and suits and stuff, it gets really hot. It’s the scene where Willa has Peter Parker in a chokehold and Peter Quill has a gun to my head. So, when we were shooting that, y/n has her arms around my neck, not tightly obviously. She’s not actually trying to choke me, but you can feel it, you know. So, as I said, she wasn’t holding me tightly, but I felt her arms loosen from around me before she was supposed to, and she leaned against me a little.” The interviewer let out a slight gasp before looking at you and you nodded towards her, letting her know his words were true.

“I turned my head and asked her if she was okay, but she just nodded her head. She didn’t say anything, just nodded her head, and right then I knew something was wrong just by looking at her. I turned around and grabbed her before she fell and sat down with her. Chris came as well and was checking on her while Benedict and Robert went to get help and some water. But we got her some water, and she was good to go shortly after.”

“That must’ve been scary for the both of you,” she commented while her widened eyes jumped from yours to the set of honey brown ones to your left.

“It was honestly one of the scariest days on set for me,” Tom added before looking to you, his fingers still switching from rubbing small circles into your neck and twirling your hair between them.

“I was in and out of it, so I don’t remember much. All I remember is leaning against him and him helping me down. It was more embarrassing to me and I hate thinking about it, but now I will never get to forget about it because Anthony and Seb won’t ever let me live it down,” you told the woman with a small laugh which she joined in on along with Tom.

“Your characters both have this relationship with someone older than you that you look up to, Peter Parker with Tony Stark and Willa Adler with Peter Quill. How was it for you both to do your death scene in Infinity War with those people?” she asked you and Tom. Tom looked to you for you to start off the question so you do.

“Both Willa and Peter have had it rough as far as a mentor or someone who can really help guide them in life because they keep losing them. Peter lost his parents when he was younger, then his uncle, and then he disintegrates in Tony’s arms. Willa lost a lot of people in a short amount of time. Quill and Willa were both taken by Yondu at different times for their own good to save them from their terrible fathers, so she didn’t have anyone to look up to on Earth. Then she lost Yondu and feared she lost Quill when things with Ego went down. Then in Infinity War when they are all trying to take the gauntlet off Thanos, she finds out that she lost Gamora, the only girl Willa has ever had by her side, so that breaks her even further. Then after the snap, she watches all of her found family turn to dust around her. She watches Quill turn to ashes right before she can get to him and then she tries to run to Nebula who is the only person she has left before she goes with the rest of them. Right after that, we watch Peter and Tony hold each other and Peter goes so the scene overall is a terribly sad one. It took a lot of emotion for both of us I think.”

“Yeah, like she said, both of them have experienced great loss. Peter is a little more used to it while Willa loses someone before she’s done grieving the last person she lost. She definitely had to put a lot more emotion into it, but Willa is also the kind of person who holds her emotions in. You can see in that scene she was talking about, Willa tried to hold it in when she found out about Gamora but started to break down as she saw everyone she loved dissipate into nothing. Peter was emotional of course and he didn’t want to go like he just saw everyone around him do but at least he went out in the arms of someone he loves and looks up to a lot,” Tom added to your explanation with his own.

“I would say that scene after the snap with you two is the saddest in my opinion. So, to lighten the mood a little, there is a lot of talk about the family feel that the cast has, and the people wanted to know if that is true?” she asked as she flipped through her cards.

“Yes!” you immediately agreed.

“Of course, we all get along and it is super fun especially in films like these where we get to be together. Peter got to be with Iron Man, Doctor Strange, and the Guardians of the Galaxy and it was amazing filming with everybody. I loved it, didn’t you?” Tom pushed the question over to you.

“Yeah, it was super fun. I always get to film with a large group of people, but I got to film with Chris Hemsworth and then later on with RDJ and Benedict and Tom. It was great to work with so many amazing people,” you commented while you shifted in your seat a little, trying to get comfortable again.

“Mackie and Stan are like our annoying older brothers as I said earlier,” Tom mentioned with a light chuckle.

“Yeah,” you giggled before continuing with his analogy. “RDJ, Evans, and Hemsworth are like the fathers, the founding fathers really since they’ve been there since the beginning. Umm, Pratt and Rudd are the funny uncles. Elizabeth, Zoe, Karen, Scarlett, and Danai are the cool aunts. And then you’ve got people like Benedict, Chadwick, Pom, Letitia, and Tom who are absolute sweethearts. Everyone is just super cool and fun and sweet, and we couldn’t ask for a better group of people to work with.” The lady awed at your words while Tom’s eyes softened at them.

“That was really sweet, y/n, and you are amazing to work with as well,” he grinned as he spoke which you returned him on as well while you nodded at him. His hand shifted down to your shoulder and he kept it there, something you didn’t mind at all. “Everything she said was spot on and everyone we get the opportunity to work with is awesome and they’re great people. I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“Do you think your characters will appear onscreen together in the future?” the interviewer questioned before she looked up from her card to the both of you.

“Um, I’ll take this one,” you said to both of them, but mainly to Tom so he knew he wouldn’t have to add anything or spoil anything without knowing it. “So, Peter normally protects Queens, and Willa’s territory is all of outer space. In Infinity War, you saw that Peter’s experience in space wasn’t the best and Willa had a terrible life on Earth though she didn’t know it at the time because she was so young when Yondu took her. I don’t see them crossing paths again in the future if everything gets ‘fixed’ like everyone is hoping for, but if another space titan comes to destroy half of all living things or something big like that, then yeah maybe you’d see Willa and Peter onscreen again, but I don’t think it is likely,” you told the woman as she nodded her head.

“Marvel is full of surprises though, so you never know what is going to happen,” Tom added, earning a laugh from you since you knew firsthand how true the statement was.

“The fans love seeing you two together and you both clearly have good chemistry so what is it like working with one another?” the blonde asked before pushing some fallen hair behind her ear.

“I’ll go first,” Tom stated as he turned a bit in his seat and smiled your way. You playfully rolled your eyes, getting ready for him to completely roast your ass.

“She’s mean, a total diva, a drama queen,” he started listing off several false claims before busting out laughing at your pouting face. “I’m kidding,” he chuckled while he leaned over to grab your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“No, go on. I’m thinking about teaming up with Mackie and Seb and all three of us can rip you to shreds,” you sarcastically smiled at him before you dropped the grin and shot him a death glare.

“Okay maybe I wasn’t lying about the mean part,” he joked causing you to smile again. His brown eyes lit up at the sight and he finally continued with answering the question.

“No, but for real, she is amazing, as a person and as an actress. Every time I watch her, I am reminded of how phenomenal of an actress she is. You all have seen the gag reels of me and how I can’t keep a straight face if my life depended on it, but I watched her and the person she was filming with slipped up. She kept a straight face until they started laughing so she started laughing too. If that was me, I would’ve started laughing before anyone even messed up. And even when she’s feeling poorly, she performs so well. Y/n is so incredible to watch and work with. She is truly a great person and an even better friend. I’m glad we have each other to lean on when we get teased for being the youngest out of everyone,” he chuckled after literally just melting your heart. You leaned over to wrap your arms around his torso, his arm going around your back to rest his hand on your side.

“That was really sweet, Tom,” you whispered while giving him a little squeeze before pulling away from him. He did not remove his arm from around you though, so you scooted closer to make it more comfortable for you both.

“He may say my acting is good, but I’ve got to brag on his as well. He is so good at improvising and going with the flow of things. I am a very ‘follow the lines and stick to the script’ kind of person, but his improv makes his scenes and character so much better. That may be because he is basically Peter Parker in real life so when the cameras are rolling, it is truly interesting to see. He lights up any room he walks into and makes every day easier when we are working. He is a delight to work with and just generally be around and I’m glad we’re friends.”

“Thanks y/n,” he grinned down at you and you smiled right back.

“How is he like Peter Parker in real life?” the woman further inquired as she adjusted herself in her seat to sit more comfortably.

“For one, he is a major dork,” you started before snickering at Tom’s furrowed brows and stuck out lip.

“You just said all that nice stuff and then called me a dork,” he huffed and turned his head from you. He dramatically removed his arm from around and placed his hand in his lap.

“Oh, come on. You know it’s true,” you told him to which he sighed.

“Yeah, it’s true,” he gave in before nodding at the interviewer.

“So, there’s that,” you continued to answer the question. “He’s a little awkward, but in a charming and lovable way. He cannot keep a secret at all. There’s probably more, but that’s all I can think of right now. Everybody loves Peter Parker and everyone loves Tom Holland. I mean it when I say they are the same person.”

“So, there is a good bit of speculation of a budding romance between the both of you and the people want to know if there is something there,” she stated before playing with the rings on her fingers.

Before you could open your mouth to deny the suspicion, Tom grabbed your hand in his, interlacing his fingers with yours. A blush crept up on your cheeks when he placed his lips against the back of your hand.

“Do you want to tell her, babe?” he asked as he shot you a wink, the small act telling you it was a joke. The growing grin on his face told you his actions were false as well, but you couldn’t help how your heart fell that it was all a lie. You once again rolled your eyes at the boy who held your hand.

“You can tell her, sweetheart,” you giggled while Tom held your hand in both of his and you leaned your head on his shoulder.

“Y/n and I have been in a relationship for a little while now and that relationship has been completely platonic and we are just friends,” he laughed as he placed your hand back in your own lap. You would be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t miss the feeling of his hand in yours, but now was not the time to think about that.

“Yeah guys, we’re only friends,” you chuckled, making eye contact with the camera that was filming the whole thing while you lifted your head from its previous resting place on his shoulder. “Nothing more.”

Later after the interview, you and Tom are walking to the car that was going to take you both back to your hotel and the events of earlier kept circling through your mind. The way it felt to have his arm around you and you leaning into his side. You craved that feeling. His hand in yours and his lips pressed to the back of it. You wanted more of that. Just being with him, you strived to have more moments with him, but you always thought that it was because you were really good friends and you liked having his presence near. However, you feared that you were into something more that he was not going to be interested in.

“You did good with the whole dating joke. That was funny,” you giggled lightly as you bumped his shoulder while walking by his side.

“Hopefully, you didn’t think it was too funny,” he mumbled, his own eyes widening at his slight confession. Your eyebrows drew together in confusion and your feet stopped moving forward.

“What?” you spoke the only word that was running through your mind at the moment. Tom stopped walking as well and turned to face you.

“I kinda liked holding your hand and I kinda like you,” he stated sheepishly, his gorgeous brown eyes looking everywhere but at you.

“What are you saying, Tom?” you asked, knowing exactly what he was saying but you wanted to be sure. He stepped forward a bit and took your hand in his, interlocking your fingers just as he did before.

“I’m saying that I like you, y/n, and I want to be with you. We can just try it out for a little bit?” he asked more than stated.

“You mean we can try out being together?”

“Yeah, we can keep it quiet until we’re sure and then if you want, we can go public with it. I was not lying when I said I love working with you. It wasn’t because you’re great to work with because you are. It was because you are great to be with. So maybe we try this out and see how things work with us while we do press and see how things work after this when we are separate and doing our own thing. We can go from there and see if this is something we want to continue or announce?” he questioned nervously while his eyes finally locked with yours. The corners of your mouth turned upwards in a huge grin, happy to be hearing what you had wished to hear for a while now.

“I’d love to be with you, Tom,” you gushed, grinning ear to ear.

“Well, that’s great, babe,” he chuckled after using the nickname he called you earlier. His other hand slid around your waist, pulling you closer to him. You felt his breath fan over your lips before he closed the space between you two.

“But you know that Mackie and Seb are going to pick on us about this too right?” you reminded him when you pulled away slightly and he giggled.

“Yeah, we’re never going to hear the end of it.”

--------------------------------------------------

tag list: @rebelemilu @starrybrock @mxltifandoms06

click here to be added to the taglist

#tom #tom holland #tom imagine #tom x reader #tom fanfic #tom fanfiction #tom holland imagine #tom holland x reader #tom holland fanfin #tom holland fanfiction #marvel

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ratyts · 3 years

Text

hold my hand (dabi x gn!reader)

masterlist

i meant for this to be a platonic x reader but it doesn’t really matter.

set in an au where dabi cares abt anyone besides himself (╥_╥) also jus realized everything i write is the exact same. frankly i'm not sure if i've ever had an original thought

warnings: maybe slight implied manga spoilers? rly light angst, swearing

word count: 688

The couch was tattered. Ripped and old, remnant of a formally glorious home. The floor was checked, cold and dirty. The ceilings were high. So high you couldn’t help but wonder how long it’d take a spider to drop down onto your head. Maybe it had already happened.

Your legs were pulled up to your chest as you sat on the floor, facing Dabi. He lays on the couch, one hand held out far enough for you to grasp. You hold his hand with a loose grasp, your cheek leaning into the hold. Dabi stares up at the ceiling. You hoped he was thinking about something stupid too. But you knew he probably wasn’t. You always called him an overthinker, justly. Dabi thought too much for his own good, according to you anyway.

Besides the soft rise and fall of his chest, Dabi gave no indication that he was alive. Nothing but a mannequin, he looked like. Not that you were much better. You both shared a sort of gleam in your eye. Or perhaps it was the lack thereof. The semblance of death. The lifeless sheen coating your gaze might’ve been what drew Dabi to you. You were two peas in a pod. Something like that.

“You’re awake?”

You don’t move to look at him and he huffs, it was an obvious attempt to fill the silence. It was what you did best, filling silence. Even comfortable silence could be taxing. I suppose even the most familiar presence can’t do much for a man in a state like Dabi’s. You supposed this was what friends were for, distractions. So you often resolved to distract Dabi’s mind with your shenanigans. Whether that would be helpful in the present was unclear. You resigned, the mood wasn’t right. Saying nothing might’ve just been better than saying the wrong thing.

“Me too.”

You can hear Dabi moving on the couch, probably moving to get a better look at you. You could imagine his face, something reading both amusement and annoyance. You could imagine it so well, you didn’t bother looking up. Maybe it was more funny that way. He breathes out through his nose and you almost smile, it’s the closest thing you’d get to a laugh. Only a fool would dismiss the barely audible exhale.

“I couldn’t tell,” he moved back, presumably looking towards the ceiling again. You wondered if he’d notice a spider falling towards him in time. Would he do anything if it was heading for you, and not him? One could only hope.

“Dabi…” You tilt your gaze up towards him. He looks tired, worn, like his face is permanently frozen in a frown, sullen. His eyes are dark, and you can’t help but sigh, “When was the last time you slept?”

There's a pause, neither of you move to speak again. It was a pointless question. Something neither of you would be able to answer. You weren’t sure the last time you slept either. It’s easiest to neglect yourself, after all. Sleep never came easy, especially to those who need it most. Ironic.

“Probably the last time you slept,” you see him smirk, “if you know when that was?”

You didn’t, obviously. Such was the life of a villain. Dirty tile floors, buildings with battered insulation which let a little too much of the chilling cold air pass into the interior. A villain is in no position to be picky.

The warmth of his hand was enough to combat the weather. It brought some warmth to your cheeks too. You hoped someday things would be different. For the two of you, for everyone. Someday the world would be a warmer place, for people like you at least. Maybe someday you wouldn’t need to hold his hand. But need is relative, isn’t it?

“Can you sleep?” your thumb runs over his, his grip on your hand tightens.

“No.”

You both stay silent. It’s comfortable again. The small movement of his hand made your heart calm. As he draws a small circle on the side of your hand, you knew this much: You were alive. He was alive.

#mha x reader #mha x gn!reader #mha x gender neutral reader #mha #gn!reader #bnha x gn!reader #bnha #bnha dabi #mha dabi #dabi #dabi x reader #touya todoroki #dabi angst #dabi x you #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

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and-there-were-words · 3 years

Text

A Spider Life: Slow days (Chapter 05)

I first wanted to write something out of the Spider Queen’s POV, but struggled to keep it within the narrative I am going for at the moment. I will write something for her after what’s show-canon though. A slow one with some more HCs, but I hope you still enjoy this chapter!

Also “Ask questions” had been enabled, I did not notice they weren’t before /o/

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Taking place some time before “Minor scale”.

After the last two, rather smooth successes of gathering the artifacts, things had turned… slow. With everyone doing their best to busy themselves, Syntax makes some (for him at least) interesting observations. (Wordcount: around 2150)

---

With the mirror in their possession, the little lady had grown silent while working on the furnace. Aside from that whisper business of course, that had been a constant the last few days. And while nobody wanted to admit it out loud, it put everyone on the edge. Even the Queen.

However, nothing would stop Syntax from working on his spiderbots, even trying to improve the additional arms on his back. Not the easiest thing to do when you don’t have eyes on the back of your head, but making sure they just won’t snap in the heat of a moment felt rather crucial. The additional weight to this upgrade wasn’t exactly a worry to him at all, in the end he wasn’t one of the brawler types.

Something in the air changed, making him halt for a second.

“Yes Huntsman, how can I help you?”, he spoke without needing to look up. The other spider made a frustrated noise at being detected, he had been just mere inches away to give the scientist a poke. With an annoyed huff he turned around to stomp back to Goliath. Syntax would be lying to say if the other's frustration didn't plug on a string of satisfaction. This sort of interactions had been going on for a while now.

Leaning back, just to give his spine a proper stretch, the scientist couldn’t help but feel a little bit proud of himself. Just the progress he had made the last few days was satisfying, and not only the ones on his machines – but himself too. Huntsman had taken a sadistic joy in startling him whenever he could, and he was infuriatingly good at it. Though, Syntax started to pick up on the faint noises the hunter made when stepping on stone, the shuffling of clothes. Eventually he could catch him prior to a scare.

Which only goaded Huntsman to try even harder, becoming more and more silent and careful in his steps. Syntax had taken recordings to measure the changes of skill level (and for his own sanity) – by now, the hunting spider was so silent that even his gadgets could barely pick up the sounds anymore. Certainly a skill Huntsman had all along, but finally seemed to shake off the initial rust after his involuntary slumber. With the knowledge that he wouldn’t be able to catch him on that anymore, the scientist tried to focus on other giveaways.

What had started as an obvious attempt on grilling his nerves, developed into a near playful banter. Just the wordless back and forth to get the other to try harder. In an odd way, it almost felt like Huntsman was training him, but he was careful to keep that thought to himself. Syntax knew better than to read too much into the hunter's actions, as chaotic as they were.

Nonetheless, the scientist found himself trying to imitate the hunter now and then. Since the guy was going on about smelling all kind of stuff, he gave it a try himself. At first not picking up much more than the damp air in the cave, the metal of the machines. It took him a while to find stronger differences, trying to casually walk past Goliath and the Queen. He found it rather surprising that they didn't seem to do much to hide their presence, but maybe it was simply the comfort of the cave that allowed them to do so.

Picking up on Huntsman was an entirely different beast. The man always seemingly on guard, always ready to appear and disappear. However with time, the scientist managed to actually pick up on Huntsman’s scent, as faint as it was. Kind of earthy, a little bit mildewed, and Syntax could swear there was the ever lingering hint of fresh blood. Did this guy ever wash that pelt of his?

Of course, he would never claim that his own sense of scent was as powerful as the hunter’s, but it was enough to know who was currently around the cave. The little lady didn't seem to have any telltales like these, which usually would've raised red flags in his mind but… he didn't question it, nobody else did either. Anything else he came in contact with, the scents of the surface… became a mixed blend of too much too quickly. Maybe a task for another time.

Aside from that, scent and hearing weren’t the only senses he had noticed an improvement in! Their lair seemed to have become much less dark, he wasn’t as dependable on his goggles as he used to be anymore. What before had looked like chunky and random bits of webbing, now unveiled themselves as carefully crafted pieces with intriguing patterns, with uses he was still starting to understand. Goliath did his best to explain them in more 'common' terms, and it was always a pleasant surprise to see how excited the large spider became to share his knowledge. The more time Syntax spent within the Silk Web Cave, the more beautiful this place became to him. A pride welling up that he lived here.

