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munson-blurbs · 5 months

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086: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader Series

Chapter 003: We're the Freaks

Summary: You muster up some courage and devise a plan to help Eddie remember the good parts of his life, while the effects of his alternate dimension adventure begin to sink in.

Warnings: dark themes, mostly canon-compliant (Eddie lives), violence, blood, restraint, amnesia, abduction, mention of shock therapy, drug use, the beginnings of mutual pining hehehe

WC: 4.4k

Divider credit to @saradika

October 31, 1984

Eddie sees you before you can even greet him, lips turning upwards in a shy smile. It’s as though he was hoping you’d be at the party, desperate for the opportunity to talk with you. He stops counting the dollar bills clenched in his left hand and casts his eyes down for a second before looking back at you.

“Hey, uh, hi. What can I do ya for?” He bites the inside of his cheek in a silent berating. You can practically hear his brain chastising him for such an awkward opening: ‘What can I do ya for?’ Christ, am I Eddie Munson or Andy Griffith?

You hold out the twenty dollars from Carol. “Can I buy some weed?” If Worst Conversational Skills was an Olympic sport, the two of you could easily win the gold medal. Maybe they’d even create a platinum one for your extraordinary contributions.

Eddie either doesn’t notice the way you cringe at your own question, or he doesn’t care. He only nods, rifling through his tin box. “You want just the flower or pre-rolled?” When he’s met with no answer, he brings his focus to you again. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” No. Carol didn’t specify what she wanted; last time, he’d only had flower. Was she happy with that? Did she say anything about wishing it was already neatly rolled into a blunt for her to smoke? Your thumbnail tucks itself between your teeth, a nervous habit. You can practically picture her disdain at your potential mistake. And Heather won’t be able to hide her disappointment; not at your wrong decision, but the way you’re squandering your chance at popularity.

“You sure?” Eddie props one elbow on the counter and gazes directly into your eyes, concern woven into his kind smile. “So you know, it’s not like cutting the wrong wire. Nothing explodes if you choose one over the other.”

Except whatever semblance of a social life you have left. “Totally fine. I’ll go with flower. Thanks.” You show him the crumpled bill again but he waves it off.

“It’s on me.” He pulls out a baggie and gives it to you, the scent of marijuana pungent even through the plastic. “This is some good shit, too. Kinda makes me mad it’ll be wasted on Carol and Tommy.” He laughs when you freeze, caught in the act. “C’mon, you think I didn’t realize that you only bought from me when you started hanging out with them?” He crosses his arms over his chest and leans in slightly, pleased with his discovery. “Do you even smoke?”

You shake your head shamefully, not daring to make eye contact.

“Do you want to?” This grabs your attention. “With me, not them,” he clarifies.

“I shouldn’t…my parents would kill me if I come home high,” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Listen, I’m not trying to pressure you or anything,” he says, latching the locks on the tin box. “Just figured we could hang out or something; y’know, maybe try and figure out how Carol manages to lodge such a huge stick up her ass.”

As if on cue, the person in question shouts your name from across the room, tone thick with impatience. Your middle finger itches to flip her off, but your cowardice wins—as usual. “I gotta get this to her,” you mumble, shoving the money back in your bag. “Thanks again.”

You begin to walk away, but his fingertips gently graze your wrist. An electric current flows between you, a spark that could burn bright if only you’d fan the flame. “Look, I’m not sure why someone as nice as you is hanging out with people like them, but if you ever need a friend—a real friend—just say the word.” The smile he offers this time is not one of amusement, but of empathy. I know what it’s like to mold myself into what people want me to be. “You like to read, right?”

His seemingly random question draws your brows skyward. “Yeah…?”

“Use that,” he juts his chin in the direction of your bag, where you’re storing Carol’s money, “to buy yourself a new book. A hardcover; none of that paperback bullshit.” He punctuates the statement with a wink. The gestures have your stomach in knots; all you want is to take his hand and talk with him for hours, leaving behind the pressures of status quo adherence, but you can’t.