However their hideout wasn’t the only thing that was much more layered than he previously thought. Turning around in his seat, he watched the other two henchmen going about their day. Currently sticking their heads together over something he couldn't see from his position. Still, he watched them a little, while he was sorting further observations in his mind.

...to no one’s surprise, when he wasn’t within the lair, Huntsman was hunting. Or at least, somewhere outside doing who knows what for days on end. Yet always coming back with some good pieces of meat, roots and berries (but mainly meat). The first time Syntax saw the hunter preparing food for dinner, he nearly refused to partake in it. Mostly because he couldn’t imagine his meals to taste anything but bland, or worse, be poisoned. Color him surprised, that stew was better than most dishes the Queen would concoct on a daily basis. Another thought Syntax would take to his grave before speaking it out loud.

When Huntsman wasn’t around for dinner, and everyone else felt too lazy to scavenge for some proper food options, Goliath and he would order takeout. The strong spider clearly intrigued by this concept, always wanting to try something new. Syntax often questioned the sanity of the cityfolk, considering that the delivery people didn’t had much care to come down near a spider den. The food from the surface world had something comforting to the scientist, as cheap and artifical as it sometimes was. Though he was really craving noodle soup as of late and he wasn’t entirely sure why. Syntax let out a little sigh while standing up.

This whole food thing had also shown an interesting side on Goliath. While the Queen and Huntsman didn’t seem to particularly care about human food (the latter even openly showing his distaste for it), the strong spider had taken a deep fascination. Especially sweets and candies seemed to have struck his attention the most. More than once did Syntax catch him just trying some new trendy food or colorful jawbreaker that he got from… who knows where. Goliath didn’t make any of this a secret, however he clearly wasn’t one with a rotten sweet-tooth as he barely finished anything. “For science.”, he once said with a wink and didn’t elaborate any further. Okay then.

“What are you two doing?”, Syntax casually asked as he wandered closer to the two. The strong spider looked up in confusion for a second before giving the younger man a smirk, “Secrets”. The scientist blinked owlishly, circling around them to look over the smaller spider’s shoulder. There were parchments of leather, deer if Syntax would have to guess, with Huntsman trying to draw squares and circles. Large black smudges here and there told the story of many previous attempts, letting the edges of the material look almost black by now.

"Get away from me.", the kneeling spider hissed, Syntax complying with an annoyed eye roll. Looking back at the larger man in an unspoken question. "We want to make a new robe for the Queen.", the giant almost beamed with excitement. Only for the big smile to water down in mild disappointment, "Buddy ain't good at designing though."

"If you wouldn't be just so damn picky!", Huntsman shot back, smudging away his latest attempt. "Just let me do what I do best, I know what I am d-"

"No!", Syntax flinched a little in surprise. It wasn't exactly an usual thing for Goliath to argue, or to even interrupt someone. "I want this to be special and you just can't get the patterns right! For the Queen's sake, just follow a plan for once!"

The scientist had to raise a brow. This was the first time he ever saw the two of them actually butting heads and… he had to admit, it was a little bit refreshing. Letting his eyes wander to some other pieces of leather, recognizing the sketches as copies from the patterns all over the cave. This one was a sigil of warding, as he had learned the other day, and a few were the Queen's own emblem. In case some other spider demon decided to come here, they would immediately know who's domain they dared to enter. The rest of those, he had not gotten an explanation yet.

"If I may.", mechanical arms shoved Huntsman unceremoniously to the side. Crouching down to pick up one of the charcoal, he started to draw. He was no expert on how to draw people by any means, but it certainly resembled the queen more than any of Huntsman's attempts. With careful strokes, he designed a fairly simple cut, working in the patterns on how he would think would look good on the Queen. It didn't pass him that the other two were watching with bated breath.

Once done, the scientist sat back on his heels, giving his creation a proper look. Not too shabby, if he may say so himself.

"Oh this is really good, Syntax!", Goliath cheered, looking like he wanted to touch the sketch but didn't dare to. On the other end of the emotional spectrum, Huntsman almost looked like he was about to explode.

"The fuck is your problem.", the elder hissed in dreadful silence, whole body tense and twitching. "What do you think you are!", he now became louder but Syntax did his best to just give him a neutral expression and not to budge. Which may not have been the best idea, as it only agitated the other further. The hunter was now standing, looming over him. "You really think you can just come in here and do whatever?! Think you can just be part of this??"

Large and sharp spider legs lashed out, in reflex Syntax let out a startled cry and raised his arms in an attempt of protection. But the pain didn't come. They hadn't aimed at him, instead… having shred the parchment with the sketches to bits. "I REFUSE TO WEAVE THIS."

Like an angry lion, the hunter had bared his fangs in a snarl. For a moment, Syntax was still prepared to be hit by the other, but the hunter suddenly turned around and just. Left. Goliath looked torn between the two men, mouthing a silent "Sorry" before hurrying after his friend.

A breath he didn't know he was holding, escaped his lungs. Syntax crumbled a bit to the floor, bitter thoughts flooding in. Just when he thought things were doing okay. Of course he had to step right into a sensitive nerve for the older spider. Heavy clicking pulled him out of his thoughts, but he couldn't care at the moment to look presentable before the Queen.

Spider Queen looked between the tired scientist and shredded pieces of leather, no apparent expression showing. But of course there was a glint of recognition in her eyes. "Why y'all causing such a ruckus?" Syntax sighed silently, giving a brief summary of the recent events.

The silence that followed was uncomfortable, the scientist not entirely sure how his Queen would react. To his surprise, she let out a little tired sigh. "Weaving is something quite personal to us. Especially if we do it for someone else.", she explained without really looking back at him. Instead giving the destroyed sketches another glance. "Just pretend this never happened. He'll get over it." With that, she simply left.

Syntax pulled his lips into a frown. Just ignore this all? If Huntsman got over it or not, it did not matter. His fists clenched a little, looking at the floor, choking and holding back bitter tears he could feel burning in hte back of his eyes. Syntax was more upset that he apparently wasn't allowed to be an actual part of this clan, no matter how hard he tried.

#spider queen just ignoring problems?#more likely than you think #lego monkie kid #lmk syntax #lmk huntsman #lmk goliath #lmk spider queen

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skellebonez · 3 years

Text

Smoke, Flasks, and Unfinished Tasks: Chapter 10

AO3 Link!

Chapter 1 Link!, Chapter 2 Link!, Chapter 3 Link!, Chapter 4 Link!, Chapter 5 Link! Chapter 6 Link! Chapter 7 Link! Chapter 8 Link! Chapter 9 Link!

Summary: While the trio and Jin are in the Calabash, the family they left behind try to figure out what to do without falling apart at the seams.

Warnings: Mentions of mouth related injury, self depreciation and negative self talk.

Author’s note: Happy Season 2 premier in a few hours from posting this everyone!

Chapter 10: In The Meantime, Stay With Me

When Iron Fan had said she could get them everything they needed, Pigsy was not expecting that to be a nearly literal statement.

It had taken no time at all for the bull clones to set up a a veritable base of operations for them to use. Long rectangular tables set up and pushed together to make one large enough for DBK to maneuver things on a map, various types of technology that clearly had red Son's handiwork on them around the edges of the map. They used pieces from a mahjong set to mark spots on the map, barring the bonus tiles of seasons and flowers which would be used should they run out of others (and if they did they would allow themselves the worry they were pushing deep down for the moment) and the three dragon tiles. Green for Mei, Red for Red Son, and while Pigsy felt the White tile wasn't the most fitting for MK it was easiest for cohesion.

They had everything laid out in front of them, each location they checked marked off with a numbered suit tile (all bamboo used up first, then moving on to dots, and once those were finished they would use the characters). The 4 winds marked the four major locations they felt needed to be tracked, barring Flower Fruit Mountain as they eliminated the possibility of anyone reaching there outside of PIF, Wukong, and MK themselves: The Bull Family homestead, a temporary place reminiscent of Fiery Cloud Cave just outside the city where they were currently pooling all their resources. Pigsy's Noodles, the obvious place for the trio to go if they managed to escape themselves. The tea shop that the Spider Queen made them aware of.

And one final tile left sitting to the side, ready to be placed should the tea shop lead them somewhere else. They had doubts that the trio would still be there, though did not discount the possibility, since it would be risky to not take them to a secondary location if they knew the Spider Queen had prying eyes. And most everyone who could have pulled this off must have known that to an extent.

Pigsy wished that they could have used some of Red's tech instead of a too large map and mahjong tiles... but most of his tech was locked up tight and none of them really knew how the tech he left with his parents worked anyway. Not even they had a good handle on it, he was the one who typically ran everything when they were all together and he had programmed the operating system to his own needs. While they would have been able to figure that out in time, and Sandy was doing his very best to work out how to unlock some of the devices and would eagerly transfer everything they had on the tables into whatever programs they could access, they knew time was not in their side.

As DBK and PIF and Wukong mulled over who to send to the tea shop and where else they could look if they weren't there, Tang was nose deep in his own phone. Signal was shocking good here, all things considered, and once everything had been established he had started to scroll through social media once again just like he had when the search began. One site, another site, refresh, scroll back up, another site, back to the first, refresh refresh, scroll again.

He hadn't stopped for almost half an hour... and nothing had been found, Pigsy could tell by the shake in his hands and shoulders and the frown on his face.

"Hey," he said softly, reaching out to touch his shoulder. Tang jumped, too immersed in his search and easily startled before he realized who was talking to him. "Come on, I... I don't think we're gonna find anything like that."

"I have to do something, Pigsy," Tang said firmly, refreshing the page he was on once again and grimacing.

There was an edit of the trio someone had posted, a news photo, filtered in bright colors and emoji hearts. "Our Heroes!" laid out on top. Tang almost threw the phone down on the table, just barely managing to slam it down instead and drawing the shocked attention of everyone else as he buried his face in his hands and took a deep calming breath.

Pigsy waved them all off with a frown, and only turned back to Tang when they turned away from them both,

"Tang, this is just makin you upset. You-"

"Have to do something," Tang repeated, shaking his head and looking back up at Pigsy. He looked so tired. They all were, he supposed. "I'm just me. I can and I will help look for them and fight, and you will not be able to stop me, but I can't do... anything else here. I'm not a strategist, I'm not that good with tech, you don't need grunt work done with the Bull Clones around... the best I can do it recite stories about the Monkey King to help us figure out who this could be. And the person who did this might not even be an old enemy!"

"I ain't doin much either," Pigsy rebutted, gesturing over to the unlikely trio of ancient beings across from them. "They may be deferring to me for the final say, but I'm relying on what they tell me to make that choice." He moved, sitting beside the scholar without taking his hand off his shoulder. "So lets distract each other. Work on something else. Maybe whoever did this isn't an old enemy of ours, but maybe they are. Think of anyone who might still be around to hold a grudge and tell me their story."

Tang sat still for a few minutes instead of answering, just leaning into Pigsy and looking down at his shaking hands before they saw the shadow of a Bull Clone fall over the table. Pigsy recognized this one, the only one dressed in attire. A cape to be specific. PIF had introduced him as General Ironclad 2.0, one of the many recommissioned Bull Clones that had to be rebuilt after... The White Bone Spirit.

He placed a tray in front of the duo, two hot cups of tea and two sticks of Tanghulu candied fruit between them (and that was a strange sight, here in this cave, and Pigsy wondered if it was DBK or PIF who had a taste for the treat enough to just have it available like this). Like all the Bull Clones he said nothing, at least nothing that Pigsy or Tang could understand, and bowed before taking his leave.

Pigsy chanced a glance over to the working trio, catching DBK watching them from the corner of his eye. Wukong had a sad smile on his face as he talked while Iron Fan looked... well, he couldn't really tell. She didn't seem annoyed or frustrated, more confused than anything else as she glances up at her husband. DBK gave them a small nod before turning his gaze back to the map.

It was bizarre to him to see them like this. Sun Wukong without his overly enthusiastic smile and laugh or battle roar grimace. Princess Iron Fan without a scowl or a evil smirk of victory and cruelty. The Demon Bull King without his frustration and anger. Now working together for the first time in centuries, possibly ever to his knowledge as he had no idea whether or not Wukong and PIF ever actually did anything together with DBK before he was trapped under that mountain. He... he should have asked the person he once considered to be as close as a brother more about his life before. During the journey they took, before he vanished never to be seen or heard from for 500 years before showing up again just to give the kid he considered his son his mantle.

Maybe... maybe he wouldn't have left if he had.

There was no point dwelling on the past like this, however. Not now. Instead he picked up one of the tea cups and held it in his hands, the warmth not needed in the heat of the cave but still welcome. As welcome as the heat against his shoulder as Tang stayed leaning against him. In time he felt the man move in the same way, holding his own tea cup before taking a sip and sighing.

"You know..." He started slowly, reaching out to take a piece of candied fruit off the stick. The crunch was loud in the quiet of the cave and he spoke with his mouth full. "I have been thinking... Jin and Yin..." He swallowed, frowning. "They shouldn't really be here based on the stories I have learned. The Spider Queen too, I thought for the longest time she died with her sisters, until a few years before meeting her anyway And MK told us about... Macaque." Pigsy frowned deeper at the name, remembering those few days when the Monkie Kid had been run ragged and seemed easy to anger and more eager to please than usual making the tea taste bitter in his mouth. "And he shouldn't be around either. I have my theories, immortality and desires to return to what they were doing before their defeats and all that. But I was wondering..."

Tang paused, sipping his tea before choosing his words carefully.

"Maybe even more of your enemies.... aren't as dead as everyone thought they were?"

Yin scowled. That was the most he could do in his current state. Scowl at the door he was trapped behind.

If he tried he could have probably broken it down. But Princess Jade Face hadn't left. She could have, but he doubted it. She could have done a lot, but every time he tried to guess she hadn't.

He was so stupid...

He hadn't tried to talk his brother out of this arrangement, he hadn't stopped him from making her mad enough to use the smoke, he hadn't thought to check to make sure she was gone when they tried their escape plan.

He could have done so much but hadn't.

He wished his brother was there. It didn't feel right to be alone. They'd been together for as long as he could remember, they were twins after all. Sure, they had spent time apart, but never like this. Not like this. And Yin was cold and alone and Jin wasn't anywhere he could reach.

Yin was alone and he hurt everywhere.

It must have been the smoke itself. It wasn't like a truly hurtful pain, he was able to go about whatever he needed to do. It was a dull pain, like his entire body had been grabbed to harshly and squeezed all over. But he could do what he needed to, like eat. Princess Jade Face had even been "nice" enough to even give him food and water. Good food, surprisingly, meat buns that filled him up nice and good and made his stomach stop aching like it was going to devour him from the inside out.

That made him feel guilty. Jin hadn't eaten as long as he had. He hoped that she hadn't deactivated the part of the Calabash that would trick the person in it into thinking they weren't hungry... or maybe he should hope she had. He didn't like the idea of his brother slowly starving to death while he was filled up with good treats. If he hadn't remembered his brother yelling at him not to let good food go to waste all that time ago, before they managed to open their business and find something they were actually good at, the nausea he felt at that would have made his throat burn.

He wondered if she only fed him to keep him quiet.

It was pointless to think about that right now, though. It was pointless to worry about his brother.

He had to think of a plan. One that had more than two steps. One that actually worked for once in his damned life, one that would actually help them and get them somewhere than hurt and cold and alone and sad and in pain. Unlike all their other plans. Like with Sun Wukong. And MK in the Calabash. The race, though that one was fun.

The only other plan that had ever worked out for them was their job selling tech to other demons, but look where that got them now.

Yin winched as he grit his teeth and pain shot through his upper jaw, reaching up to the spot where one of them was now missing. Jade Face had come in to check on him and found him holding it. He had apparently hit himself hard enough on the way down to knock it out the last time she administered the smoke to his face.

It had already been chipped, weakened from another scrap the twins had gotten into with another demon. Yin wondered if his reflection would make him look like the younger twin he was now, with the gap in his smile.

Yin shook his head, curling in on himself and scowling at the door again.

He was so stupid...

But he would think of a way to get his brother back.

#monkie kid #lego monkie kid #gen fic #whump fic #sfaut #smoke flasks and unfinished tasks #relationship hint but no shipping

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vegalocity · 3 years

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The Forest (Red Groom AU)

So i was like ‘I should rewatch the Princess Bride again before I jump back into this fic series’. So I re-read my own series as to remember where I was at, rewatched the Princess Bride, and blacked our for a few hours. And when I woke up I found this on my word processor lol

Also catch me messing with everyone ELSE’S dialogue but keeping the Prince’s 100% just Prince Humperdink’s lines so i don’t have to give him a personality (hats off to @starsfic for reminding me of the obvious ‘you don’t have to cast him at all’ thing)

The spotty light of the forest faded into the pitch of night as down, down the prince fell. By the time he hit the ground there was only the faintest patch of sunlight shining through the very sinkhole he'd fallen into.

Prince Red Son cursed his luck thrice times over as he took in the dark world around him, the caves surrounding him seemed to be more burrowed into the ground than they were naturally forming, which spelled both good and bad.

“Red Son! Can you hear me?! Are you alright?!” he heard Xiaotian's voice echo from above and the part of him that was still riding the high of his love being alive, and what's more still just as in love with him as he was, swooned at the care in his voice. If they had been safe at the time and Red Son allowed to linger on the feeling, he was sure he would feel much that of a child positively drowning in the ardor of their first love.

As it was he had to repress the feeling as much as he could. Later. When they were safe.

“I'm fine!” His legs felt like liquid beneath him but he was able to keep on his feet. “I think this is a burrow of some kind!”

“A burrow? Like an animal made that thing?! Hold on I'm coming down there-”

“I can climb back up!” The words came out before he really thought about them, driven mostly by pride; the prince had been dealing with being passed around his captors for the better side of two days now, and though he trusted Xiaotian with his life easily, the fact remained that he'd been at a distinct physical disadvantage with his magic restrained as it was.

And he was kind of tired of being helpless.

“Red,” And my, did the shortened version of his name sound intimate when spoken like that “-you could barely stand! You're injured it's okay! I'm coming down and getting you!”

“I'm not a child Xiaotian,” he just needed to figure out how to get back up without injuring himself further. Now, it wasn't a vertical drop, else he would have probably broken something on the descent down “Just allow me a moment to think of something!”

Now, it wasn't vertical but it WAS too steep a drop to easily climb by hand, he'd need something to act as ballast, like a rope of some kind-

“....You said your copy of the Monkey King's staff can grow or shrink, yes?”

“I....did?”

“Can you extend it down here so I can use it as a ballast to climb?”

“Oh! Yeah probably!”

Now he'd probably need something to ensure if he grip slipped he wouldn't fall for too long and injure himself like a fool once again. Now he hadn't had a lot on hand when the Spider Queen and her mercenaries had apprehended him—barely more than the simple travel clothes he'd been wearing—and what else he'd had had been lost in his captors' desperate fleeing from his love, so other than what he had in his pockets his only set of tools was the clothes on his back.

Ah! But he DID have the clothes on his back did he not? He shed the thin overcoat he'd been allowed after the Spider Queen had searched him for weapons and once the golden ended staff entered his sight he looped the body of it around the staff, and tied it off before tying the sleeves around his torso.

“Okay hold it steady!”

“Got it!”

Admittedly it wasn't the easiest climb, his arms still ached from his self inflicted burns, his legs still trembled from the force of the fall, but before too long had passed mottled daylight was around him again and he took Xiaotian's hand as he was pulled back over the ledge.

“Thank you.” Though he'll admit without most of his magic at his disposal he was tiring rather quickly. He held himself together infront of Xiaotian as his lack of firepower was already embarrassing to be caught by someone so important to him with, but being winded by a simple climb was a humiliation he'd like to be spared of.

“Anytime.” Xiaotian huffed a sigh “But if those are burrows down there we should really get out of this forest quick as we can-”

“And head off to your mountain?” the idea of Xiaotian, his humble noodle boy, having an entire mountain of his own to rule over (temporarily? He had no idea if Sun Wukong would want it back by the time his pilgrimage was complete or not) was such a strange concept, he wasn't sure if it had become quite real for him yet.

“Yup!” Ah, that sweet chipper tone, so sorely missed in the five long years they'd been apart and-

Wait...

“...You're going to tell your fathers as well right?”

Xiaotian paused, and he could see him pale a bit from his stance.

“...Oh man I really AM a dead man when they get ahold of me.”

He couldn't help the laugh at the idea, Xiaotian in that full Monkey King transformation sitting in the Inn all crumpled in on himself like a scolded child, with either of his parents just ripping into him.

“...Wow...” Xiaotian sounded breathless and when Red Son looked open him for a moment he was struck by the greatest sense of Déjà vu. That quiet afternoon in the inn when he'd glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and known his heart, But here was that look once more, in this darkened forest so long later.

“What?”

“Nothing I just... forgot how much I loved your laugh.” Xiaotian reached up and rubbed at his neck, a bashful grin making his cheeks turn pink, and Red Son felt his own face grow warm in response. Damn Noodle Boy still knew exactly what to say to make him a mess- “It's honestly so cute. That crazy cackle-”

-Nevermind. He scowled and now it was Xiaotian's turn to laugh.

“No I mean it! I love how wild it is!” He folded his arms and huffed, but didn't stop Xiaotian as he untangled them to link one of Red Son's arms in his own. “You throw your entire self into absolutely everything! It's admirable! And you already know how much I love your passion-” Dammit.

“We should try to find somewhere relatively safe before nightfall hits. Who knows what other dangers there are here.” He sniffed, as primly as he possibly could.

“Whatever they are we can handle it!” Xiaotian chirped in response, almost too optimistic, especially granted he'd JUST been saying that they should leave as fast as possible.

“I mean whatever made those burrows probably left awhile ago if so much plant matter had built up over them as to cover the air vents like that.” That was true-

“Well, what about the R.O.U.S? Isn't this their migratory region?”

“The Rodents of Unusual Size?” Xiaotian shook his head “I've passed through this forest before, never ran into them, I don't think they're anything but rumor.”

And then they pounced on them.

The Rodents of Unusual Size were pack animals so when they descended on the two of them they did so at least a dozen in number. Their most bold had tackled Xiaotian to the ground and and its size—roughly that of a small wheelbarrow—had sent him grappling with the creature, trying to get it off him and draw his staff at once.

Before the rest of the pack made its move Red Son gave the one on his love a swift kick, sending it yelping and scurrying off to regain its strength. Then the others began to descend on them. Xiaotian had drawn his staff in the respite and gotten back to his feet, but the most Red Son could improvise as a weapon was a nearby branch that had fallen from a tree.

He felt pathetic in comparison to Xiaotian at his back.

He hadn't even gotten out of the damn sinkhole without help. Sure it had been his plan but-

Xiaotian moved not flawlessly, he hadn't been combat trained when he'd left, and he'd only been trained by Sun Wukong for a short while before they'd parted ways, he'd gained his skills on the way instead of having them trained into him, and Red Son had fallen out of weaponry while he'd still been a boy.

One of the rodents lunged for him and he barely swiped the branch quick enough to bat it away. He sensed one nearing his blindspot and turned just a bit to keep it in his sight-

-and felt Xiaotian push him out of the way as another rodent lunged upon his turned back.

The grunt of pain-

The smell of human blood-

Xiaotian was knelt on the ground at his side, struggling with a rodent that had its teeth buried into his shoulder.

It was instinct, not emotion, not intent. The bone deep—soul deep—need to protect all he held dear, the memory of despair, the memory of joy. The words 'True love' spoken so matter of fact and plain. A simple statement of what was real instead of a challenge or declaration.

Seeing and smelling his blood and the very real danger and he'd been protecting him this was his fault he couldn't die like this he couldn't live to make his way back and return to Red Son just to die like this and have it be HIS FAULT-

Fire.

The golden bands on his wrists glowed, then shuddered-

-and then they broke.

And there was fire.

The rodent on Xiaotian was burned and burned and kept burning, the flames encompassing the creature, but never once touching his beloved, and not once daring to burn their master after they'd been forced to disobey him for the length of two days.

The rodent dropped twitching and smoldering and when he looked up, eyes burning and glowing from the power he'd been forced to restrain for far too long, the remaining rodents had scurried off to their holes. Fearful and skittish of the power that had been released.

“Woah...” Xiaotian's voice cut through the roar of the flames still crackling up his arms and it felt so right it hurt that he'd gone any time at all without it as it should be.

Though he still felt a weak ache in his limbs, his fire allowed to spring forth at his command once again was doing quite a lot to quell the pain, and he offered his hand to his love.

“We should leave before they come back.”

Xiaotian took his hand and stared as though he'd never seen him before.

“Is something wrong?”

“I just... I never saw you fight before I guess.” Xiaotian gripped his sluggishly bleeding shoulder. Red Son removed his thin coat again to try and treat the wound, though it was a bit challenging as they continued their trek.

Soon enough the forest was beginning to thin, and the dim light of dusk made strange shadows pass across the world. They were nearing Flower Fruit Mountain if Xiaotian's estimate was anything to go by, and hopefully that would mean they were soon to be safe-

But then came the sound of horses.

“Pull your sleeves down.” Xiaotian whispered urgently. “If thats your fiance make him think you still don't have your fire.”

Red Son cursed the fact that he hadn't thought of that first. Nonetheless he did as directed, and let Xiaotian pull him protectively behind him.

And there were horses, and warriors, and a macaque with fur black as pitch, and leading the caravan was his fiance.

“Surrender.” The prince demanded the second they got near.

“Oh, you wish to surrender to me?” Dammit Xiaotian. “Very well, I accept.”

His fiance looked vaguely amused, but only vaguely. “I give you full marks for bravery, but don't make yourself a fool.”

He'd never known the man before now, this being Red Son's first time gazing upon the prince his parents had decided to be his betrothed, and the prince's eyes on him as well.

Red Son wasn't the best at parsing out emotions, but he knew the prince had hired the Spider Queen to kill him, so he knew the thing that looked like desire in the prince's eye was nothing but bloodlust. He wanted not him, but his parents' army, and he was willing to slaughter anyone who stood between him and that goal.

“Ah, but we know the secrets of the forest! We could live there comfortably for days without you and yours finding us!” Red Son could see the blood starting to seep back out of Xiaotian's shoulder as he drew his staff again. “So if you wish for a death at the hands of the R.O.U.S packs, please be my guest and feel free to visit!”

“I tell you once again, surrender!” his betrothed stressed, and Red Son saw movement from the corner of his eye. Xiaotian couldn't turn his head from the prince, but he could see the prince had brought archers with him. Many archers. Archers whom had peeled away from the caravan before their approach.

Xiaotian was not immortal. Or maybe the Monkey King had taught him to be in the first way he had learned to be immortal for his aging to cease, but if he was he wasn't invulnerable.

“That won't be happening.” He could make a ring of fire around the both of them and spread it out to destroy any arrows that came into their path and then expand it forward to knock back their foes, But then they'd have only a small opening, and their only option would be to retreat back into the forest and hope to loose his fiance, maybe in the burrows of that large unknown creature? But that risked Xiaotian being wrong about it being some time since said creature had been there and risk the wrath of a huge underground creature likely out for blood at two tiny by comparison beings invading its home.

“For the final time, surrender!” the prince barked and with a flourish drew his sword from its sheath. The black furred macaque at his side drew a staff from his person, spiked at either end, and shot them both a wicked grin, but it was Red Son's eye he held.

The macaque took one hand away from his weapon to reach beneath his shirt, and what he pulled out made Red Son's only plan null. A fire resistance spell scribbled on a small block of wood, and another pair of those damned golden cuffs. He'd be restrained again in an instant if he couldn't even injure anyone and he'd be just as helpless as before, but this time at a heavy disadvantage with his love injured, it would only be hours before they caught up with them, if even that.

“Death first!” Xiaotian cried, holding up the staff and ready to charge-

“You have to swear you won't hurt him!” The words ripped from his lungs before he had a chance to truly consider them.

“What did you say?” The prince broke his gaze with his love and raised a brow at him.

“Red Son...?” Xiaotian's voice was so quiet, so confused...But that didn't matter. If it saved his life then he refused to regret it.

“....I'll go with you. We'll surrender and I'll let you take me back to your mountain, but you must swear you won't hurt this man.”

He'd been useless ever since he'd been kidnapped by those damned mercenaries, he'd relied on Xiaotian to survive the forest—whom had needed to get hurt before he could even gain a fighting chance at being his equal again—and now he couldn't get them out of his fiance's clutches together.

If he went back with the prince he'd be killed and his death blamed on whoever the Prince wished to destroy with his parent's army but-

-but he knew his limits.

“I swear it on all I hold dear.” His fiance responded.

“He has his own mountain to return to, you must let him return in peace.”

“It will be done.” his betrothed agreed, he turned to the macaque and murmured something to him, but all he could hope for is that this prince wasn't an oathbreaker-

-not like he'd turned out to be.

Xiaotian was staring at him, his wide dark eyes hurt and uncomprehending and it was so unfair that this was how it had to end. That he'd only had him back for such a short time before he had to choose to give him up.

But...

“When I thought you dead it nearly destroyed me.” he forced his voice to remain firm, no matter how much his heart hurt at what must be done. “I cannot survive that a second time.” and he knew he couldn't.

But he was a selfish demon after all, because despite his actions, and his willingness to give himself over to his betrothed, Red Son still desired one last fleeting moment with his love.

The kiss was soft, Xiaotian's calloused hands gripped loosely in his own and he prayed he would remember the feeling and never forget his warmth. Whether he was killed by his betrothed, fought back long enough to be kept alive and announced dead and forever kept in a basement somewhere, or yet worse live a long healthy life beside a demon king he didn't love, and never able to see Xiaotian again.

“If this is all I can do for you, then please, let me save you.” his voice was barely over a whisper, any louder and his voice would crack and wobble with emotion.

“...As you wish.”

And then there was a hand on his shoulder that was not Xiaotian's. It was cold and slick, like the scales of a reptile.

And so, leaving the keeper of his heart behind, Red Son pulled away from Xiaotian, and got on the horse offered to him.

And if there was a thin yet steady plume of steam trailing behind his steed, well... nobody bothered to say anything.

–

And Xiaotian was left standing alone as the keeper of his heart turned himself in to what was no doubt his own execution.

His sluggishly bleeding shoulder gave a thin throb of pain as a few of the prince's caravan followed Red Son and that wretched prince, but staying behind were a majority of the archers and the black furred macaque.

“Well, guess we should be getting you back to your mountain then.” The Macaque drawled, leaned back casually on his own horse and hiding his staff only now. His strangely shaped ears twitched as Xiaotian took a step forward. Wait- Not strangely shaped, there were three of them. Three on either side.

“We're men of action. Lies don't suit us.” He'd responded simply, and the Six eared macaque grinned that wolfish grin at him again. And sure enough he felt a few groping hands as a couple brave archers grabbed him and bound his hands behind his back.

“Love that staff by the way. Looks quite a lot like one an old friend of mine used to wield. But like, a crappily made cheap replica of it.” The Macaque hummed and took the staff from the ground after he'd been forced to drop it. “Way lighter too. Don't even need to have stolen anybody's powers for it!” After a beat the Macaque met his gaze, and he must have been making a bit of a face because he suddenly looked off his game. “What?”

“Six-Eared Macaque was it? I know someone who's been looking for you.” The swordsman flashed in his mind, the scar on her shoulder, the fierce determination in her eyes, that masterful, artistic swordplay. She'd had every moment of her confrontation with this macaque planned out for a decade, right down to what she would say to him.

He hoped she found out where he was and got her revenge from it. She deserved to, she seemed like the kind of person Xiaotian would have gotten along with swimmingly if they'd known eachother under better terms.

The Macaque growled and swiped out with his staff, knocking him on the side of his head.

And as his vision swam, as the world grew dark, he heard the macaque growl:

“Take him to the pit of despair, Looks like we've got a new test subject.”

He missed Red Son.

#Red Groom AU #Spicynoodleshipping #vega writes stories too #Princess Bride AU #catch me keeping outfit descriptions as vague as possible for flexibility's sake #MK Red Son #Qi Xiaotian #Six Eared Macaque

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webheadedhero · 2 years

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@seesgood made my spider-sense tingle “ you’re trying to quit. and i’m not going to let you. “ spider-man: into the spiderverse sentence starters.

the small vial was dangling between his fingers, he wasn’t proud of the fact that he made it in his earlier days. a formula that would act as a filter for his blood, separating the radiation from him. in hopes that he might be able to knock out anything that wasn’t human in system. in short. a way to take his powers away, permanently. he didn’t even know if it would work, but he kept it all the same. as a worst case scenario. “ you don’t have to let me do anything, care.” his eyebrows pulling together as he looked at the fluid, drawing in a breath just to further weigh the options.

“ I never asked for these powers. I never asked for any of this. every thing that’s come my way after I got ‘em has only made my life go from bad to worse.” his mouth scrunching up into a grimace, his hand starting to tremble as he lifted it up for a second, putting it away from his mouth just as fast. it seemed like an easy decision, losing out on an interneship because of the lizard showing up. losing out on his friends at the lab because of the fact that he was credited with the pictures. “ easiest decision I ever made.” then why was he so hesitant?

#seesgood #v: a legend is born

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jackiesarch · 3 years

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come undone.

my half of a trade with the wonderful @red-nightskies! thank you so much for letting me write your sweet anna — it was a blast getting to know her!

word count: 3.7k

warnings: minor character death, canon typical violence, some language

summary: there’s whispers among the resistance that staci pratt is being held at the grandview hotel. anna reid thinks she knows who she can trust to help her free him.

This is the last safe moment: Anna stepping over the fresh corpse of a bat wielding Peggy, her chest heaving with exertion. Getting to the top floor of the Grandview Hotel unseen and unheard had been surprisingly easy. Even now, as she stands in front of the closed door of Room 306, she can’t help but be impressed by her own handiwork.

The oak panel in front of her is intimidating. She isn’t sure why. She’s checked every other room in this building, has moved through the halls and the staircases with such brutal efficiency that she should be pleased to be standing here, staring at what is undoubtedly the easiest part of this entire operation. But she isn’t. If anything, Anna finds she’s uneasy.

It feels too simple.

The Peggies have never made anything particularly easy for her. Sure, she can take down an outpost in her sleep these days or clear a roadblock in the blink of an eye, but Eden’s Gate rarely ever provides easy access to their special targets — to their leverage.

It’s part of why she’d gone to the Whitetails when the quiet whispers about Staci’s location had turned into real leads. Could she take down the guards and liberate her friend on her own? Maybe. Would she feel a hell of a lot better with an army waiting in the wings? Absolutely.

She stares at the door to the room again, her stomach twisting at what she might find behind it. Staci’s alive — that much she knows, that much a group of Eli’s scouts had been able to confirm. He’s alive, but who is he? Anna knows firsthand what Jacob does to people, knows the frantic, red-bathed horrors he puts people through to break them. Staci’s alive, but he may not be the man that flew them to Joseph’s compound all those weeks ago. It’s a thought that terrifies her.

He’ll be alright, Anna. It’s what Eli had said as he outlined the plan in the Wolf’s Den. A simple extraction mission: in-and-out, with backup waiting in the wings.

If he’s anythin’ like you, he’ll be alright. We’ll fix him up.

Slowly, Anna reaches for the doorknob, Eli’s words playing on repeat in her head. He’s right — Staci’s not beyond saving, not yet. They can fix him. Make him whole again.

She doesn’t trust easy, but she does trust Eli.

The cold metal of the handle makes her shiver as she twists it. There’s a click as the latch releases, and suddenly the door opens, creaking on its hinges as it swings into the room. All at once, she’s hit with the sickly, metallic smell of blood. It’s no wonder — the first things she notices are the smears of it on the wall, on the floor, on the discarded rags that litter the room.

The second thing she notices is Staci. He’s strapped to a chair in the middle of the room, bound by his wrists and ankles to the arms and legs of it. His head hangs heavy, chin resting against his chest like it might take all the strength left in his body to lift it in her direction. He doesn’t.

“Staci?” Anna says quietly, clearing the room with a quick glance. “Staci, it’s me.”

He doesn’t answer. Anna can only barely make out that he’s still breathing, and the movement is one that both comforts and scares her. She takes cautious steps into the room, reaching for the radio on her hip as she does.

“Eli—it’s me. I found him,” she says, finger gripping the transmit button on the radio so hard her whole hand shakes. “He’s alive. I’m getting him out. Send the Whitetails in to secure the lower floors. Anna out.”

If there’s a response, Anna doesn’t hear it. She finds herself standing in front of Staci without realizing she took the steps there, finds herself leaning down and grabbing his shoulder to shake him without consciously telling herself to do it.

“Hey,” she whispers, her grip on his shoulder tightening. Anna shakes him again, a little harder, in a desperate attempt to rouse him. “Staci, hey—“

Staci jolts so fast it makes her stumble backwards, heart suddenly thundering in her rib cage. His head flies up, his eyes wide and bloodshot, and Anna watches him gasp in a breath that it looks like he’s desperate for.

“Anna?” he croaks, eyes flitting back and forth between her in front of him and the room around them. “That really you?”

It takes a half-second longer for her to recover than she’d like. Anna scurries forward, slender fingers grasping at the restraints keeping him in place.

“Yeah, it’s me. It’s me. I’m getting you out of here.”

The bindings are tight, but she manages. First she frees his wrists, angry red marks dug into them with how tightly the straps had been pulled. His ankles come next, and Staci kicks his feet out a little before, with Anna’s help, he tries to stand. It’s not surprising that he’s weak, stumbling as he brings himself to full height. How long have they had him tied up there? How long has he been forced to sit?

She’s about to reach for her radio again, ready to tell Eli she’s on her way back to the Wolf’s Den, when the vague feeling of uneasiness from before returns with a vengeance. Anna looks around the room, frown pinching her face.

Something is wrong. The hotel feels too quiet, too safe. Why can’t she hear the Whitetails filtering in to secure the building?

And then it happens.

It feels like a slow-motion shot in an action movie. Staci opens his mouth to say something to her just as the only intact window in the room explodes, showering them with shards of broken glass. Half a second later, he crumples to the floor.

Anna’s breath leaves her lungs in a short, sharp burst. She knows better than to scream if they’re under attack, knows better than to draw all the attention to their position. Still, watching him go down like that, she has to say something.

“Staci?” Anna says, her voice unsteady as she stares down at his limp form. “Staci!”

He doesn’t respond. A pool of red forms under his skull and spreads out in a circle, inching towards her faster and faster like spilled paint on a dirty canvas.

Anna whirls around, eyes snapping in every direction as she reaches for her weapon. There’s no one in the room with them, no one in the hall, and no one down on the balcony below the window when she cranes her neck out to check. Off in the distance, she can swear she sees a glint of metal — a hunter? A Peggie with a sniper rifle? By the time she blinks, though, it’s gone, and Anna ducks her head back into the room, turns herself back towards where Staci lays. She takes a half-step forward, drawn to him as if he isn’t well beyond saving.

Then pain blossoms in her shoulder so suddenly she thinks she might be sick.

Anna stumbles back, her hand flying up to grasp at the place where sharp bursts of agony are starting to spider down into her chest, her arm, the very tips of her fingers. Liquid warmth spreads over her skin, and when she looks down, Anna finds her hand coated in her own blood. It seeps out of a ragged hole in her shoulder, and it finally registers with her that she’s been shot. Someone, somewhere in the mountains, has fired two precise shots off into Room 306 of the Grandview Hotel: one to hit Pratt, and the other meant for her.

The shock of the wound hits her all at once, sapping the strength from her muscles and forcing her to sink to her knees in the middle of the room. Anna just barely manages to brace herself as she hits the floor, her good shoulder sliding along the hardwood as she collapses onto her side.