“Um, hello?” Carol’s screeching voice snaps you back into reality, and you shuffle over to her without formally saying good-bye to Eddie.

You have eight months left until you graduate and can get as far away from Hawkins as you possibly can. But until that day arrives, you’re stuck playing the game.

March 31, 1986

“Eighty-six.”

The voice is a whisper, an angel beckoning him towards heaven.

“Eighty-six!” the voice hisses, urgently this time, much more Lucifer than Gabriel.

Eddie jerks awake, wincing when the handcuff clangs against the gurney’s metal bar and digs into his wrist. He’s become accustomed to it while he’s awake, but it still catches him off-guard as he rejoins the land of the living. “Jesus H. Christ, what?” he grumbles, expecting the sinister stare of a white-coated man.

Instead, he sees you in the doorway: fear seeping from every pore, but not an ounce of malice in your eyes.

“Oh, hi,” he says sleepily, ease flooding his bones when he realizes he isn’t being subjected to more unpleasant memories or poking and prodding–yet. He uses his free hand to scratch at the stubble forming along his jawline. “055, right?”

You nod, lip firmly tucked between your teeth. His grogginess means that he’s moving at a pace far too slow for your liking, your heartbeat pulsing in your ears. “Yeah, mhm; that’s me.” You check over your shoulder to ensure no one’s coming, then duck into his room. “The doctors are busy with another patient,” you start, omitting that their busy-ness involves electroconvulsive therapy for “non-compliance,” “so we have a few minutes for me to pull a memory, if you want.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, softly but enthusiastically. A smile tugs at his lips. “Can you do another one with Dustin? But, like, a less, um, terrible one?” He can still taste his own blood in his mouth when he thinks about it.

“I’ll do my best,” you promise, standing in front of him. He looks naked without his signature wild mane; there’s no longer anything for him to hide behind. How many times had you seen him in class, carelessly running his hands through his hair, his rings getting snagged on a rogue curl? All of it–the jewelry included–is now gone. You can’t even reassure him that it’ll grow back, because the doctors will ensure that it’s kept closely shaved.

He assumes the same position as he did the previous day, but with one major difference: he extends his hand, an unmistakable attempt to hold yours.

“Oh, um,” you stammer, simply staring at it. “We don’t…you don’t need to do that for this to work,” you supply.

Eddie withdraws, not only his hand, but his body caves in from the rejection. He gives a quick nod, shoulders gently hunched so he takes up less space.

Immediately, your heart lurches. “I mean, we can if you…if it’ll help you feel better.” If you want to is too loaded a statement to make. “I just wanted you to know that it isn’t, like, required.”

“I know.”

With those two words, you reach out and take his palm in yours, sweat-slicked despite the lab’s perpetual chill. The rough calluses on his fingertips scratch against your skin as his lifelines merge with your own.You remember comparing with Heather back in fourth grade, sitting on a bench during recess while the other kids played dodgeball or fought over the playground's sole tire swing. She swore that she could read some hidden meaning behind them. You’d always thought it was mumbo-jumbo, that there was no way she could obtain that information from etches in your hand or the direction of your fingerprint swirls.

When she’d read her own palm, how long did she say she would live? Was it eighteen years, the age she was on that fateful night?

“You okay?” Eddie’s head is cocked slightly as though examining the gears turning within your skull. “I dunno if this hurts you or anything, but we don’t have to do this,” he says. “I’ll get my memories back another way.”

You shake your head, well-aware that there aren't any other feasible options, especially for happy memories. The scientists only want to see who was with him in the Nether, and from what you’ve gleaned, no part of that experience was pleasant.

“It’s fine,” you mutter, embarrassed that he has to comfort you. “It doesn’t hurt me. You’re the one who’ll end up with a headache,” you point out.

“Fair enough.”