Her thoughts are scattered, but the few cohesive ones left desperately trying to connect in a way that doesn’t quite add up. Who shot them? Why? It feels too convenient to be a well-timed accident, too ridiculous to be a case of mistaken identity.

Muffled footsteps in the hallway shatter her focus just as she’s about to consider the very obvious possibility that this is Jacob’s handiwork. Anna stills her ragged breathing as best she can and tries to listen as whoever is in the hall grows closer.

It’s hard to make out specifics with the doorway to her back. Forcing past the steady ache in her shoulder, Anna trains her ears and tries to catch the disjointed pieces of conversation.

“They’re both down,” she hears. It’s a man’s voice, a familiar one, and with her back to the doorway she struggles to remember his name. Briggs? “Pratt‘s dead. Deputy Reid...”

Briggs trails off suddenly. There’s a hissing, scratching noise — the sound of a radio transmission? — but Anna isn’t able to make out the response.

Help me!, she wants to scream. Help us! Her mouth opens to get Briggs’ attention, but nothing comes out. It’s as if the pain has stolen away her voice — her last chance at salvation.

“Right. We’re headin’ back,” Briggs says into his radio. There’s a pause, and Anna desperately tries to work out how to get his attention. “Tell Eli it’s done.”

The floorboards creak again. Footsteps sounds against the hardwood outside the room and fade away slowly, until all Anna can hear are the far away sounds of someone taking the stairs down to the second floor. There’s a distant shout; she can’t make out the words, not with the ringing in her ears, but it sounds like someone gearing up to leave the hotel.

Tell Eli it’s done.

Understanding hits her hard, like she’s been broadsided by an armoured truck. This hadn’t been Jacob and his lackeys at all. This wasn’t a well-planned take down by Eden’s Gate, wasn’t a terrible misunderstanding. Eli and the Whitetails had planned this.

She’s been betrayed.

Thoughts ping around Anna’s head. An in-and-out mission. Rescue Pratt. Escape unnoticed. A simple extraction job. How many times has she done something exactly like this? How many times has she liberated a captive Whitetail whose name and face she didn’t recognize?

How many chances have they had before this moment to take her out? Why wait this long?

The answer to her own question isn’t far out of reach. In fact, he’s sprawled out on the floor across from her.

Staci.

Better to kill two birds with one stone. Why waste time on a second covert mission when they could take down two of Jacob Seed’s most dangerous, involuntary weapons at once? It only makes tactical sense, she thinks. They were being proactive. Smart.

Vile. Heartless.

She doesn’t mean to look at Staci. She doesn’t mean for her gaze to linger on his cold, expressionless face, but it does, and she finds she can’t tear herself away. Anna more dead people than she has ever dreamed of, has watched the light leave so many pairs of eyes that she can no longer keep an accurate count. It’s the nature of the situation in Hope County — or at least, that’s what she tells herself to get by.

But this man was her friend. He was her friend, and he was kind, and now he’s dead; and it’s her fault. It’s the only thing Anna can think as she lays there, memorizing every line and every freckle of Staci’s face. She trusted Eli, trusted Tammy and Wheaty and all the other Whitetails.

She played servant when it was convenient for them, and Staci is dead because of it.

For a moment — a burning, bitter moment — she’s young again. There’s no electricity in the hotel, but that doesn’t stop the coloured glare of neon lights from registering in Anna’s mind.

She’s at the Grandview, she knows she’s at the Grandview. Every muscle in her body screams it to her as she tries to claw herself closer to Staci on the dirty floor. You’re here, she tells herself. You’re here, this is happening now, this isn’t then.

Her name is Anna Reid. She’s thirty years old. She’s been shot in the shoulder, and she’s bleeding out on the floor of the Grandview Hotel in Hope County, Montana.

Memories swirl in her head like funnel clouds. This is the Grandview Hotel, and she is dying here, but it doesn’t stop the images of the rundown gas station and its flashing neon sign from filling her mind.

Her name is Anna Reid. She’s nineteen years old. Her best friend has been shot, and she’s bleeding out on the concrete outside of a Shell station.

Anna squeezes her eyes shut against the onslaught of things she has tried so hard to forget. The images feel like they’re burned on the back of her eyelids, like she can’t escape them no matter how hard she tries to flee.

“No,” she gasps out, eyes flying open again. She’s met with Staci’s face, with the clean, dark circle on the centre of his forehead. “No, Claire—Staci, Staci, not Claire—”

A choked sob tears its way out of her chest. Her wounded shoulder has turned her arm to dead weight, and she can’t pull herself across the floor any further with just one hand; even the few inches she’s managed have turned her fingernails bloody and broken.

“I’m sorry,” Anna whispers, tears staining her cheeks. “Oh, fuck, I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t know who she’s apologizing to. Claire? Staci? Herself? All she knows is that the words come without her help, unbidden and spilling out of her like the blood spills from her shoulder.

My name is Anna Reid, she tells herself. I’m thirty. This is the Grandview Hotel in Hope County. I’m sorry.

It becomes a mantra, four sentences that she repeats over and over keep herself present. Anna forces herself to keep her eyes open, even if it means watching Staci’s body grow colder and colder — if she doesn’t, she thinks she might lose herself to the nightmare festering in her head.

Anna Reid. Thirty years old. Grandview Hotel. Anna. Thirty. Grandview.

Hours pass like that — or maybe it’s minutes, maybe seconds. Anna doesn’t know. All she knows is that the edges of her vision are starting to darken, that the blood pooling on the hardwood and soaking into discarded rags is no longer just Staci’s, but hers too.

Her shoulder feels dead. Heavy, too, as if the simple burden of having it attached to her might be what finally pulls her under, and part of her begs it to. She’s bone tired — the kind where every tiny movement feels like it’s being torn out of her, the kind where blinking is a burden and her battered body screams at her to rest. She’s tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of being hunted. She just wants this to be over and done with.

And then she hears the noise.

Creak.

For a moment, she thinks she’s imagined it. After all, she hadn’t raised hell getting inside the hotel — in fact, the plan had gone off without a hitch, quickly and quietly. The only ones who should know that she’s bleeding out on the cold floor of a dirty room are the people that put her there: the Whitetails.

Creak.

The noise comes a second time, louder, and this time Anna knows she hasn’t dreamed it up. Someone is outside of the room. One of Eli’s strays, come to finish her off? A friend-turned-foe with a pistol gripped tight and mercy on their mind?

Worse still, one of Jacob’s Chosen?

Whoever they are, they’re watching her. Anna can feel the stare on her back, burning the proverbial hole through her bloodstained clothes. The door is open, she knows, because she’s the one that left it that way.

The silence is deafening as Anna waits for them to make their move. She should be scared, she thinks. She should be paralyzed with the fear of imprisonment, of death, of whatever else might happen to her when the terror waiting in the doorway finally finds her.

Instead, she just feels numb. Nothing.

Agonizingly slowly, the steps grow closer, louder, until Anna can see the outline of a single steel-toe boot in the corner of her failing vision. They’re familiar, somehow, as if she’s seen those same boots before.

Where? Who?

The wearer takes another slow, measured step, until suddenly they’re consuming the whole frame of her vision. Until Staci’s body is nothing but an obscure, blurry background that her tired brain desperately tries to block out.

Anna can’t help it. Her focus drifts to the combat boots, to the old, cracked leather that’s stained dark with mud and darker still with something worse.

Some desperate part of her thinks she should move, thinks she should try to wrangle speech from the bottom of her dry throat. She doesn’t.

He speaks, and she and all she can do is listen.

“Wolves finally getcha, Dep?”

The boots were a clue, but there’s no mistaking the voice. It’s the strangest mix of rough and soft, an instant contradiction that matches the rest of him. And hasn’t he always been that way? Twisting her mind into something brutal and sharp with a song while he whispers praises into what feels like her soul? Withholding food with one hand while the other touches her with surprising gentleness?

If Jacob himself has come for her, then she’s finally facing the end.

The numbness is still there, choking the fear she knows she should feel as he nudges her in the ribs with the toe of his boot to see if she’s still alive. Anna barely reacts. She’s dizzy and heavy with blood loss, and even if she wanted to — well, she isn’t quite sure she could make her body do anything more than it is in this moment.

Jacob moves her around on the filthy floor like it’s easy. A push on the shoulder to get her onto her back, a steel-toe nudge to her good arm to get better access to her wounded upper half. It’s as if she’s a marionette being manipulated by its puppeteer, she thinks hazily.

No, not a marionette — the movement’s not quite that gentle. It’s as if she’s a rag doll in the hands of an over-eager child.

Suddenly, without warning, a bolt of white-hot pain streaks down her wounded arm, shoulder to fingertips. Anna has been hurt before — constantly, even, since she came to Hope County — but none of it compares to the burning, stabbing sensation she feels when Jacob crouches at her side, peeling the strap of her bloody tank top away and pressing his fingers against her bullet wound. She barely suppresses a shattered scream. The noise comes out as a high-pitched, broken whine instead, and for a minute, she’s almost positive she sees a flash of something sympathetic cross his face.

Anna thinks she should be furious with him. She thinks she should kick and scream and fight with all the strength she has left, should give him hell for making her suffering even worse.

Instead, she’s grateful.

Something about the pain splinters the blanket of numbness she’s felt since the moment the sniper’s bullets made impact. For the first time since she hit the ground, she feels.

“What’d I tell you, huh?” Jacob mutters, leaning back on the balls of his feet. Anna watches him wipe her blood on the ragged knee of his jeans. “Eli and his people. Cowards.”

Another pain stabs its way through her, but this time it doesn’t come from her injured shoulder. This time she feels it deep in her chest, a pang of betrayal that makes her hurt in an entirely new and unexpected way.

Cowards. A few months ago, she would’ve scoffed at that. A few months ago, she had scoffed at that. Now, she’s not so sure Jacob’s wrong.

There’s a shifting noise, the sound of crunching joints and slipping fabric, and the next thing Anna knows Jacob’s face is filling the frame of her vision. She strains her eyes, forcing herself to focus on him.

He watches her curiously. The steely blue gaze she’s used to is the somehow both the same as always and entirely different. It’s strange, Anna thinks — there’s a softness in the depths of his eyes. A fondness, even. This man, capable of such dangerous and depraved things, has looked at her and begin melting.

She doesn’t quite know what to do with that.

The blood loss makes it harder and harder to focus. Before she knows it, she’s following the lines of his face, tracing the roughness of scar tissue before her vision swims again.

Jacob is an enigma. He’s a cipher, a secret code she hasn’t been able to break. One moment, he’s twisting her consciousness and using it against her to make her a weapon, and the next? Well, the next moment, the cracks start to show themselves like ice before it crumbles.

Pain launches her out of her thoughts. Her tired body is being jostled, being scooped up like she weighs almost nothing, and it takes a few seconds for Anna to realize Jacob is carrying her. He’s warm, tempting to lean into, and so she does — her head sinks to the side, right against his chest.

“They’re not your friends, sweetheart,” Jacob rumbles, the sound coming more from inside him than it does from his mouth. “Makin’ you play servant girl? Leavin’ you to bleed out once you serve your purpose? Don’t sound like friends to me.”

She doesn’t have the strength to argue with him. All Anna can do is blink, eyes thick and heavy and desperate to shut so she can rest. Between flashes of her eyelids, she sees stairs, sees the tacky decoration in the hotel’s front lobby, sees the shape of Jacob’s truck in the distance.

“I’ll fix you up, honey. Get you back on your feet. Show you who your real friends are,” he muses, more to himself than to anyone else.

Her vision swims again, and this time she doesn’t have the strength to fight it. Anna feels herself go limp, sinking further into his arms, and welcomes the dark curl of unconsciousness into her mind.

“Thank you.”

The words are all she manages before she teeters off the edge into a heavy, consuming sleep.

#anna reid #far cry 5 #fc5 #fc5 fic #jacob seed #staci pratt #friends ocs #my writing

46 notes · View notes

forasecondtherewedwon · 4 years

Note

Peter and MJ, coworkers who barely know each other's names, but could draw each other's faces from memory, get stuck in the elevator together at the end of a work day

Thanks for the prompt, Anon! I started writing the fic for this so fast haha

Overheard at the Bugle

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: M Word count: 5394

Summary:

Peter's having a late night at the office and finds out he's not the only one working overtime right before he and the new reporter, Michelle Jones, get trapped in the Bugle's unreliable elevator. He just needs to handle this situation calmly and not do anything to give away his secret identity. It'd be easier to focus on the task at hand if his enhanced hearing wasn't picking up something very unusual coming from the voice recorder in Michelle's bag.

Peter tries to keep a low profile at the Bugle―he doesn’t need anyone giving a second thought to the guy who turns in crisp closeups of Spider-Man week after week―but he didn’t realize he’s invisible. He’s gotta be for the custodial staff to start shutting the lights off on his floor as he’s still sifting blearily through the emails that arrive every five minutes; they’re all stamped with Sent from J. Jonah Jameson’s iPhone. Almost in the dark, Peter snaps his laptop shut, shoves it into his messenger bag, and sprints for the elevators. He’s not scared of the dark (what kinda hero would that make him?), but after lights-out comes locking the doors and he’s not keen on spending the night here. Though his apartment might not be much, it’s his escape from work.

He skids around the corner to find the glow of an elevator that’s just closing.

“Hold it!” Peter shouts, shooting his hand out to part the doors as a frantic tapping comes from inside.

“I was pushing the button…” a woman explains as he steps in.

She turns her head and a spill of wavy brown hair is pushed aside to reveal the face of Michelle Jones. Peter swallows. His gaze goes from her startled brown eyes to her finger, now slipping off the Doors Open button.

“Yeah,” he says, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder, “this thing can be temperamental sometimes.”

“Right. Ground floor, I assume?”

“Yep.”

He moves off to a respectful distance as she presses the button to take them down and the doors close. His heart’s hammering. Though he’s heard the confident tone of her voice plenty, she’s never specifically spoken to him. Nor he to her. Luckily, the walls of the elevator have an intentional burnish with the scuff of wear on top, so there’s no chance of her catching sight of his stare in their reflections. Peter doesn’t mean to, it’s just that she took her hair down. She mostly wears it twisted and pinned at the nape of her neck and probably just shook it out when she got into the elevator, heading home. He gets it. He has his tie jammed into his bag, collar unbuttoned, and sleeves cuffed up to his elbows. Nobody gives a shit about dress code after the boss is gone, especially if they’re working late with no guarantee of overtime pay. Quit looking at her, he thinks, and snaps his gaze down to the floor. He can still smell her shampoo, courtesy of the enhanced senses.

“Sorry about the lights,” Michelle offers, turning her head enough to address him, but not enough to meet his eye because he’s standing beside and slightly behind her. “I let one of the custodians know I was on my way out a few minutes ago. Thought I was the last one left.”

Peter frowns. That’s weird. Not what she says, but that, when she speaks, he thinks he hears an echo. My one-on-one exclusive with Spider-Man, it says, in the voice of the reporter currently sharing the elevator with him. He opens his mouth to ask Michelle if she hears it too and catches himself. That’s a habit he broke years ago, when he realized there are way more things other people can’t hear and it only risks freaking them out and exposing himself to reveal that his senses are more animal than human.

“Don’t worry about it,” he responds distractedly.

The first thing to know about Spider-Man is that he’s not a nine-to-five kinda guy. Without regular business hours, he joins me for this interview in my Brooklyn apartment on a Friday evening. The red suit is predictable; the rap he gives my living room window to announce his arrival smacks more of cheeky showmanship. This reporter has to wonder whether, for him, finally submitting to such an in-depth, sit-down conversation is a type of performance. Surely the man behind the mask knows his audience is rapt for any details on the life of a figure who, despite his status as a trusted friend to all, is so much a mystery to this city’s inhabitants.

Ok, what? Peter’s brain is spinning like a frisbee. He’s never given the kind of interview Michelle’s disembodied voice is describing, and definitely never given it to her. He’s never been to her apartment, doesn’t even know where she lives, and certainly isn’t eager to invite questions in some sort of exposé. Maybe what he’s hearing are just the notes she’s preparing for a future interview. Did Jameson assign this? He’s certainly nosy about Peter’s alter ego, but the tone of the piece is more curious than their boss’s usual style―scathing, obstinate, malicious. She sounds intrigued by Spider-Man, not like she’s luring him into a trap.

The elevator jolts. It grinds. It halts. Michelle makes a sound of distress and taps Doors Open. She looks at him over her shoulder, face worried but also… flushed? Maybe she gets anxiety attacks.

“It’s alright,” Peter tells her, one foot in Spider-Man’s De-escalation Mode. He raises his hands in hopefully a calming gesture and her eyes dart to them, gliding over his bare forearms. Crap, does he seem threatening? He lowers his hands.

“I know it’s alright,” she assures him. “I just… who wants to be stuck at work?”

Michelle gives him a slight smile to accompany her joke and he returns it.

“Got a story to work on?” Peter asks.

His motive is partly to understand the narration he heard (which is still going on, a murmur beneath their much louder voices), but also to focus her on something besides the fact that the elevator is not moving.

“Just filed one actually, so, you know, theoretically free for the weekend.” She makes a phonily excited face that emphasizes how very not-free they are.

The continued jokes are a good sign that she isn’t overly alarmed. He’s still stumped about the story though. As she pulls her cell phone from the large leather bag over her arm, Peter tunes into the background noise. With the elevator silent, that’s just the recording of Michelle’s voice.

‘…later than I thought you would be,’ I inform him. He makes his excuses and where I would normally be annoyed by a failure to be punctual, I find myself charmed by New York’s man in red. I wonder where his adventures have taken him tonight, if his actions have prevented violence, saved lives. If his mere presence has inspired onlookers and comforted those who have lost faith in our traditional systems of stagnant courts and killer cops…

There’s no way Jameson can be aware of the spin she’s putting on this. Spider-Man’s no hero in the eyes of the editor-in-chief, just a menace, a pest, a cockroach climbing up the pantleg of the people who are supposed to enforce justice. That’s not the only thing that’s confusing. Peter’s fairly hung up on the fact that she’s conducting this interview like he’s there. Could just be her process. Playing the whole thing out to get a feel for however long it might be, where small talk might hypothetically cut into her list of prepared questions.

“No service,” Michelle huffs, tucking her phone away again. “You?”

Peter, startled, gets his phone out to check, though he already knows this elevator is a dead zone. He shakes his head. Frustrated, she moves her hand to jab the Help button. The one meant to connect the rider with 911.

“Don’t bother,” he coaches when she pushes it a second time after nothing happens. “I think that thing’s just for show.”

“Oh yeah?”

She’s arch, irritated. Peter stays calm, knowing it’s not really meant for him. People can get testy in stressful situations. Being trapped in an elevator is one of those. Not for him. For him, a stressful situation is a bullet graze or leaping from one office tower to the next and realizing in midair that he’s out of webs. Trapped in an elevator is a relaxing start to his weekend in comparison.

“Jameson never lets anybody inspect it. He’s a control freak, scared of spies. He thinks somebody’s gonna bug the elevator,” he clarifies to Michelle’s raised eyebrows.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah, well, have you met him?”

She exhales a laugh at that.

…invite him to get comfortable, I’m surprised at him choosing a seat at the opposite end of the couch I’ve just sat down on. I’d intended the chair across from me and think that should be obvious to him. Perhaps it is. The mask doesn’t make him the easiest man to read.

“So we’re just fucking stuck because Jameson’s scared of, who? Reporters from other papers? The CIA? Edward Snowden?”

A tingle goes down Peter’s spine when she swears. She’s commanding. Does she know that or is working under Jameson putting her qualities in the shadow of his, wielded for domination and intimidation?

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” he says.

“This button’s never worked?” Michelle checks, leaning her knuckle into it to keep it depressed. “This is a major safety issue. Imagine there was a fire right now.”

“You should call somebody and report him.”

He can’t help being playfully sarcastic and thinks, for a second, that she’s going to bite his head off for it by the way her eyes flash. Then he thinks he might not mind. Then she laughs and he tries to take a normal breath.

“What do we do?” she wants to know.

What do they do? What do Peter and the woman he’s eyed across the office since she arrived at the Bugle two months ago do? Forced together by unhealthy work hours and a broken elevator? He shifts from one foot to the other.

“Hope the custodian decides to watch for you to leave the building and comes looking when you don’t.”

“I hate that plan,” Michelle informs him.

“Go ahead and come up with another one,” he invites earnestly.

She turns so she’s facing him and lets her back slump against the wall of the elevator. She shrugs to ease her bag off her shoulder. The strap tugs a little at her emerald-green blouse before it slides down her arm. She sets it on the ground by her feet. It looks like she’s doing what he suggested. Now it’s just Peter and her quiet voice, which he can tell is coming from the bag. Michelle must have a recorder in there. Probably thinks she shut it off, but the volume’s just really low.

‘…when you’re out there?’ I have to inquire of him. At his easy laugh, I shelter behind my coffee cup, taking a slow sip. ‘Lonely?’ Spider-Man repeats. ‘In a city this size?’ He’s being coy now. I’m certain he knows what I want and it’s the dare implicit in this exchange that prompts me to press him. ‘Not lonely for just anybody,’ I begin…

Crossing his arms, Peter rests against the back of the elevator, trying to be subtle as he tips his head to the side to hear more. He’s getting into this story now, even if it’s not real. For the first time, he’s starting to see how Spider-Man might be a pretty compelling guy. He likes this person she seems to think he is; he’s more interesting coming from her lips. Of course, not as interesting as she is, with her leading questions and the agenda she’s voicing for her recorder if not for the man she’s interviewing.

“Have you worked at the Bugle long?”

His gaze twitches over to Michelle’s face when she speaks.

“Since right outta college. Why?”

“Just wondered if this had happened to you before,” she explains, waving her hand at the elevator’s useless panel of buttons. “And I knew you were here before me.”

“You did?”

He shouldn’t sound so breathlessly hopeful. Obviously, she knew he was here first. Michelle could’ve noticed him one time in the past two months and seen him do anything to indicate that he’d been here longer―escape Jameson’s office just before he could get roared at, jiggle the plug to make the coffee machine in the breakroom work. But Peter does sound that way because of her tone. She says it like an admission and she breaks eye contact.

‘…you don’t want one?’ He declined my offer of coffee once, but I think he may change his mind now that we’ve warmed up to each other a little. Spider-Man twists and I can feel him regarding me from behind those large white eyes. ‘I’d have to take the mask off to drink it,’ he points out. I promise that I’m not trying to blow his cover, just be hospitable. Besides, I counter, he doesn’t need to expose his whole face. The mouth will do.

“So, has it?” she counters, ignoring his question.

“Has what?”

“Has it happened to you? The elevator shutting down?”

“Oh, uh, once or twice, but it was always in the middle of the day and there were a bunch of other people in the elevator with me, so it didn’t go unnoticed long. Jameson hassled me for missing meetings while I was trapped though.”

“It’s not like you could help it,” Michelle says.

“True, but…” Peter shrugs. “I learned to take the stairs.”

“Bet you’re wishing you took them tonight.”

He laughs.

“Not really. I mean, uhhh…” The sound drags out embarrassingly as he can’t manage to pull his gaze away from her surprised face.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says, saving him. “I think you’re keeping me saner than I would be alone.”

Right. That’s all. Which is enough, really. He’s glad to be of service, especially if that service is helping her not totally lose it.

“No problem.”

‘…because I can do more good if I’m an anonymous symbol,’ Spider-Man tells me. His body language has changed, shifting forward with the urgency of his words. ‘But some people must know,’ I say. ‘Your real identity can’t be a secret from everyone.’ ‘No Spider-Man is an island?’ is his clever rejoinder. I agree with absolute sincerity. ‘Even the strongest person needs to let others get close to them,’ I insist. Where he’s tugged his mask up, his mouth shifts from a wry grin to thoughtful softness. I find my gaze lingering there.

“Any ideas?” Peter asks, feeling hot.

The temperature inside the elevator is moderate, but Michelle’s words, as she draws him deeper into her story, are making him surreptitiously flap his collar to encourage air down his shirt. He’s starting to feel like this is something he’s not supposed to hear. Alright, it’s likely that nobody was supposed to hear it if these are just her rough notes before composing an article. Whatever. What Peter’s realizing is that maybe nobody’s supposed to hear this interview ever. The questions are too personal, too human-interest for the kind of paper they work at, and the way she depicts her responses is… intimate. Full of sensory details. It’s as though he’s in this apartment with her, sipping at her coffee, staring at her down the length of the couch. A Friday night, her voice said, and tonight’s one of those. How would Michelle Jones feel if she knew she was spending an evening with Spider-Man right now?

“I think the custodians would’ve made some noise by now if they knew anybody was in here and if they haven’t realized we’re missing, then I’m not sure anyone else will. I don’t know about you, but I live alone. I probably won’t be missed tonight because my friends will just assume I’m working and turned my phone off. I’ve been considering,” she goes on, “that we’ll either have to climb out the top and hope we’re close to the doors aligning with one of the floors or get these doors open. Either way, we need something to open the doors. Personally, I didn’t pack my crowbar.”

Peter stares at her in awe for a minute. She really did come up with a plan. Several plans. He knows he can help―he doesn’t need a crowbar to part the metal doors―but he can’t just wrench the doors open with his bare hands and act like it’s no big deal. He’ll need an explanation, which can’t be the truth. Revealing himself at the Bugle? To a Bugle reporter? Seems like the worst possible scenario. He doesn’t think Michelle is anything like Jameson in her motivations or basic moral compass (fine, he doesn’t know her, but that’s the sense he gets), and yet, she works for him. It’s her job to give him something fresh, something captivating, and he’s just not sure that her fascination with Spider-Man would be enough to make her want to spare Peter Parker the nightmare of his identity being splashed across Monday’s front page.

“Me neither.”

“This isn’t sustainable,” she mutters. He looks at her with concern. Louder, she adds, “If I get restless enough to climb through the ceiling, promise you won’t look up my skirt when I ask you to give me a boost.”

“Promise.”

Michelle assesses his face and he tries to appear his most transparent and trustworthy. Gradually, her eyes move away from his, but he’s still watching her and sees her stare at his throat, then his chest, and down. Whoa, Peter tells himself. Not a good idea. This woman might be a little hung up on Spider-Man, maybe even has a crush, but you and him are two different people.

Meanwhile, on the recording: …switch it off for him, holding the voice recorder up so he can clearly see that I’ve done it. ‘There,’ I say, ‘no one’s listening now. It’s just you and I.’ ‘So I’m supposed to feel closer to you without it?’ Spider-Man asks. ‘Don’t you?’ is what I want to know.

“Screw it,” Michelle decides a minute later, standing up straight. “I’m getting us out of here. Can you pick me up?”

Peter drops his messenger bag in an instant.

“Yep.”

He watches while she kicks off her black patent high heels (maybe picturing her pressing one of those bad boys into his chest), then they both tip their heads back and examine the ceiling panels.

“Front corner, maybe?” she suggests. “Just so I’m as close as possible to where the doors will hopefully be and I don’t have to wobble around up there in the elevator shaft.”

“Sure,” Peter agrees.

They cross to the appropriate corner and he bends his knees, locking his fingers to offer her a step. She grabs his shoulder for balance and lifts her foot, about to place it in his braced hands, then pauses.

“I’m Michelle, by the way.”

“Peter.”

“I know.”

He’s baffled and flushed as they shake hands, but he can’t dwell on it because her fingers are digging into his shoulder right before she presses her foot into his swiftly repositioned hands and hops up. She gives a small shriek as her body wavers before steadying herself with her palms against the ceiling. Peter drops his gaze. He can tell by her knees that she’s crouching slightly and he’s not glancing any higher than that. Her skirt falls to just below her knees and, as they lean into each other to keep her up, he ends up with her thigh pressed against the side of his face, the black fabric of that skirt under his cheek.

“You got me, right?”

“Right,” he says, careful not to ramble and divulge how little effort bearing her weight requires.

“Ok, I’m going to try to get a grip on this panel and slide it open.”

“Sounds good.”

Peter is looking straight across at the wall. He is not looking higher than her knees. He has no thoughts about the scent of her skirt and no theories on whether the lavender comes from her fabric softener or lotion that he’s also not imagining her rubbing into her skin before she got dressed for work this morning. She sways in his grip and he braces his arms more firmly, unable to do anything about her leg against his face. Michelle grunts and her body heaves as he hears her shift the ceiling panel. Her toes curl around his fingers. He exhales in relief; if she can figure this out without him needing to call on his super-strength, awesome. She goes home with a sense of accomplishment and he goes home maintaining his secret identity.

“Ok,” she calls down. “It’s open. Lift me higher.”

“Higher,” Peter mumbles to himself. Then, to her, “Uh, I might have to, um, hold your legs. But I won’t look at anything, I swear.”

“I’ve trusted you this far.”

Her voice is wry and he chuckles.

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Michelle says.

With a bounce of his shoulders, he hoists her up. For a minute, he keeps hold of her foot, but then one of his hands clutches the back of her calf while the other cups her heel. Her weight pulls away from him as she hauls herself up through the ceiling.

“Is there a door?” he asks.

“It’s dark… Can you get my phone? It’s right inside my bag.”

“Ok, hang on. Literally,” Peter adds.

“Ha ha,” Michelle responds dryly, but when he gently releases his grip on her, he finds that she’s able to hold herself in place with her elbows. Her legs dangle and he hurries.

Their conversation and the rush of the action they just took concentrated his senses. Unfortunately, he’s now holding her work bag open and the sounds from her voice recorder are pouring out louder than ever. Still too quiet for her though, at this distance.

‘…didn’t think a suit that tight could hide much, but I’m still pleasantly surprised.’ ‘What, this?’ Spider-Man teases. I abandon my coffee cup and push my reading glasses up into my hair as I set my notes aside to lean in. He might as well have a web stuck to my chest. His awareness of his own physicality is evidently as precise afterhours as it is while he’s on duty because he skims a hand down his abdomen, appearing to almost accidentally hook his thumb in the band of his boxers. ‘You want the real scoop?’ he asks me, prying the elastic away from his skin provocatively. The taste of coffee is still thick and rich in my mouth when I encourage him: ‘Go on, Spidey. Don’t stop there…’

Peter almost drops the bag.

“Did you find it?”

“Yeah! Yes. Mhmm, I’ve got it.”

He returns to Michelle and wraps one arm around her legs. With his other hand, he lifts the phone towards her. Her fingers clasp his, then locate the phone and take it from his grip. He holds still while she turns on her flashlight and has a look around. So, Michelle doesn’t have a little crush on Spider-Man. She’s hot for Spider-Man. Which means she’s hot for Peter, in a way. Except not, he reminds himself, because you’re just her silent co-worker. You’re never going to―

“FUCK!”

“What? No. What? What is it?”

“The next door’s way too high,” she says. “We must be almost lined up with one.” She taps him on the head with her phone and he slips it into his pocket for safekeeping as he prepares to help her down.

“We’ll find another way.” Will you? he asks himself.

“Quick question.”

“Uh huh?”

“How do I do this?”

He’s holding most of her weight now and, pressing a hand to flatten her skirt against her leg, chances a peek up at Michelle. Her head’s still through the ceiling, arms still braced over the open panel. What would definitely work would be her just letting go and him catching her in his arms, but maybe that’s too much faith for her to put in a random guy from work. Although he’s capable of lifting her, catching her falling body is a completely different thing. As with their escape in general, they don’t have a ton of options.

“Just let go slowly,” Peter coaches. “I’ll adjust how I’m holding you and you can sort of slide down my body.” The awkwardness in his tone garbles the last part.

“I can what?”

Dammit. She’s waiting to come down. He clears his throat.

“Uh, slide down my body?”

Her anxious laugh disappears into the elevator shaft.

“What the hell have you gotten yourself into?” he hears her hiss to herself. To him, “Yeah, ok. I’m coming down now.”

“I have you.”

Peter’s counting on the giddiness of being returned to the ground from a height to distract her from the too-skillful way he maneuvers his hands on her. Making sure her skirt never gets rucked up, not placing his hands anywhere truly unforgiveable. He holds her hips, not her ass, and turns his head so his face doesn’t wind up in her crotch. He’s really gentleman-ing his butt off when the recording in her bag calls out, ‘Harder, Spider-Man!’

His hands slip. A second ago, his head was level with her stomach and now his face is buried in her chest, the cup of her bra pressing back against his temple. Immediately, Peter tilts back from his shoulders.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry―”

“I’m ok, I’m good,” Michelle protests as they wriggle together to set her down. He forces her phone back into her hand.

“Your skirt was slippery…”

“I know. You did great, Peter, seriously.”

“…and I heard…”

He shuts his mouth fast, but her flustered expression dissipates as her probing gaze finds his eyes.

“What did you hear?”

Peter pushes at his sleeves and refuses to answer. Her powers of deduction don’t rely on him at all. She whirls to her bag, crouching and dropping her phone in to extract the voice recorder instead. Holding it to her ear in investigation, Michelle probably hears the words By the time he has me on all fours, I can tell that Spider-Man’s on board with my remark on the importance of letting someone be close to him at the same volume he does standing three feet away. He’s basically plastered himself to the opposite wall. She looks about as mortified as he figures he’d feel if he made a recording of a very personal fantasy and someone listened to it. Man, should he have just told her at the beginning? There didn’t seem to be a way to handle it well.

Michelle stops the playback and puts the recorder away. The elevator is abruptly quiet without the whisper of her voice. All the while, Peter’s staring at her, seeing what she’ll do. The most probable conclusion for her to come to is that he heard a single sound, a blip, and has no clue what the recording contained. The way she stands, leaving her bag on the floor, seems to confirm this. But she doesn’t look over at him.

With a sigh, he decides to do what Spider-Man would do and put the person in need first. What Michelle Jones needs from him is a way out of this embarrassment, and this elevator. Peter walks to the doors and stamps his hands to the metal. First, a little compression to get a good grip and then… Scrunching his face with the effort, he puts his back into it, forcing the doors apart. Next, he does the same thing to the outer doors, separating them to reveal a darkened hallway. The floor’s about three feet higher than where he’s standing inside the elevator, but that’s nothing for someone to scramble through and head for the stairs.

He steps away to let her go first. She doesn’t move.

“Should we talk about that?” Michelle asks, pointing at the doors, after what has to be a full minute of her studying him.

“I… work out? A lot. I work out a lot,” Peter says with more conviction on every try.

“And about this?” She grabs her recorder and waves it at him.

“You… use that to, uh, keep track of your ideas.”

She steps up to him and, without dropping her gaze from his face, reaches out to touch his wrist. Her fingers move from tracing his skin to ringing his web-shooter. He wears them to work pretty often, but always covers them with the cuffs of his shirt. Which he rolled up. Because he thought he was alone. There’s no reason for her to know what they’re for though, right? They could be medical alert bracelets, or just jewellery. It’s not like they’re branded with ‘Spider-Man’s Web-Shooter, 1 of 2.’

“You wanna talk about these?”

Peter opts out of replying.

“I know what they are,” she says. “What they’re for. I’ve researched you, looked at a lot of video footage and photographs, many of which I think you took, which seems equal parts fucked-up and brilliant. I noticed them right after we got stuck.”

“I have… a severe peanut butter allergy,” he says unconvincingly.

“Bummer,” Michelle shoots back, unsympathetic. Yeah, it was a terrible lie, but he’s gotta at least be able to say he tried to deny her accusations.

“It is, it is a bummer,” Peter agrees, nodding. He licks his dry lips to wet them. “Sometimes, I have such a craving for a PB and J and I can’t―”

She leans in and gives him a quick kiss.

“I’m… confused,” he admits.

“I know who you are,” she begins. “You don’t have to say it out loud, on the off chance somebody really has bugged this piece of shit elevator, but your severe peanut butter allergy bracelets, in combination with how you opened those doors, are pretty good evidence when compared with my research. So, if I take my supposition as fact―”

“Peanut butter…”

“Save it. If you are who I strongly believe you to be, then you were able to hear god knows what on that recording. Which I am an idiot for forgetting to erase or record over. Meant to do it last night… ugh, anyway. The important thing is that you heard it and you didn’t bolt through those doors the second you got them open. Why.”

When Michelle’s on a roll, he learns, her questions come out as demands. He quits trying to sneakily unfold his cuffs in a way-too-last-ditch attempt at concealing the truth.

“Ladies first?” he tries.

“I’m not going to use what I know. I promise you that. You’re a good person and as far as I’m concerned, your secret’s your secret. You do a hell of a lot more for this city than Jameson does with the trash he prints, my own contributions obviously excluded. Now I’m the only one held over a barrel here, Peter. You heard what you heard. Tell me why you stayed.”

“You needed me.”

“After you got the doors open.”

Peter thinks. Not just about whether or not to speak, but if he’s ready to say what he’s about to say.

“I needed you. It’s like what you said in the story―I mean, the recording. I don’t let many people get close to me.”

“Why would you let me be one of those people? It took being stuck together before we even had our first conversation.”

“A good feeling, I guess,” he explains. “Plus, you’re kinda my dream girl and I just found out that, at least on the physical side of things, you’re really into me. Like, really into me.”

“You can shut up about that now,” Michelle says.

“Why? You didn’t. You had so much to say.”

“Hmm, maybe I like Spi- I mean, that guy better when I’m speaking for him. Fortunately for you,” she says smugly, “I’ve thought Peter Parker the photographer was cute since the day I started working here.”

“That is news to me.”

Michelle wraps her arms around his neck, smirking as she leans her body against his.

“I was getting around to telling you. Are you surprised?”

“It’s a real scoop,” Peter acknowledges as his hands feel out the lithe shape of her back through her blouse.

“Oh my god, you heard that part? That part? How could―”

He more or less molds his mouth to hers. She more or less gives him a tour of her Brooklyn apartment before they spend the night in bed together and rise to a hot cup of coffee.

more clichéd tropes and prompts

#my writing #spideychelle #spideychelle fic #spideychelle fanfiction #peter parker #peter x mj #peter x michelle #peter parker x michelle jones #michelle jones

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sunshinesholland · 4 years

Text

the one (and all the others) | t.h.

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Word count: 3.16k

Summary: Everyone in your life knows how much of a hopeless romantic you are. You’re constantly diving into things headfirst, and expecting a fairy tale ending. You tend to laugh off any remarks your friends make, take them in stride, as it’s kind of commonplace in your friend group to joke about your romantic escapades. But this time it feels different.

Warnings: swearing, angst/pining, mention of shitty past relationships, allusion to PTSD

A/N: Again, it’s kind of based on some personal stuff. Getting back into writing is easiest when its based on self experience for me. I have the rest of this mostly written out, so let me know if you like it!

part one || part two || part three

New York winter has brought with it snow, accompanied by a brisk wind that harasses anyone caught outside. Lucky for you, you’re inside and warm in the shelter of your favorite cafè with a good friend and hot coffee.

“He said he couldn’t stop thinking about me since first semester,” you gush, “he said whenever he sees the film I did my midterm on in class, he thinks about me.”

You’re practically swooning, your vanilla latte in one hand, and an earl grey tea in the other. Zendaya, reaches for the cinnamon among the array of wooden sticks and sweeteners as you continue your story.

“Yeah, I’m sure the guy has watched Love Jones so much the past four months,” she comments, smile on her face as she takes a taste-sip of her coffee. Satisfied, she begins walking with you to the usual table. It’s tucked in the corner with a view of both the wooden-framed windows and the small stage where a guitarist plays softly.

You continue speaking as though you didn’t hear her smart remark, “I mean he’s got an accent, and he’s really cute too, Z. I didn't even present the analysis that well, you know I had work and that huge paper for music theory class due,” you babble, and she just sips her coffee and listens.