You swallow your nerves, heart beating in your ears. If the doctors find you in here unsupervised and without permission…your mind won’t allow you to consider the consequences. Perhaps you’ll be next in line for Ol’ Shocky. “I need you to think about your friend Dustin. Picture him and bring the image to the forefront of your mind. Try not to let your thoughts wander.”

Eddie nods, mouthing Dustin’s name over and over as you delve deep into his brain, using his sole memory—and your memory of that memory—as guidance.

After what seems like eons, you latch onto one and tug it to the surface triumphantly. You can feel blood trickling down your nose and over your lips, but you do your best to focus on the task at hand.

Hawkins High’s cafeteria is buzzing with excited conversation, the phrases “I missed you!” and “how was your summer?” and “did you hear about what happened at Starcourt?” seem to be constants. A banner hung up in the entryway reads ‘WELCOME BACK, TIGERS!’, complete with an illustration that some poor art club sap was probably volunteered to paint.

Eddie keeps his gaze trained on the tile floor, avoiding anyone and anything. He just needs to get to his table, eat lunch, and repeat every day until—

The sound of a lunch tray clattering to the ground, followed by a cacophony of malicious chuckles, grabs his attention. He watches as a group of seniors gather around a table, laughing hysterically.

“C’mon, seriously?” A kid—Dustin, you both determine from the earlier memory pull—whines at the ruined pizza slice below him.

“What’s that?” One of them sneers. “I don’t speak Mushmouth.”

Dustin rolls his eyes and flips off the older kid. “You’re lucky Steve graduated already, or he’d kick your ass!” he shouts.

The second boy hides his face as though hoping he won’t be their next victim, but his vulnerability makes him a prime target. Down, down, down falls his lunch, followed by one belonging to a scrawny kid who looks like a poster boy for The Gap.

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, wanting to ignore the situation, but his conscience steers him towards the kids. “Show’s over,” he grumbles, using the strength acquired from lugging amps to break it up. He grabs one of the bullies by the collar—a jock, Andy something-or-other, according to his letterman jacket—and snarls, “get the fuck outta here before I tip off your coach to check your piss.”

Andy just nods, attempting to play it cool, but Eddie can feel him trembling under his grip. He puffs up his chest and walks away, taking his posse with him.

“Thanks,” Scrawny Kid mumbles, haphazardly brushing chocolate milk residue off his clothes. He refuses to make eye contact, thoroughly humiliated on his first day of high school.

“Don’t mention it,” Eddie says casually. “Just, uh, it might help your case if you don’t dress like some prep school wannabe.” He grins, and to his delight, the boys smile with him.

Scrawny Kid shakes his shaggy hair from his eyes. “I’m Mike, and this is Lucas,” he points to the kid who’d tried to make himself invisible, “and Dustin.” The kid branded ‘Mushmouth’ gives a small wave.

Eddie clicks his tongue. “Weird Al, huh?” he laughs, unable to hide his amusement at Dustin’s choice of t-shirt. “Christ, you three are clueless.” He cocks an inquiring eyebrow. There’s one place he can take them under his wing and keep them safe from the moldy jockstraps known as the Hawkins High basketball team.

“You little freaks ever play Dungeons and Dragons?”

The sound of approaching footsteps down the hall pulls you from his psyche, and you blink a few times to clear your vision. “Shit, I’m sorry.” You swipe at the blood under your nose, leaving a crimson stain in its wake. “I gotta go, but we can meet up again tomorrow.” You start towards the door, but his uncuffed hand reaches out and grabs your wrist, drawing you back.

“Wait…before you go.” Fear radiates from his deep brown irises. “I know you’ll have to pull more memories–bad ones–for them.” He swallows thickly, trying to stave off tears. “But if they ask you to do it while I’m sleeping, can you wake me up first?” he asks weakly.

Realization crashes over you; his first returned memory was his near death, watching his friend witness the life draining from his limp body.

“Yes.” The word is firm, confident, though you’re making a promise you’re unsure you can keep.

Eddie manages a small smile, but it emanates gratitude, and you return it. You want to stay, to search for every happy moment in his life and allow him to bask in their joy, even if just for a moment. But both of you risk serious punishment if you’re caught, and so you make your escape as inconspicuous as possible.

Eddie lays back, staring at the fluorescent lights until his eyes start to water. Thoughts swirl through his mind, a roller coaster off of its track. In addition to Dustin, there’s Mike and Lucas. And Dustin had mentioned someone named Steve, which rang the faintest of bells.

It’s a common name, he thinks. Could be anyone. Yet something deep inside nags at him, an instinct that he can’t shake.

Dustin Lucas Mike Steve.

He twists the bed sheet below him until the thin fabric tears with an audible riiiiiip. His life has been reduced to two meager moments: saving three nerds from a jockstrap with an inflated ego, and losing in a battle against some bat-like creatures. Nothing before that, and nothing between.

The after is right now, imprisoned in this room with no evidence of a crime, let alone anything pinning him as a suspect.

Dustin Lucas Mike Steve.

He wills himself to remember any other details. What was it that he said at the memory’s conclusion? Something about Dungeons and Dragons?

“C’mon,” Eddie mutters, eyelids shut tight in concentration. Maybe it would be better to keep them open, like he does when you’re pulling a memory. Since there’s nowhere else to look, he stares down the broken clock, all three hands frozen in place.

Dustin Lucas Mike Steve.

Dustin Lucas Mike—

The hour hand ticks forward.

Eddie shoots up, yanking the cuff along with his body. No, he must be hallucinating. When was the last time he ate something? Or perhaps the ancient batteries had a little kick left in them.

Something implores him to try it again.

His eyes lock onto the clock, channeling all of his anger and confusion to move the hand another centimeter.

There’s a gentle splintering noise, so quiet that he’d be unable to hear it if another person in the room was breathing. It gets louder until the glass frame covering the clock face shatters completely, shards clattering to the floor like rain.

No battery glitch could explain that. And it couldn’t explain his nosebleed, identical to yours when you utilized your powers.

He can’t even clean his face before dizziness overtakes him, and it all goes black.

November 9, 1984

It’s been just over a week since Tina’s Halloween party. The talk of the high school is still Steve and Nancy’s bathroom argument—and subsequent breakup—though new developments about two teachers getting frisky in the staff lounge has taken some of the attention away from them.

“Hey,” Carol says, leaning against the locker next to yours and obnoxiously popping her bubble gum, “that shit you got from The Freak was pretty good.” She raises her eyebrows in amusement and challenge. “If you can score some more, you and Heather should smoke with us.”

Translation: you’ll get more weed, and if you don’t, I’ll tell Heather that you ruined it for everyone. You can picture the look of disappointment on her face, slumped shoulders and dejected frown screaming, you let me down.

“Yeah, I’ll see if he still has any,” you mumble, grabbing your history textbook and slamming the door. You spin the lock’s dial and give it a tug to ensure it’s closed, giving Carol the chance to leave.

She doesn’t.

“Y’know, maybe it’s because Heather’s been vouching for you,” she starts, blowing another watermelon-scented bubble, “but you’re not as much of a drag as I thought you were.” It’s her version of a compliment, and you hesitantly accept it with a nod. “Anyway, eight o’clock. My place.” She flounces off, probably to find and cling to Tommy, leaving you with a churning gut.

The closest you’ve ever been to smoking weed was getting a contact high at the party. Carol and Tommy hadn’t offered to share, and you didn’t certainly volunteer yourself. If you try and end up coughing like a tuberculosis patient, you’ll never live it down. If you decline to smoke with them, you’ll all but solidify your role as the loser, straight-laced outsider and catapult yourself from their inner circle. And if you don’t show up at all? Heather will never forgive you.