The bell atop the cafe door chimes and the cold breeze from outside manages to reach you in the corner. Your eyes flicker up to Tom as he begins walking over, shaking the snow out of his hair, his curls slightly damp and his cheeks pink.

“What were you guys talking about?” He asks, shrugging off his jacket and sliding into the seat beside you.

He smiles at you as he grabs the tea you’ve ordered for him, a silent thank you despite the fact that you do it for him every time you arrive before him.

“I was just telling Daya about the guy from our film history class last semester,” you grin, “you remember him?”

How could he forget? You gushed over him then too, and the bastard was bold enough to make advances towards you during class discussions. Not to mention the times when he would stop the two of you on your way out of class to flirt, while Tom would have to wait for you and watch it all unfold.

You and Tom have known each other since day one of university, when you complimented him on the Spider-Man pin on his backpack. It was the pin his baby brother Paddy had given to him before Tom left to attend university in the states, and your complimenting of it instantly made him warm towards you. He’s been friends with you since he held the elevator for you, the same day you both realized you’re neighbors at the same apartment complex. He’s been your best friend since the day you stayed up all night with him after having only known him a month. He was stupid enough to put off writing an important paper for his literature class until last minute and you still stayed up with him all the same. You brewed coffee and kept him company, making him laugh all night long all while encouraging and motivating him.

And he didn’t realize at the time but he’s been in love with you since he called you at 11 PM, heartbroken, and despite the fact that you went to sleep hours ago and had work early the next morning, you didn’t let him wait past the second ring before answering. You were up and knocking at his door moments later, still in sleep shorts and a t-shirt, half awake. You met his bloodshot eyes and hugged him tightly, there to be whatever he needed at that moment. You let him ramble and cry into your shoulder while you stroked his hair. You watched over him while he drank to numb the pain, and you were there to rub his back the next morning for the aftermath. He knows he isn’t exactly special, you’d do this for anyone you care for and somehow it makes him love you more.

When he did realize his feelings, he didn’t make a move, as you were in a toxic on-again, off-again relationship, and you didn’t need anything else on top of what you were going through. The love from the way you valued him as your closest friend was enough for him. It’s possible he would have outgrown the crush, but after one night, everything changed. And the worst of it all is that the two of you don’t talk about it, or even acknowledge that it happened. But that’s how it always goes right? It’s good until it’s not.

Tom is pulled out of his thoughts and reminiscing when Zendaya asks, “When’s the date with prince charming then?”

“It’s this weekend,” you mumble, looking past her to avoid her eyes.

“This weekend? Y/N, you said you’d come to Laura’s party with us,” her tone is criticizing because she’s fine listening to your interactions turned romantic narratives, but abandoning plans you’ve already made with your friends is where she draws the line.

You avoid her eyes, looking down at your cup and then out the window at passersby on the street. You don’t want to be a bad friend, really, but it’s one night and you’ve been looking forward to the date since he asked you last week. And you really don’t like parties anyways. You don’t make a habit out of canceling plans, you truly try to be as reliable as possible, there whenever your friends need you. Your only fault is that finding love is almost as high on your list of priorities as your friends.

“I know but I’ll come to the next one. She’s always throwing parties and what difference does it make to miss one? I don’t even like parties either, I wouldn’t really be fun to have around anyways,” you try to reason your way out of the guilt.

“Yeah. Sure. Let's just talk about something else, okay?” She huffs, not wanting to argue and knowing you won’t cancel on prince charming.

“Okay… Tom when are you going to ask out Perrie from downstairs? I think the whole complex is getting second-hand embarrassment from the poor girl’s obvious and multiple advances,” you grin, because anything to do with romance is welcomed by you. It doesn’t just have to be your love life.

He already feels sick because while Perrie is a lovely girl, she’s not you and no one else is either. Answering the question why he won’t ask out the pretty, single, and clearly interested girl is something he barely admits to himself. But lucky for him Zendaya is who she is in that she always seems to know what to do. Though she’s never had it officially confirmed, she knows on some level about you two. She’s your roommate and the three of you are all close and in the same friend group, and honestly, how could anyone miss the way you look at each other? More often than not, she gets back from work and finds you two asleep on the couch, scrunched up together under one blanket. If she comes home, and you’re not in your room all she has to do is walk across the hall and you’ll likely be at Tom’s. But again, Zendaya is who she is, and so she allows you two to define what you have the way you want. But she sees the color drained from Tom’s face, and for his sake, she changes the subject.

“Or... we could talk about the fact that I got offered my first modeling job!” she exclaims, effectively taking the heat off of Tom.

Your supportive friend nature kicks into overdrive, Perrie from downstairs long forgotten, as you gush over how much your friend and roommate deserves this and so much more. Tom gives Zendaya a half-hearted smile, which she returns before chatting with you about the details.

—

“I really do think he could be the one,” you smile back in the mirror, while Tom searches through your display of Spider-Man comics.

You’ve been best friends for so long and you live across the hall so it’s only natural that Tom comes to keep you company when you get ready for your dates. No matter how often he's there, or what feelings he has, he wouldn’t ever turn down an opportunity to spend time with you.

He grabs your favorite issue, the front page worn as a result of how often you read it. You could cover them in slips and store them on a dusty shelf, preserving their value. But you’re a firm believer of loving what you have, not shielding it away to protect it, and maybe that applies to more than just comics. He drops onto your bed unceremoniously, looking up to meet your eyes in the mirror. You finish curling the last section of hair that frames your face, unplugging the iron afterwards.

“I don’t think you can really call him the one, if he’s the tenth you’ve called that so far this year,” he replies light and jokingly, despite the insensitive words he’s spoken. He’s the only one who’s never poked fun at your dating habits, but maybe it’s just the mention of the prince charming from film history.

Although he may be joking, he’s right. You glance down at your vanity, a mess of makeup and hair products showing just how much effort you’ve put in the last forty-five minutes. No matter how many first dates you go on you’re always saying things like this. Most everyone in your life makes remarks like this and usually you would let it slide and laugh or brush it off. But it’s Tom, who knows better than anyone the heartache you’ve experienced and how even though you refuse to admit it, it’s a coping mechanism. You’d like to think your past doesn’t define you and so you tell yourself you’re in love and hopeful, but the trust issues and self sabotaging comes shortly after. Tom should know that, having seen the relationship that was responsible for the cycle and the beginning, quick middle and eventual end of every relationship since.

So you’re immediately defensive at the fact that your best friend would make some comment like this. He lifts his head up at you, as you spin around to face him.

“And why can’t I?” You ask and Tom opens his mouth to reply but you’re continuing and challenge him further, “What’s so wrong with being a hopeless romantic, with feeling things deeply?” You question, not waiting for a response as you continue.

“There’s not one person in my life who hasn’t said shit like this to me! Out of all people I thought you would understand,” you raise your voice, hurt evident in your tone.

“You know how hard it was for me. I’m just doing my best to hold myself together, and I’m an adult, if this is how I decide to cope, I’m allowed to!” You’re shouting now, standing and pacing around your room in frustration.

“I’m just hoping there’s someone out there who is willing to love me kindly and fully, and I think I’m perfectly justified holding out for that,” your voice softens, your back is facing him, posture slumped as you huff, overwhelmed with emotion.

Your frustration is tangible in the air and Tom blinks, placing down the comic book before scooting to the edge of the bed towards you. You tend to laugh off remarks, take them in stride, and it’s kind of commonplace in your friend group to joke about your romantic escapades.

He feels unbelievably guilty, he never would’ve said something if he was aware you felt even one one-thousandth as upset as you’d just displayed. He had been there for the awful relationship that had you sick with heartache. He’d been the one Zendaya would come to when you’d refuse to leave your room for anything but classes, if even that. He just feels idiotic for not connecting the dots, he just thought you were strong for having such an open heart after everything. You’re always compassionate and supportive others and you’ve definitely helped him through his fair share of heartbreak, and wow he feels like a dick. Whether it’s orchestrated by heartache or not, he admires that you’re willing to keep trying despite everything. He only wishes he was brave enough to bare his like you always have.

“Hey,” Tom speaks softly, reaching for your hand and slowly turning you around to face him, “I’m sorry, Y/N, I never realized this is how you felt,” He mutters, tone gentle, coaxing you to turn to him.

Tears have managed to well up in your eyes and if he didn’t feel like a huge jerk before, he absolutely does now. But it’s really not about him, it’s about his best friend who he’s unintentionally made feel invalid in her feelings. You’ve never once asked him to justify how he’s feeling, or poked fun at him for his emotions. Well, except... maybe when he broke his pinky finger in a fit of anger, after having punched the face wall when his team lost the European championship (though you did apologize for it and you grabbed him ice right after).

“It’s, erm, it’s fine, it’s stupid anyways,” you mumble back, voice unsteady as you try to blot your tears away with your sleeve in an attempt to prevent your makeup smearing. You’re just overwhelmed and it all bubbled over. Tom has never said anything like that before and it was dramatic to blow up at him like that, you think.

“It’s not, N/N, and you know that. You’re crying and I know you hate crying and so I can tell you’re upset. Even if you don’t want to admit it, I’m still sorry,” He apologizes, rising to stand with your hand still in his. He pulls you into a hug, resting his cheek atop your head.

“Thanks,” you murmur into his shoulder. It’s not completely his fault, because you really hadn’t voiced any sort of animosity for the jokes made about it. You never really talk about how hurt you are by the past either, not anymore than in passing at least.

You just stand there for a minute, his hand stroking your hair absentmindedly, and he’s messing up your curls but it’s comforting because it’s Tom. Thinking to ask him to stop isn’t even on your mind.

He’s thought about it before, but now more than ever he just selfishly wishes he was there before your ex, to see you unguarded and truly hopeful. Not as a coping mechanism, not as an extreme reaction to hurt, but to love because it’s all you know. Because maybe then things would have played out differently for the two of you.

He’s lost in his thoughts, stroking your hair and his other hand rubbing your back, your ‘getting ready’ playlist ends. Somehow the algorithm has decided to play One by Ed Sheeran, soft, melodic and completely dissimilar from the upbeat tracks playing a moment ago. But Tom couldn’t be more grateful, because if he closes his eyes he can almost pretend you’re at the before, and he had the guts to ask you out on the first day of class. If that was true, when you’re in your room with him now. You’d be aware of how he feels about you, and you’d feel loved in that kind and gentle way you’ve been hoping for, because you’ve never known anything else.

The soft ballad ends and when you glance up at him, the façade he’s formed fades away before his heart has the chance to beg it to stay.

“I don’t really want to go on this date anymore, I probably look a mess and I’m just...not in the mood for not finding ‘the one’ tonight. I’ve got you, and that’s enough for now,” you confess, smiling up at him.

You say that, because as cheesy as it sounds, friends are a kind of soulmate too, and you’ve already found them. You can always look for ‘the one’ some other time. This revelation would feel sweet to any other friend, but to Tom, it hurts just a bit that to you he’s just a placeholder.

He manages to crack a half smile at your heartfelt statement, because no matter how he feels, he’s lucky to have you. Even if only as a friend.

“So how about we order a pizza and watch New Girl for the fiftieth time?” You question, oblivious and smiling up at him before pulling away from the hug and wiping at your wet eyes.

Any other time he would stay in with you, happy to watch you laugh to the point where he’s grinning at just your reactions. But he’s gotta be a good friend too, because well, he’s in the same boat as you. Except he’s found the one, and he doesn’t want to leave. Yet he knows the right thing to do is to go to the party he promised Zendaya and Jacob (and previously you) that he would attend. Though he still isn’t happy to admit it to you.

“I was going to go to Laura’s party tonight…” Tom grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck, because he knows you don’t like parties and you’re likely emotionally exhausted on top of that. He’s only going because he’s made a promise, and really— trust him— there’s nothing he’d rather do than spend time with his favorite person.

“Could I maybe go with you?” You ask, because being with friends, even if you don’t like parties is better than sulking at home alone.

Tom cracks a smile, and it’s easy to fall back into friend-mode with you. Because that’s what comes when it comes to you, before anything else.

“Well, I mean if you clean up I suppose I can just take you with me,�� he teases you, “because I cannot show up with you like that.” He jokes and laughs as you shove him.

This kind of banter is normal and makes your heart feel just a little less heavy in your chest, because Tom always manages to make you feel better.

“Okay, just let me text him and let him know I won’t make it, and then I’ll try and look better for you,” you reply, laughing all while rolling your eyes.

You’ve got your phone in one hand texting, while your other wipes away at the makeup on your face. You’ve got a focused look on your face, squinting a bit because you don’t have the best eyesight and refuse to wear your glasses on first dates. But you look lovely to Tom, despite the crease between your eyebrows, your slightly opened mouth, and still smeared mascara.

part two

#if and when i add the second part to the mini series itll be the party #and ill let ya know about their past #👀👀👀👀👀#emi writes #tom holland #tom holland x y/n #tom holland x reader #tom holland blurb #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland writing #tom holland fluff #tom holland one shot #tom holland imagine #tom holland fic #tom holland fanfic

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shannapage · 4 years

Text

Stellae: Chapter 1

Author: Shanna Page

Status: Incomplete / Ongoing

Genre: Fantasy / Sci-Fi

Synopsis: The gods do not exist. Divine intervention is only imagined by those too cowardly to act. No, we only have ourselves in this word. Ourselves, the weapons we wield and the evil we choose to tolerate.

Eline Ritvak is the most renowned thief in all three Kingdoms. Mentored by the infamous criminal, Nightshade, she lives by a strict code of honor seemingly at odds with her chosen profession.When the Prince of Nitenbeir requests Eline steal a sword for him, she is curious enough to accept on his terms. What happens next sends Eline’s world tumbling into chaos, and she finds herself on the run from the most feared man on the continent. All she has is a sword, a know-it-all bookkeeper and the realization that perhaps, they are not alone in this world.

Word Count: 5,782

Author’s Note: As part of my fundraising initiative on my other blog for BLM, I stated that if a certain number was reached, I would release the first chapter of my unpublished (non-fanfic) novel. Since this amount was reached, here it is! This is only the first chapter and I do not plan on releasing more on this website. Know that this fight is not over and we still have tons of work to do. If you can still donate, please do so. If you’re living in the US, ensure you’re registered to vote at TurboVote.Org.

More information about this world / my novel can be found here on my page.

Those who frequented the gambling dens of Kebasa had a saying they told to anyone who would listen; the most fruitful of grounds often bore the most teeth.

The saying was old, stemming from the antewalk, an animal known equally for its migratory patterns as a distinct lack of self-preservation. There was a game amongst children named after the animal in which the smallest of them attempted to cross a field before they could be tagged by the larger, faster children. If they were tagged, they were considered out.

The game was cruel by nature but then again, most things were cruel by nature. Every summer, the antewalk migrated to their northern breeding grounds through the Beir Mountains. If any place could be described as ‘having teeth,’ the Beir range was a natural contender.

Spiders as large as a person’s fist dangled from shoddy webs, draped across caves which housed the fearsome gargantum – a predator as feared as death itself, whose jaws could easily snap a cougar in half. Snakes the size of tree trunks hid in the canopy above before dropping ten feet to feast upon unsuspecting prey. Despite all these horrors, the antewalk continued to make the same journey.

To them, the potential goal of their breeding ground was worth the likely cost.

Much as those who frequented gamblers row viewed the potential for riches to be worth its likely cost – bankruptcy.

It might be worth noting that the antewalk were nearly extinct.

Regardless, the gambling dens of Kebasa drew a multitude of customers, not only its regulars who sought to turn copens to riches. The dens were famous across the vast continent of Prima – and even further than that, drawing attention past the Farephen Sea. Merchants, nobles, and paupers alike were drawn to the gamble and in this way, the dens were amongst the most diverse places on the continent.

Lounged in a seat, one leg crossed over the other, Eline considered the Merryweather laid out before her.

Contrary to its name, the Merryweather was neither a cheerful place, nor was it exposed to the elements. As far as gambling dens went, the interior was much of what Eline had come to expect – crooked tables, crooked people, and an overwhelming stench of spilled ale in between.

At a first glance, she counted seven people in the crowd who did not belong. They were easy enough to spot, once one knew what to look for. Although Eline herself was not Kebasan, she blended in as though she might have been. Her gaze lingered near the bar, assessing a lone, pockmarked youth who glanced longingly at the door. Likely, someone had said this would be the easiest way to escape in case of an emergency.

Utter nonsense. Once a person entered the den, the only way out was further in.

Uncrossing both legs, Eline returned to her game. Casually, she tossed a gold coin on the table.

“Jinn,” she declared.

Murmurs of outrage rippled around the table – to Eline’s right a man growled, not bothering to conceal his state of frustration. The move was a provocative one, to be sure. Scarab was a game designed to confuse its own players, an eclectic combination of dice, cards, and boldfaced lying. It took several years to become proficient but luckily, Eline had learned the game from the best.

Jinn was a give me command. A player could use it only once per game, but once declared, all players were required to increase their bet or exit the table. By using it when she did, Eline had raised the game not by a copen – which was traditional – but by an entire talir. Such riches would have bought the very table they sat at.

“That’s not fair,” grumbled the man to her right. He spoke around the toothpick which dangled precariously from his lip. “Copen’s the norm.”

“It may be the norm, by my move wasn’t illegal.” Eline spoke with great boredom, as though the entire conversation were below her pay grade. “What’s the matter, Revani? Not good for the money?”

The man beside her started, not having expected her to know him by name.

Eline was no fool. She did careful research before deciding to enter any given situation; this was the main way she ensured she only walked into situations she could walk away of. Not everyone was as careful as Eline, but then, not everyone was as successful as her either.

Revani scowled and removed his toothpick. Much to Eline’s utter disgust, he placed this on the table beside her palm.

“I’m in,” he declared, tossing down a gold coin.

The hair beneath his cap could have been either blonde or brown; it was difficult to tell through its matted mess. The clothing he wore gave nothing away either; plain, loose fabric designed to resist the sweltering heat of Kebasa. The only hint of his heritage were his eyes, which were blue. Only certain parts of the southern Kingdom of Sur claimed such a color.

After much hemming and hawing, another two players tossed their coins down. The rest pushed back their chairs, scraping the floorboards, and casting annoyed glances at Eline.

Beneath her crimson hood, she tried not to smile.

Only four players remained: a more manageable number. A lucky number as well, according to Surnese superstition. Eline was not the type who subscribed to good fortune, but when she did, she found the Surnese gods to be most obliging.

Stretching, Revani extended both arms overhead to reveal a wrist tattoo. Foolish of him to flash his crew’s sign so carelessly since it was not the same colors as those of the Merryweather. Men had gotten killed for less than gambling on other crews’ turfs.

He was not the only player Eline knew at the table. To her left was a man who called himself Lorcin and directly across from them were two called Copper and Jo. Those two seemed to move as a team, one of them shifting when the other went still, and vice versa. Eline wondered if they behaved like this always, or only when they felt they were cornered.

Eline was the only woman at the table, although this was to be expected. Many nations and Kingdoms underestimated womenkind. Eline supposed she could not be perturbed by this fact, since it meant those same people underestimated her, as well.

In her line of work, underestimation was a valuable tool.

Lowering her gaze, Eline looked once more her cards. They were not terrible, but neither were they a winning hand. This fact did not bother her since the prize Eline sought was not a singular card game. No, her quarry was far more valuable than that.

Thumbing the sharp edge of her deck, Eline sighed. “Are you going to take your turn, Jo?” she asked, looking up. “Or will we all die of old age before you realize you’ve lost.”

A low chuckle rose from the other men at the table.

Jo – a man whose mustache was the most defining thing about him – scowled. “Don’t know why you’re trying to rush things, ma’am. Scarab is a game best savored, not swallowed.” He paused, allowing a smirk. “I’d imagine you know a thing or two about that.”

How clever; a reference to Eline’s assumed sexuality. She’d dealt with far worse jibes in her lifetime though and so, she ignored him and awaited his next move.

Copper nearly choked at the remark, forcing Jo to reach over and pound him on the back. Eline tried not roll her eyes at this, although it was hard.

Ko women were not known for being overly revealing and this was Eline’s chosen character for the night. Beneath her bright cloak, she wore simple merchant’s clothing from Ko, a distant Kingdom across the Farephen sea.

It was one of Eline’s preferred disguises; it was infinitely easier to pretend she hailed from Ko than say, one of the northern lands, like Dagmari. Dagmari women all had skin the color of the bone underneath, with copper-colored hair distinctive on every continent. Their accent alone was difficult to emulate, full of clipped consonants and elongated vowels.

At least Ko women had dark hair, even if their eyes were known to be golden, not silver. No Kingdom on any continent was known for silver eyes though, and so in this, Eline remained squarely out of luck.

Whenever someone asked about the unusual color, Eline would brush it aside and claim bastard parentage. Likely this was true, but she had no way of knowing for sure.

Exhaling loudly, Jo reached for the dice.

His resulting throw was not favorable and based on his sour expression, Eline assumed his cards to be no good. Ruling him out as competition, she moved her attention to the other men at the table.

Twisting around in his seat, Revani flagged a passing waitress. “More ale,” he instructed before turning back. Glancing in Eline’s direction, he offered a wicked smile. “What about you, Lady? Care to partake?”

The word Lady was mocking and belied his nation of origin. Although the three Kingdoms of Prima were monarchies, Kebasa was run by wealthy merchants, Nitenbeir was militaristic and only Sur had retained the notion of nobility – in more ways than one.

The use of Lady indicated Revani hailed from the south, although none of their renowned education seemed to have stuck. From where she was sitting, Eline could see his whole cards, and they were not particularly good ones.

“Thank you, but no,” she declined. “I prefer to keep my wits about me when I play.”

Revani’s upper lip curled. “Ah. Womanly concerns.”

“I’d imagine so,” Eline said. “As one must first possess wit in order to be concerned about losing it.”

Revani’s cheeks reddened, his entire expression darkening as Lorcin released a chuckle. He had been the quietest at the table so far and thus, was the only one Eline judged as true competition.

Shooting her a bemused look, Lorcin crossed both his feet at the ankles. Based solely on appearance, Eline assumed him to be from either Nitenbeir or Dagmari. Both were northern Kingdoms, so the complexions were similar, although neither wore their hair in the way Lorcin did – long and unbound, hung nearly to his waist.

He kept one hand beneath the table to conceal his cards from view; the other lay casually beside his untouched wine. Smart, to blend in while keeping his head clear.

Copper laughed, the joke just catching up to him. “A clever tongue,” he said, reaching to pick up his dice. “That’s a shame. Isn’t it a pity when women are clever?”

“It is at that.” Revani accepted the flagon he had ordered. “Clever women always get themselves into trouble.”

Outwardly, Eline betrayed no reaction but inwardly, she burned. What she would not give to have these men know her true wrath; to let them know exactly who she was and what she was capable of.

She knew if these men only knew her other name – if anyone in this establishment so much as whispered the word Umbra – it would make them shake in her boots and yet, here she sat and pretended to smile. To reveal who she was meant losing the upper hand, and in Scarab – as in life – having the upper hand was tantamount to winning.

“Indeed,” Eline said. “Clever women often make men uncomfortable. I imagine those without beauty are often discomforted to find it has a voice.”

Lorcin burst out into laughter as Revani’s scowl deepened.

Eline imagined that under different circumstances, she might have been able to enjoy Lorcin’s presence – a pity then, that her line of work failed to leave time for meaningful connections.

In the corner of her gaze, she saw the door to the Merryweather swing inward, allowing balmy, summer air to escape from the street.

“Shut the door!” someone called from the closest table.

All the gambling dens of Kebasa were housed belowground. This allowed for the coolest environment, since Kebasa was a desert city half as often as it was mountainous. A narrow staircase at the front led to the street; a purposeful decision to restrict entrance or exit.

In Ko, humidity and high waters made underground enclosures impossible. There, gambling dens were tied together like rafts, bobbing in sea at the ends of each dock. Eline disliked these types of places; the small amount of time she had spent in Ko was enough for her to realize she despised the ocean.

With the entrance of Kebasa’s heat came an actual person – several people actually, each one climbing down from the mouth of the alley. This was not unusual; men rarely chose to gamble alone. What was unusual was the way they all gripped the balustrade, as though uncertain whether the stairs could support all their weight.

Eline hid her smile. Make that ten men in the Merryweather who did not belong.

At least the first two men tried to blend in. They wore breathable fabric paired with the colorful vests preferred by Kebasa’s working class. Of course, most Kebasans wouldn’t wear such attire to a gambling den. Bright clothing was how one got noticed; it ensured one’s memorability and most who visited the dens preferred to remain anonymous.

The last man through the door didn’t even bother with a vest, though. His back stayed straight as he entered, steadily scanning the premises with an air of disgust. His distinguished sideburns marked him as a high-ranking citizen of Nitenbeir, as did the thin sword he had buckled around his waist. A rapier, much preferred amongst the dueling sort of men. Eline had always found the weapon rather silly, preferring instead the flexibility of her short sword.

It was the scar though, burnt into the side of his neck, which revealed who he was.

As far as legends went, General Marksam was known across the whole continent. He had been captured in his youth by Dagmari forces, held for twenty days and twenty nights until he escaped by fashioning a knife from his spoon to kill two guards through the door of his cell. That had been years ago, but the man’s name remained feared across Prima.

Nitenbeir nobility was strange; they dressed in severe cuts and sharp lines, as though to emulate their method of thinking. It was surprising to see one Nitenbeiran in a gambling den, let alone two, but Eline had been certain Marksam would appear tonight.

It was rumored the General had a fondness for gambling, which was something his Kingdom frowned upon – at least they did in theory. It was the Nitenbeir way to present no external weakness, but to privately indulge if they wished. Whenever Marksam traveled, he was known to clean out a tavern or two.

The Merryweather had a reputation as the highest of stakes, the most varied clientele, and a mostly discrete owner – for the right price, of course. Travelers had recently swelled Kebasa’s town limits for the summer solstice festival; Marksam was merely one amongst the many. It was the perfect opportunity for him to slip away, get his gambling fix and return before he was noticed missing.

Their group were stopped just inside the entrance, searched, and ordered to hand over their weapons. Marksam looked as though he argued with the bouncer, pointing at something on his chest which might have been a medal. He should have saved his breath for how much he succeeded. Eventually, Marksam handed over his sword, as Eline knew he would.

The rules of the Merryweather were simple – disarm, or don’t play.

Of course, the bouncers did need to find your weapons in order to remove them.

This was something of a game to the locals but people like Marksam were obviously unaware of the rules. It was proper in Nitenbeir for a General to wear their sword at their waist. The gesture was intended to show discipline, decorum and had absolutely no place on gambler’s row.

Swords around here came for their target in night, cloaked with darkness and ill-intent. It didn’t matter if a person showed their sword when one couldn’t be certain what they hid behind their opponent’s vest.

Shifting her weight, Eline stretched her toes against the worn pad of her boot. There were several knives concealed on her frame, since Eline had been forced to leave her short sword at home. One knife was hidden in the sole of her boot, another in its lining and a third strapped to the inside of her thigh.

The key to remaining armed in the Merryweather was to look unimportant. Marksam was obviously unaware of this lesson.

Flapping his coat out behind him, Marksam gingerly sat upon a rounded stool in the corner. His table was closer to the front than Eline’s – which meant the stakes of his table were lower and his game was considered easier. Eline assumed he would move further back over the course of the night; men like him were rarely satisfied with a cheap thrill.

His back faced the door – again, not what Eline would have done. His two comrades seemed to be smarter; they faced the only entrance, keeping careful watch on whoever walked through the door. Eline could only assume Marksam had hired them because they were more familiar with the gambling dens than he was.

Smart of him to seek out their guidance. Stupid of him not to listen.

Returning her attention to her own game, Eline scanned the table before her. While she had been distracted, Jo had backed himself into a corner. Only she, Lorcin, Revani and Copper remained as contenders.

Scowling, Jo threw his cards down to stand. “I’m out,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “May your pockets stay strong.”

Another idiom; this one easier to discern, if no longer applicable. Back when Kebasa was barely a town, trade was exchanged using gemstones as currency. The stones were so ubiquitous to its natives, legends stated they didn’t know their true value until neighbors from Nitenbeir and Sur reached them across the Imir desert. That was when Kebasa began to blossom as a Kingdom and eventually, coins came to replace gemstones as currency.

While in use though, the gemstones had been heavy and to have sturdy pockets meant you had been blessed with good fortune.

Downing the rest of his ale, Jo slammed his glass on the table and stalked towards the bar. The same pockmarked youth Eline had noticed remained slouched in its corner; Jo squeezed in beside him to order another round.

Revani added a second gold coin to the pile. “And what of that, Lady?” he asked, leaning back. “Are you good for it?”

He mimicked her words from earlier. Eyes narrowed, Eline moved to respond but before she could speak, there came a shout from the bar.

“Thief!” The pockmarked boy pointed, wide-eyed, at the door. “THIEF!”

The response around the room was instantaneous.

Jumping up from their table in the corner, both bouncers rushed towards the rickety stairs. Alertness swept through the crowd, jumping from table to table as players craned their necks to look. Many did not seem to care – they had already bet their livelihoods on the games – but many more flinched and scrambled for their purses.

Including Marksam, who instinctively clutched his right pocket – after patting it once, he exhaled and let go.

Hiding her smile, Eline returned to her cards. Fool.

“In,” she declared and added a coin.

Lorcin increased the pile without comment, throwing his dice and losing his next turn. Copper took up the dice and shook, glancing up at the ceiling before rolling a sixteen.

His smile broadened. “Reveal.”

Groaning out loud, Revani slouched in his seat.

The rules of Scarab were complicated, but the final player in any increase round had the opportunity to roll to end the game if they desired. Copper had rolled high enough to do just that, which meant the rest of the table was forced to lay down their cards.

Eline kept her face casual as Lorcin revealed his hand to be better than hers – better than anyone else at the table, including Copper, who looked a bit green as he stared.

Placing her cards down, Eline revealed her hand to be slightly lower than Lorcin’s. Revani’s was worst, but Eline had already known that before he revealed them. His cards held no coherent order, almost as though he had never played the game before, nor learned what it was. Eline idly wondered how he had gotten a seat at their table. Probably money.

“I need another drink,” declared Copper, standing up from his chair.

He wandered over to Jo, who still stood at the bar. The youth who had yelled thief was nowhere to be found, likely scared off by the events of the night.

Undisturbed by his loss, Revani spread his legs wider. “Care to play again, Lorcin? Or you, Lady?” he added, shooting Eline a smirk. “I would have the chance to redeem myself.”

Eline pushed her chair back. “Unfortunately,” she said, gathering her coins. “Redemption is not something I’m in the habit of giving.”

Scanning the den, she drew her cloak tight and wondered where to go next. There was no purpose to her cloak’s color other than to be remembered. At the end of the night, she wanted her face to be paired with this cloak in the den’s memory.

“I agree with the lady,” Lorcin said, also standing. “Best to quit while ahead.”

“Nitenbeirans.” Revani sighed and rolled his neck. “All of them the same. So meticulously practical. Very well,” he said, glancing past them to where multiple players had lined up on the wall. “Which of you wants to try their hand?”

Several rushed forward, eager to take their departed seats and Eline slipped past them, unnoticed.

The den was more crowded than when she had first entered, the dense scent of sweat and alcohol hanging low overhead. Elin scanned the room as she walked, coming to a stop beside the wooden bar. Drinks stained its surface, blending into the varnish until it seemed part of its décor.

In the corner of her eye, she saw Marksam stand from his seat. One hand splayed to the table, he questioned his players and glanced away from the entrance.

There were several halls which led from the back of the Merryweather. One of them ended in a stairwell which climbed to other floors of the building. As it was with the rest of gambler’s row, the Merryweather was not only a place in which to take bets. Its owner, Ren Drago, dabbled in various illicit activities throughout Kebasa; the main floor was merely the tip of the iceberg.

Marksam nodded at whatever his table said, turning around to disappear into the crowd. Eline’s gaze followed him to the back where he entered a hallway marked with a green arrow. Its interior was dimly lit, she could barely see his cloak whipping around the cramped corner.

Eline waited a moment, then slipped behind a group of players to remove her cloak and pull it on inside-out. The other side was dark, a coarser material not unlike that of the other gambling patrons. Lowering the hood, she moved out from the men who hid her from view.

Anyone who saw her would fail to place her as the gambler in red. Another trick from the thieves’ manual – create a memorable character, then become someone else. No one followed Eline as she moved towards the same back hall, which meant no one would remember her as the person Marksam encountered.

He was not difficult to spot once Eline reached the hall. He stood out even amongst the shadows, glancing about him with a puzzled look on his face. It seemed not even the advice of his table had been enough to locate the washroom.

Eline paused before entering, reaching out to puck a flagon of ale from a table. Adopting an intoxicated swagger, she raised the cup to her lips as she pretended to drink.

The light from a singular gas lamp dimmed when she passed, the hood of her cloak blocking out most illumination. Said lamp swung from above her, attached to the weathered ceiling; all sconces in the hall had been pilfered, their metal likely stolen and sold to melt down into wares.

Hearing Eline’s approach, Marksam turned his head. Giving her a swift once-over, he apparently decided she was harmless and lifted a hand.

“You there!” he called out. “Madam.”

As though surprised by the address, Eline stumbled for some of her ale to slosh towards the ground.

Nose wrinkled, Marksam drew back as though he could smell the imaginary alcohol on her breath. Eline noticed he didn’t seem to be drunk – at least one of the Nitenbeiran principles had rubbed off on him. It meant he would be more aware though, which made this transaction dangerous.

“Are you familiar with this establishment?” Marksam’s other palm rested upon the hilt of his rapier. “Do you happen to know where one might relieve oneself?”

“Establishment?” Laying the Ko accent on thick, Eline came to a stop. “You’re out of your depths, soldier,” she laughed, ending the word with a hiccup. “This here’s no establishment, it’s a right pigsty.”

Marksam’s eyes narrowed at the title she gave him.

Nitenbeir social hierarchy was based upon military rank. Their system was complicated – overly so, in Eline’s opinion – but based on his attire, Marksam could be identified as at least a General. Calling him a soldier was an insult; one strong enough that in Nitenbeir he wouldn’t have been remotely out of line in challenging her to a duel.

And they had the nerve to call other Kingdoms savages.

“Regardless of where you think I belong,” he said stiffly. “I would hear your response.”

Lifting her drink, Eline’s hand trembled, more ale sloshing over the rim. “You would hear my response?” she mocked, mimicking his imperious tone. “Most people just piss down that hall to the left, I guess. That’s if they even bother to – ah!” she blurted, spilling the flagon down his front.

Marksam swore and jumped back, but the damage had been done. Brownish-gold liquid dribbled down his front of his shirt, seeping to stain the white silk underneath.

“S-sorry,” Eline stuttered, blinking at him in horror.

Marksam froze for a moment, staring stunned at his shirt. Slowly, his gaze lifted to hers. “You… vermin,” he hissed and lunged forward.

Eline cowered away from him, her right shoulder hitting the wall as she tripped on the end of her cloak. She cut a pitiful figure in the dark of the hall, both hands lifted as Marksam reached for his sword. Here he hesitated, chest heaving while he considered the pathetic figure before him. Eline worked to make herself seem smaller, hunching both shoulders as she stared at the ground.

At last the image seemed to work, since Marksam slowly exhaled and slid his sword in its sheath.

“Bah,” he grumbled, shoving past. “Filthy urchin. Not worth my trouble.”

Eline let herself be pushed, briefly gripping his cloak to steady herself – and then he was gone, disappeared around the corner. He left not in the direction of the gambling floor, but to the left, deeper into the den in search of a washroom.

As soon as he was gone, Eline straightened.

Trying not to smile, she slipped her hand into her pocket and ran the tip of her finger along the edge of a key. Here, at last, was her true prize for the evening. The entirety of the wealth played in the front room barely held a candle to the key inside her pocket.

It was one of twenty keys distributed by King Tulen himself, the ruler and monarch of the Kingdom of Kebasa. Each key granted entrance to the most exclusive level of the summer solstice festival; the highborn, an ongoing celebration to which only twenty people could enter at one time.

Eline had a buyer who wanted a key.

What her buyer needed it for, she did not dare ask, nor did she care. Eline had a job to do and that was all that mattered. After all, she more than anyone understood people often did desperate things in desperate situations.

Marksam was one of twenty individuals who had been granted a key. Each Kingdom on the continent usually received two or three to distribute. Marksam was considered important enough in Nitenbeir that the King had sent him in his place.

While Marksam had been distracted by the drink she spilled, Eline had dipped a hand in his pocket and pilfered his key – the very same pocket he had patted when the pockmarked youth at the bar had yelled thief earlier.

Yet another thief’s trick, and a widely effective one.

When a reasonable person heard the word thief, they immediately reached to protect their valuables. Of course, if another person – say, Eline – were also watching, said person would give away where they were keeping their valuables. All it took was a little distraction to ensure Eline stole the key out from under his nose.

She made a mental note to pay Jaspin, the pockmarked youth, double tomorrow for a job well-done.

Turning around, she strode down the corridor. At the crossway she turned in the opposite direction of Marksam. It would be a while before he returned from that particular hallway. Eline had purposefully sent him in that direction, since the corridor housed the back rooms where private games were held.

If no one stabbed Marksam as soon as he entered, it would take him a while to explain his mistake. Once he did, Eline would be long gone.

Paused at what seemed like a dead end, Eline came to a stop and lowered her hood.

Glancing above, she scanned the long grate in the ceiling – another common design on gambler’s row. Although there was only one way inside the den from the street, there existed another way out from the back.

It would be inconvenient for a den’s owner to barricade themselves in, along with anyone else they wished to trap. As a precautionary measure, most buildings housed a special exit: a crawl space between the first and second floors, just large enough for a person to move through while escaping to the next alley.

Glancing over her shoulder, Eline ensured no one was watching and backed up a few steps.

Bending both legs, she leapt to grab hold of a stone jutting out from the wall. Using the smaller crevices as handholds, she swiftly climbed to reach the ceiling above. Positioning her weight evenly on all limbs, Eline reached above to loosen the grate and push.

It clattered off to one side – frozen, Eline waited, but no one seemed to have heard. Re-gripping the grate, Eline swung her legs upwards and launched herself into the hole. Once inside the crawlspace, she carefully repositioned the grate in the floor.

Crouched to the ground, Eline examined her surroundings.

The space around her was dusty, as though no one had used the corridor in quite some time. Eline suspected this was the case; Ren Drago, the owner of the Merryweather, was amongst the most feared men in Kebasa. To break a rule in his establishment usually meant you’d break something else. There were not many a man like Ren would feel the need to escape from.

Not wasting any time, Eline began to move, carefully positioning her weight so she failed to make noise. It was unlikely anyone would think to look for her here, since the actual entrance to the crawl space was on the second floor, but it was better to be careful than dead.

At the end of the tunnel, Eline pulled a knife from her boot and went to work on the grate. Twisting the screws one by one, she calculated how much time had passed since she left Marksam alone. It wouldn’t be long before he returned – if she were lucky, he wouldn’t notice the missing key until he returned to his lodgings.

Removing the final screw from the grate, Eline jiggled it free from the wall. She hesitated a moment, listening to the sounds of the alley below.

Nothing unusual.

Setting the steel grate aside, Eline leaned out of the opening to glance at the ground. Nose wrinkled, she sighed. The grate emptied into an alleyway behind a butcher shop. Scraps of days-old meat were piled below, their blood trickling slowly to join through the cobblestones.

At least the meat would offer her a soft landing. Swinging both legs aloft, Eline held her breath as she dropped down from the ledge. For most people, this would have been a difficult task, but these kinds of feats had always come easily for Eline.

Straightening from her crouch, Eline immediately strode in the opposite direction of gambler’s row. Her footsteps were muffled, thanks to special boots Eline had designed herself.