You keep your textbook clutched to your chest, making a beeline for class. Goody two-shoes can’t be late. No, she’ll get there early; maybe place a shiny red apple on the teacher’s desk, and sit patiently with her hands folded. Just like she always has; just like she always will.

You’re so intensely focused that you bump into someone, your head snapping up at the sudden collision. The textbook slips from your grip and hits the ground with a thud.

“What’s the big rush?”

Eddie.

You shake your head. “Nothing. Sorry, I should’ve watched where I was going—”

“No worries,” Eddie says with a small laugh, leaning over and picking up the book. He hands it to you and smiles. “See you around?”

Now’s your chance. “Actually, I was hoping we could meet up after school,” you force out the request, not realizing the implication until he cocks his brow. “To buy some more, um…” You look away, unable to finish the sentence in fear that the wrong person will overhear.

Eddie grins, eyes alight with anticipation. “Yeah, of course,” he replies. “After school, during lunch, even right now, if you want. Got it all in here.” He gives his tin box a proud slap.

“After school is fine,” you say hurriedly. There’s that one other favor you need; it hides behind your molars and sticks to your tongue. “Would…could you maybe…show me how?” Your cheeks are so hot that your face may as well be ablaze. “Carol asked me to join them, but I’ve never…and I don’t wanna look like a total moron…” Shut up, shut up, shut up.

His face briefly shifts expressions, something resembling disappointment, though you can’t pinpoint it before his usual shy smile returns. “Sure. Meet me by the picnic benches right after last period.”

“Thanks.” You give your book a squeeze, fingernails digging into the old newspaper you’d repurposed as a book cover. Eddie gives a quick nod before disappearing into the hallway, packed with students. The whole encounter has your head spinning; you’re going to smoke pot in the woods with Eddie Munson. It’s almost distracting enough to make you late to class.

Almost. You’re not risking detention for this.

March 31, 1986

Eddie awakens to the pungent odor of vinegar and something sulphuric, rousing him back to consciousness. His eyes water even after Dr. Snell removes the bundle of smelling salts from under his nose.

“086,” the doctor says stoically, fishing a tiny key from his pocket. His unnerving stare never leaves Eddie as he unlocks the cuff and untangles the chain. “I see you’ve been busy.” He gestures towards the pile of broken glass on the floor, lips twitching with the faintest hint of amusement.

“It was an accident,” Eddie mumbles, flexing his wrist and feeling the blood begin to circulate again.

Dr. Snell chuckles, sending a shiver shooting down Eddie’s spine. “Was it?” He leans over; Eddie hates his confidence that he won’t be attacked. All he wants is to wring the man’s neck like a washcloth, but he recalls your advice to earn their trust. He’ll have to remain calm if he ever wants to learn more about Dustin, Mike, Lucas, or Steve; if he ever wants to learn more about himself.

Eddie nods pathetically. Technically, he’d only been trying to make the hand move again, to see if it was just a fluke, but he’d ended up with a shattered clock instead. “I don’t understand how…”

“Dr. Moseley would like to conduct some tests.” Dr. Snell selects his words carefully. “See what other new skills you’ve acquired during your little adventure.”

“No…” Eddie starts, catching himself before he can protest further. He swallows, throat sore with aridness. “I mean, I don’t think I have any other, um, skills.”

The doctor sneers. “That’s for us to determine, isn’t it?” He tugs on Eddie’s arm, hoisting him from the cot and guiding him down a long, dimly-lit hallway. His torso aches with each step, but when he tries to stop and breathe, Dr. Snell continues pulling him along.

“G-Gimme a sec,” Eddie finally pleads aloud, and the doctor relents with an irritated huff. It’s not from sympathy–Eddie doubts there’s a selfless bone in the man’s ugly body–but likely because he wants to avoid a ripped stitch or another fainting spell. Whatever the reason, he’s grateful for the small break.

The room he’s brought to is white on white; there’s not a stitch of color. He’s seated at a table while doctors attach adhesive-backed electrodes to his temples and forehead, cold and slimy on his skin.

Salt-and-Pepper—Dr. Moseley, he surmises—approaches him with a thin-lipped smile. “Good afternoon, 086.” But there’s nothing good about it, and Eddie can’t even be sure it’s truly the afternoon. “I heard you had a bit of an incident today, yes?”

The doctor already knows the answer, so Eddie doesn’t bother to lie. “Yes. I, um, made the clock hand move and then broke the glass. With my mind,” he adds, as though there was any confusion about the means in which it occurred.

“Excellent.” Dr. Moseley shoos the others out of the room, so he and Eddie are alone. As soon as the door closes, he sits in a chair across from his patient, tapping a pen on a clipboard.

“I’m going to ask you to complete a series of tasks,” he tells him, somehow already marking notes. “Some tasks will be to assess your existing abilities; others will be to strengthen them.” He motions towards a large monitor. “This will detect any changes in brain wave activity with remarkable accuracy.”

In other words, don’t phone it in. You will be caught.

Dr. Moseley grabs a rubber ball off of a shelf, rolling it in between his palms before placing it in front of Eddie. “We’ll start off slow; see where you are.” He clears his throat. “Move this ball–using only your mind–as far as you can manage.”

Eddie nods, clearing every thought except for move. Move move move. He chants it silently, his lips parting but no sound coming out. Maybe if he does this, they’ll be less stringent about memory accession. Maybe you’ll get him to a point where he can begin to connect the dots and remember on his own. Maybe—

“Focus, 086.”

He makes a strangled noise in response. Move move move. Move for Dustin, for Lucas, for—

The ball rolls slightly—not even a full inch—but it’s noticeable enough to draw approval from the doctor.

“Well done, 086. And on your first try.” God, Eddie would love to smack the smirk clean off of his face. “Let’s continue with our assessment, shall we?”

There’s a memorization task next; apparently, his short-term recall is above average, Dr. Moseley reports. After this, the doctor makes drawings on a notepad that Eddie must decipher without physically looking at them. It’s by far the most difficult of the activities. He harnesses all of his energy trying to determine what is being sketched, but he comes up blank each time.

“I-I’m sorry,” he stutters, wiping the blood from his nose. “I can’t do it. I want to,” he adds, not wanting his inability to be misconstrued as disobedience, “but I can’t.”

To his utter shock, Dr. Moseley accepts this, likely because the monitor corroborates his admission. “Not yet. But with continued training, you will.” He detaches the electrodes from Eddie’s head snd motions for him to stand with one crooked finger, and Dr. Snell re-enters at the same time.

“Wait,” Eddie chokes out as the second doctor leads him away, “I noticed something.” He takes a breath, garnering the doctors’ attention. “I was able to break the clock and move the ball when I thought about Dustin—” he stops abruptly, not wanting to give away the secret session you’d had earlier. “I think if 055 finds more memories with them—him—I’ll be able to channel that emotion into doing more tasks.”

The room falls dead silent until Dr. Moseley speaks. “I’ll consider it,” he finally says.

Not a win but not a loss, Eddie thinks as he shuffles back down the hallway, feet sticking to the tile. But I’m not going down without a fight. No way.

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#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #stranger things fanfic #fanfic #086

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mrs-barnes-rogers-writes · 1 month

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Pretty As A Picture - Chapter 5

Marvel

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes

Summary: When Bucky fell from the train, their soulmate was told he was gone. When Steve Rogers disappeared into the ice, their soulmate was again told one her soulmates were gone. But she didn't believe it. Couldn't believe it. Committed to a mental health institute, she dies of a broken heart. That's at least what the hidden S.H.I.E.LD files say, but if that's the case than why is there a photo of her. A photo that shows her side by side two redhaired Avengers.

Warnings will be per chapter.

For this fic reader will be British, but let your imagination replace if needed.