Even if the alleyway was quiet, the city around her was not – each distant yell of laughter sounded at once too far and too loud. The dense, squatted buildings forced Eline to imagine she saw shapes in the shadows.

One hand drifted towards her belt as she walked; a pointless reflex, since her short sword remained at her lodgings, but she still found it comforting.

It would have been suspicious for her to run from gambler’s row, so Eline forced herself to calmly walk on. Each muscle in her body strained against instinct, yearning to be free now that the job was complete. All that was left was dropping key in its preassigned destination, collecting her money, and washing her mind of the memory.

Eline was good at that.

She was good at forgetting what she needed to forget, unseeing what she needed to unsee. It was why she made such a good thief, as her mentor once said. Eline could compartmentalize her soul in ways few even dreamed of and even while distracted, her senses remained intact.

It was how Eline heard the moment someone turned down the alley, their footsteps echoing hers around the sound of leaking pipes. Tilting her head, she listened as she walked, her stride never breaking as she pretended not to hear.

When the footsteps were barely a pace away, she exhaled and turned, yanking a knife from her belt.

Her blade was met with another, aimed directly at her heart.

The man on the other end of the sword smiled, his face hidden by shadow. “The famous Umbra,” he said, inclining his head. “I’ve been searching for you.”

#writeblr #fantasy #sci-fi #writing

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tripleaxeldiaz · 4 years

Text

all was golden when the day met the night

chapter 3/5

read on ao3

start from the beginning

“...and then we saw the lions, but they were sleeping so they weren’t very scary. And the otters were so cute, and they came right up to the glass when they were swimming underwater!”

Eddie smiles as Chris recounts their day at the zoo to his parents over FaceTime. The monthly calls had been their idea, a way for them to stay up to date on Chris’s life in between holidays and summer visits. It was also their way of having a scheduled time to nitpick Eddie’s life from 800 miles away.

He loves his parents, he does. He just loves them more when they aren’t speaking.

“Your face looks a little red, sweetheart, were you wearing sunscreen today?” his mother asks, face getting too close to the camera as she inspects her grandson.

“Yeah, Dad put some on me when we got there.”

“Did he put on any more during the day?” Her eyes shifted to Eddie, perched next to Chris on the couch. “You know you need to reapply every two—”

“Yes, Mom, I did. And it’s getting late so we should really get going, say goodbye buddy—”

“Wait! I didn’t show them my snakes!” Chris rifles through his backpack underneath the coffee table, yanking out a folder and flipping through it until he finds the drawings he and Buck worked on. He holds them up triumphantly, angling them so his grandparents could see. “Buck helped me with them!”

“And Buck is…”

“Dad, you know who Buck is. My friend that owns the tattoo shop?” He tries not to ignore how calling Buck his “friend” feels like a disservice to all that he really is, how it tastes like sand in his mouth.

“He’s an awesome artist,” Chris pipes in. “He has huge books in the shop of all the stuff he can do, and sometimes he lets me watch when he’s working!”

His parents blanche at that, and Eddie is really not prepared to have this argument right now. He and Chris had a great day together, a rare day when he wasn’t in the shop for any reason, leaving it in Hen’s more than capable hands. They had a lot of fun at the zoo, were getting ready for a Marvel double feature in their living room, and Eddie was in an honest-to-god good mood, for once not plagued by lingering stress or ambiguous sadness. He’s not about to let any outside judgements ruin that.

“I think it’s time to go. Chris, can you say goodnight and go get your pajamas on?” Chris waves as he grabs his crutches and heads to his room. Eddie turns back to say a quick goodbye, but his dad clears his throat before he can speak.

“You leave your son alone in a tattoo parlor?”

“He’s not alone, Dad, he’s with Buck and all the other adults that work there. Plus it’s only in a pinch.”

“Eddie, do you really think those are the kind of people you should be leaving Christopher with?” his mother asks, a look of contempt masked by concern on her face.

Eddie takes a slow breath in and out through his nose. No use in giving them more ammo by getting angry. “Just because you don’t like their business doesn’t mean they’re bad people.”

“We just want to make sure Christopher is—”

“He’s fine. He’s happy when he’s learning to draw with Buck. I’m not going to take that away from him just because you don’t like it. Now we have to go, we’ll talk to you later.” He hits the red end button before they can protest any further. He tips his head back to rest on the couch and scrubs a hand over his face, his good mood now tinged with prickly frustration.

He thinks his parents mean well, but they’ve always been forceful when it comes to Chris, especially after Shannon left. It’s like they knew, somehow, how lost Eddie was on his own, how scared he was that every little thing he did was setting Chris up for failure, and took every opportunity to fix something he was doing or tell him he was wrong. That he didn’t actually know what Chris needed since he had been gone for so long.

Eventually, Eddie started believing them.

But when Mrs. Negrelli gave him the money to start his own shop, he didn’t just see it as a fresh start for himself, but for Chris too. Eddie would be able to take them anywhere, away from the looming disappointment of his parents, and give himself the opportunity to figure out how to best be the dad that Chris needed. And if the past year is any indication, he knows he made the right choice, a credit he isn’t usually able to give himself. He’s not perfect, still second guesses himself constantly, but Chris gets invited to birthday parties and sleepovers and gets As on his report card, so something must be working.

Chris comes back from his room, Spider-Man pajamas on, handing Eddie the remote to queue up the first movie. He’s happily chattering about all the cool things Spider-Man’s costume does in the movie, and as he settles into Eddies’s side, head resting on his chest, Eddie feels the prickliness subside, replaced by the contentment he only ever feels around his son.

They’re good here. Chris is happy here. That’s all that matters to Eddie.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sundays are Eddie’s favorite days in the shop — traffic is usually slow, so he has time to plan out orders for the rest of the week and make sure their inventory is in check. It’s a little monotonous, but it eats up about four hours of time and gives him a break from any real thinking, so he feels almost relaxed by the time he’s done stocking cases. He has the added bonus of Chris and Buck’s conversation in the back room as background noise, interspersed with the occasional yell and slap of the table and Buck teaches him a new card game. The melody of Chris’s laugh and the harmony of their voices soothes him even more than usual, quiets some of the lingering annoyance from his call with his parents.

As he heads into the back room to grab the last boxes of peonies, Chris beckons him over to the table where he and Buck have been stationed since breakfast. It’s become a bit of a tradition: Buck brings muffins or bagels from Bobby and Athena’s bakery on Sundays and hangs out until the afternoons when his earliest appointments are scheduled (I refuse to tattoo anyone while they’re hungover from Saturday, Eddie. It’s not good for them and the extra complaining is certainly not good for me.).

Maybe that’s another reason Sundays are his favorite days. Add that to the list of secret feelings involving Buck that are following him to the grave.

“Dad! Look, I colored Buck’s skull purple!” Chris says as Eddie comes behind his chair, bracketing him in with his arms on the table. Chris giggles as Eddie kisses the top of his head, leaning over him for a closer look. Buck’s latest tattoo is indeed a bright shade of purple, the roses surrounding it colored in blue.

“I told him I like cooler colors and he ran with it,” Buck says. Eddie’s eyes shift to Buck’s face, and he feels his heart stutter when he sees the soft, fond smile directed at Chris. It stutters again when Buck’s eyes meet his, that familiar warmth settling over him as Buck’s smile gets bigger, and he feels good enough, relaxed enough, that it actually soaks into his skin. Buck’s gaze flits down to Eddie’s arm where it’s still bracketing Chris, a crease appearing right between his eyebrows. The urge to lean over and kiss it away is unbelievably sudden and strong, and Eddie silently congratulates himself for keeping it together.

“Your ink looks a little faded there, Eds. I can fix it up for you, if you want.”

Eddie looks at the script on his arm, twisting it back and forth to see the whole thing. Buck’s right, the ink does look duller. Makes sense for a tattoo he got on his 18th birthday that he definitely didn’t take care of properly.

Fortalecer la mente y superar el cuerpo. Strengthen the mind and overcome the body. When he was young and invincible, that seemed like all he needed. A clear head, clear purpose, clear desires, and he’d be able to do anything he wanted. If he followed the rules and did everything right, he’d get a happy ending.

But, once again, it hadn’t been enough. And now, looking at that tattoo just reminds him of the ways he’s failed. How he hasn’t been able to make his mind into anything resembling strong, how there are days when he’s so weak even basic functions take too much effort. How a happy ending is feels so far away he can’t remember what one even looks like.

He shrugs, hand rubbing the tattoo unconsciously. “Maybe, I kinda just want to let this one fade out though. Maybe get a different one somewhere else.”

“Well, my offer of a free tattoo still stands, just name the day.” Buck says.

Chris gasps and twists around in his seat, eyes bright with excitement. “Can I help you pick it out? Can I draw it? I’m good at lots of stuff now, and Buck can help!”

And he’s not sure what it is — the smile on Chris’s face at the idea, Buck’s matching one, the lingering frustration with his parents transforming into rebellion (something he hasn’t felt since he last got a tattoo), or a combination of the three. But before he can think too hard about it, he hears himself saying:

“You know what? Why not. I’ll get another tattoo, and you guys can design it.”

They cheer and high five each other, Chris hugging Eddie tight around the middle.

“But,” Eddie says, “I do want final approval. And no cartoon characters.”

“I promise, Dad, it’ll be the best tattoo ever!” Chris grabs his nearby notebook and starts doodling, chattering happily about what he thinks will look good. Buck catches his eye again and winks, and Eddie’s returning smile is the easiest it’s ever been.

He grabs the boxes he came back for and goes to the front, still smiling as he hears Buck and Chris very seriously discuss the details of what Eddie should get. He’s not nervous, really, but he does say a silent prayer to whoever is listening that they don’t pick something too big or too bold. He loves them both, but not that much.

~~~~~~~~~~

They take about a week to design it and are so secretive they might as well be planning a jewel heist. It seems like every time Eddie walks into a room, they’re there with their heads pressed together, whispering over sheets of paper and pens. When Eddie tries to sneak a peek, they quickly hide everything away so he can’t see. Buck throws his whole body on the table at one point just to cover up the sketches.

Again, he’s not nervous. But the anticipation does start to get to him.

Finally, after a busy Saturday full of wedding deliveries, they announce that the design is complete, and Eddie is scheduled at Armageddon the following Friday evening. Chris already has a sleepover with Denny that night and won’t be able to come, but he makes Eddie double pinky promise to send pictures to Hen as soon as it’s done.

It’s Friday now, and Eddie is all set up at Buck’s station in the back of the shop, waiting to see the final product of Buck and Chris’s hard work. He is a little nervous now, but he mostly blames that on Buck, who keeps looking over the sketchpad, pen in hand like he wants to make last minute changes, or like something isn’t quite right.

“Just show me, Buck,” Eddie says after a few minutes of watching Buck bite his lip in worry. Whatever the design is, he’s sure he’ll love it, if for no other reason than because of the two people who made it.

“Okay, okay. You can be honest if you don’t like it, but I think you’re gonna like it.”

He flips the paper over, turning it towards Eddie. It’s a crescent of flowers, an unfinished wreath, featuring moonflowers, Eddie’s favorite, with their starburst centers spiraling open, and ox-eye daisies, which he knows Chris loves. Sprigs of lavender and thyme fill in the gaps, and there’s a small bee floating around the center. It’s beautiful and a little chaotic, but it’s perfect. Reminders of his son and peace and courage that he’ll be able to carry with him always, that he’ll be able to look at when he forgets that he is capable of bravery or deserving of peace. He stares at the sketch, taking in every detail, for who knows how long. Buck clears his throat to get his attention.

“Chris thought the daisies and moonflowers would look good together, and they’re both white so no need for color. I thought the herbs would be nicer than just plain leaves. And he wanted it in a ‘C’ shape, you know, for Christopher.”

Eddie laughs and shakes his head. “And the bee?”

“Chris thought that would be cute, too, but you can nix that if you want.” There’s a faint blush dusting Buck’s cheeks as his eyes track down to the bee in question. “So, what do you think? Any major changes? You can tell me if you hate it, I won’t tell Chris.”

He looks up and Buck’s eyes are excited and worried all at once. Eddie would do anything to take the worry away, but at least this time it’s an easy fix.

“I don’t hate it, it’s perfect,” he says, handing the sketch back to Buck and settling back in the chair. “Let’s do this.”

Buck smiles brightly as he grabs an antiseptic wipe, holding Eddie’s right arm steady as he wipes down the area just below his elbow crease where the tattoo will go. Eddie knew he wanted it there as soon as he’d agreed to get one — he’d be able to see it easily when he needed to, and he liked that it matched the placement of his current one, would almost be replacing it if the words ever fully faded away. Once it’s cleaned, Buck puts a temporary transfer of the design there to trace over, starts up the tattoo machine, and loads the ink. The low buzzing of the machine mixes with the music playing and soft conversation coming from other clients in the shop, washing over Eddie like white noise.

Buck takes his arm again, machine in hand, and locks his eyes on Eddie. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

“You can yell if it hurts too bad, just try not to pass out.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, says “It’ll be—” before cutting off with an involuntary hiss as the needle touches his skin. Buck snorts, and Eddie does his best to glare but feels it fall short.

He hadn’t worried about the pain — he vaguely remembered the sensation of being stabbed over and over again and didn’t remember it hurting that bad. He had also been shot before, so he figured he’d be able to handle it.

What he hadn’t taken into account was that for the next two hours or so, he and Buck would be very close together, close enough that Eddie can feel Buck’s breath on his arm as he traces over the outline, feels his strong hand on his wrist as he keeps Eddie from twitching. He had never been this close to Buck, had never allowed himself to be, and now that he is, he’s not sure how to act. He tries to look anywhere else, takes in the art on the wall, watches the other clients with Maddie and Chimney. He tries to make a to-do list for the weekend in his head, go over the things Chris will need for school next week, mentally figure out the designs for next week’s orders.

It’s all in vain, though, because no matter what, his eyes always drift back to Buck. From here, he can take in everything, and for once, he lets himself, because who knows when he’ll have this opportunity again.

Buck’s brow is furrowed in concentration, blue eyes dark as they focus. He can almost count every eyelash, and his birthmark stands out even more than usual, almost glowing under the fluorescent lights. Eddie itches to reach out and touch it, feel how soft he imagines Buck’s skin to be under his fingertips. His cheekbones and jawline are sharp and beautiful, and Eddie wonders again how anyone could resist them. How someone could look at this man, have even one conversation with him, and decide they didn’t want more. He’s biting his lip as he finishes the first moonflower, and it turns and even darker pink as he releases it. Eddie gets a little lost imagining how those lips would feel on his, how gentle and warm and good. He imagines feeling them on his shoulder as they wake up on a Saturday morning, sees them laughing as they both make breakfast, trading kisses as they go. He wants to taste them, feel them moving down his neck, down his chest, wrapping around his—

He inhales quickly and shakes his head, because this is not the time nor the place to go down that particular road. Thankfully, Buck’s still in his own little world, eyes never leaving Eddie’s arm. He must mistake Eddie’s movement for discomfort, because he moves his free hand down from his wrist until they’re holding hands, Buck’s thumb moving slowly back and forth in comfort.

“You can squeeze if it hurts too bad,” he mutters, still not looking up. Thank god too, because Eddie can feel his face go bright red and his heart start working overtime.

The first pass takes about an hour, and they take a break so Eddie can stretch his legs and Buck can get more ink. There’s still some detailing left to do, but Eddie already can’t stop staring at the tattoo. It looks even better than the sketch, and having a tribute to his son literally branded on his skin fills a fiercely paternal part of him like nothing else ever has. There’s also a smug part that’s still 17 years old and can’t wait to see the looks on his parents’ faces when they have their next video call.

Buck finishes getting set up again and Eddie settles back in the chair. It’s quieter now — they’re the only two on the floor, Maddie and Chimney having finished up and moved to the back room, and the music playing over the speakers is something slower, stripped down, seems to filter into the room and soften all the hard edges of the world. Buck catches his eye from where he’s sitting, asking silent permission to start. Eddie nods, and he feels his heart swell when Buck automatically grabs his hand again.

He’s got maybe 45 more minutes in this proximity to Buck, and he takes full advantage: notes the way his curls are starting to fall loose after a long day, tries to catalogue each shift of his face, every twitch of concentration, the shadow of his stubble growing in. Getting to study him like this — memorize the details of the beautiful face that houses an even more beautiful soul — makes all the feelings Eddie’s been trying to fight for months now bubble to the surface, fizzing inside of him like pop bubbles.

But there’s a chill that settles in as well, because despite his heart desperately pulling him towards this man, he reminds himself once again that he can’t have this. He can’t let himself have this, can’t do that to Buck. He’s supposed to be forgetting about his feelings, releasing them so they can both be happy — Buck with someone who deserves him and Eddie...alone. With Chris, but still. Alone. And now he has to wrestle with that while a slide show of Buck’s every facial feature plays through his head on a likely infinite loop.

He can’t forget as easily as he thought. If he’s honest, there’s a small, hopeful part of himself that doesn’t want to forget, that never wanted to forget, and it’s getting louder and harder to ignore with each passing minute.

“Done!” Buck says as he turns off the machine and wipes away the last of the excess ink. Eddie looks at the finished product, a soft smile settling on his lips. He looks up and sees Buck watching him, looking hopeful. “What do you think?”

Eddie’s finger hovers over a daisy reverently. “It’s beautiful,” he whispers, smile spreading as he meets Buck’s eye again. “Thank you, Buck.”

Buck returns the smile, squeezing Eddie’s hand where they’re still clasped together, neither of them moving to let go. They’re still in each other’s bubble, close enough that Eddie can still count Buck’s eyelashes, and he watches Buck watch him for a moment. His eyes roam his face like he too is cataloging Eddie from here, and that hopeful voice is convincing him that from where they’re sitting, it’d be so easy to lean in and confirm exactly what Buck tastes like, how his lips would feel under his own. Just six inches away from allowing himself to be happy, because he can’t imagine being anything else with Buck.

His phone goes off from his pocket, immediately bursting the bubble, both of them flinching as the loud trill fills the shop. They both know it’s Chris, but he still looks at Buck apologetically, like it’s his fault for shattering whatever atmosphere they’d just been living in. Buck just waves toward the phone, squeezing his hand one more time before letting go to clean up his station. He talks to Chris for a bit, showing him the tattoo from every angle, and Chris talks to Buck as well, gushing about what a great job Buck did. Buck blushes at the praise, and that tug of want pulls at Eddie again.

They hang up and Eddie gathers his things while listening to Buck’s strict aftercare instructions, both heading to the front door so Buck can lock up.

“Are you sure I can’t pay you?” Eddie asks.

“I told you it was on the house and I meant that. Plus it’s nice to work on someone I actually care about.”

Eddie feels his face get warm, hopes the neon lights in the window are bright enough to cover it up. It gets warmer as they continue looking at each other, neither willing to break their little bubble again. He thinks he sees Buck move more toward him, like he wants to get closer, but he stops himself before following through, leaning back on his heels instead, looking sheepish.

“Goodnight, Eddie. I’ll see you guys tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah, we’ll see you tomorrow.”

Eddie waves as he leaves, stepping into the cool night to walk back to the apartment. He keeps glancing down at his arm on the walk and while he’s getting ready for bed, thinking of the care Chris and Buck both put into creating it. That small voice in his head keeps nagging him, saying Buck wouldn’t do something like this, something this personal, for just anyone. He complains about his clients enough for Eddie to know that’s true.

Maybe the voice is on to something. As he falls asleep, Eddie lets himself think that maybe, maybe, on top of everything, on top of two years of friendship and flowers and looks that make Eddie’s insides flutter, maybe these feelings he’s been trying to ignore aren’t as one sided as he thought.

Maybe he has a chance.

#eddie diaz #evan buckley #buddie #9-1-1 #9-1-1 fox #buddie fic #9-1-1 fic #YES this is the longest chapter because i can't stfu about buck #WHATEVER

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