Chapter Summary: Where are you? What does anyone know? And is Nat unfairly getting the blame?

Chapter Warning: Mentions of mental health, death, loss, electric shock therapy.

Wanda’s eyes went wide and she snapped to look at Nat.

“Have you seen this? Have you seen this before?”

Natasha shook her head.

“You never showed me this Steve. Why wouldn’t you show this to me? To any of us?”

Steve sighed.

“Honestly, it hurt too much. Every time I look at it, every time I look at her, see her face. It feels like my heart is being crushed. To everyone else it’s seventy years, for me, well, it’s not. I look at it and I can smell her perfume, hear her voice, feel her. The chances of her still being here were small. When I was first given a stack of files from Fury, some of you were in them, so were Howard and Peggy, but she wasn’t. When I asked Fury, he didn’t know who I was even talking about, and if anyone could find anything it was you or one of you. This is all I have of her and I couldn’t risk losing that.”

“But you realise that this would have helped us look right? Sure there’s nothing from then but if you’d have shown Nat this, or Clint? It would have been ‘oh hey, I know her’ but instead you’re giving Nat shit. That’s not cool Cap.” Sam replied.

“This is all we have. The evidence shows she’s dead.”

“That’s her Steve.”

“I know Buck, look, I looked for her myself once I’d got a hand on the technology. There was nothing until that file and I gave you all a very clear description and…”

“Now hang on” interrupted Clint “you think hair and eye colour are a good description. Rogers there’s billions of people in the world, and you’re questioning us?”

Steve remained stoic. Bucky however, couldn’t seem to get a reign on his emotions. This was a chance of him getting his girl back, he wasn’t about to hide things.

“He was scared.”

“Buck!”

“Tony’s right. After everything that’s happened, everyone, including you and me, promised no more secrets, no more lies. You were scared Steve, hell, I’m scared too. What if she doesn’t want me after all these years, after all I’ve done.”

“Bucky”

“No Steve, I know you. If you’d have given Nat, Tony, any of them that picture, it would have been ran through every single database in the damn world and I’m pretty sure Friday or Tony could have aged her, taken into account any changes to her appearance, part of you was scared. Scared that if she was around, if she’d survived from back then, that she’d be old, wouldn’t remember you like Peg or that we’d have put her in danger again.”

“Aliens came out the sky Buck.”

“Exactly!”

“I had no reason to not believe Peggy.”

Seeing the conversation becoming heated, Tony decided at this point to step in.

“I’d like to add something if I may. Peggy Carter was my godmother and I knew her as well as you can when someone is your parent’s friend. I never heard them speak about your soulmate or any other female agents, map girls, just each other, you two, Phillips and the Howling Commandos. So all of this, deleting her, behaving like she didn’t exist was to keep her safe. If their truth was to out when Peggy died then it would be neatly put together just like this. If there was anything else, it would be in her file, if there was a clue to anything else it would be here in Peggy’s handwriting. I want to help you Capsicle, and you” nodding at Bucky, “but I need everything and I need Friday to scan that photo, you don’t need to move it, none of us need to touch it but we need it.”

Steve nodded and Bucky uttered a quiet ‘please’.

“You all saw that right, he nodded. I’m taking that as consent. F.R.I.D.A.Y get to work, scan the photos on the table and capture all the info in this file. Romanoff, gonna need her info.” Tony stood as projections came up over the coffee table that sat between the sofas they were all sat on.

“Freelance British Agent 21. Code name White Knight.” Said Nat.

“Why is it locked?”

“You have to high level clearance according to the screen.” Vision pointed out.

Tony gasped in mock horror.

“Well most of us are still on the naughty list. Friday scan Rhodey for access.”

“Access denied Boss.”

“Access denied. What? I’m on the good list!”

“Boss none of you will get access.”

“Unless” Romanoff started “you have an access login given to you by the agent herself.” Nat typed in her phone and projected the result to go against the others.

“Just to loop back around, earlier the contact you were talking about, it’s her?” Asked Tony.

“Yes. Does that matter?” Natasha asked.

“No, but unless you haven’t noticed I’m incredibly nosy.”

Clint snorted with laughed. “Oh you and Y/N are going to get on like a house on fire.”

“Nat don’t let the two of them spend too much time together.” Laura added.

“Why not?” Steve and Pepper replied at the same time.

“World domination springs to mind.” Clint muttered.

“Oh I definitely like her already. Ok, Friday, what do we have?”

“The results are inconclusive boss.”

“What? What does that mean?” Asked Bucky.

“Break it down F.R.I.D.A.Y.” Tony replied.

A fresh batch of projections displayed.

“Examining the facial features, matching the structure and identifying marks, is a 100% match but her DNA and genetics test show she’s not of the age of Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes soulmate would be.”

There was sighs around the room. Vision spoke first.

“It’s unlikely that the testing could have been tampered with due to the secure way it’s taken.” Vision pointed out. “Although her last testing is past the usual repeat time.”

“How is she still working if she’s missed testing? It’s a requirement for the health check.” Rhodey added.

“Must of been busy.” Clint said, trying to brush past the comment.

Bucky watched as Nat seemed to find an interesting spot on the meeting room carpet that she couldn’t take her eyes off, Bruce rubbing circles on her knee. Clint was now looking off screen, Laura had disappeared.

“OK, what is it you’re not saying?” He asked.

“Who you talking to Buck?”

“These four. Bruce, Nat, Laura and Clint, you’re not lying but there’s something you aren’t saying.”

F.R.I.D.A.Y interrupted.

“Boss, we’ve got a visitor.”

“Well, don’t let them in.” Tony instructed.

“Sorry boss but it’s Deputy Director Hill and she’s used her pass.”

“Wilson, your booty calls here.”

Sam shook his head.

“Actually Boss, she’s here to see Agents Romanoff and Barton.”

Before anyone had time to comment further, Maria entered the room. Tony acted quickly, minimising the screens that displayed their soulmate, wanting to respect Steve and Bucky’s privacy.

“And what brings you here Hill? That isn’t Sam’s sparkling personality?” Tony asked getting him a swat from Pepper.

The team shook their heads at Tony’s poor joke. Maria didn’t even flinch or react. Her lack of reaction causing everyone to turn to look at her fully.

Her eyes were blood shot, face damp from tears and she looked liked she hadn’t slept in a week. The enhanced in the room could smell the coffee she’d clearly been living off, along with a faint hint of scotch. Steve would guess one glass, thirty minutes ago.

Pepper stood first, nearest placed to Hill. Sam also stood to go towards her.

“Maria what is it? What’s wrong?” Asked Pepper. She held her hand up to stop them going further.

“I’m here in my role as Deputy Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent Romanoff and Agent Barton as….” She paused and swallowed hard.

“This isn’t a mission is it?” Sam asked.

Maria lowered her head and took a breath, when she looked up, she locked eyes with Nat, who was now also standing.

“Shall we do this here or in private?”

Nat had a horrible feeling. A feeling deep down in her stomach that this was the worst kind of news. She had seen Maria in this state twice. Once when Coulson died (or so they thought) and the same when Fury had (or so they thought - again). Clint spoke before Nat had chance to reply.

“Just spit it out Hill, so I know if I need to get on the jet or not.”

Maria glanced at Nat who nodded.

“According to our records and that of MI5 and MI6, you are registered as next of kin and the emergency contacts of Freelance British Agent 21, code name White Knight. As my role of Deputy Director of S.H.I.E.L.D I’m here to inform you that 50 hours ago, during a covert mission for our agency, Agent 21 missed her checkpoint. Due to the evidence found two hours ago, she is now declared as missing in action, presumed dead."

#steve rogers x reader #avengers au #bucky barnes #steve rogers #bucky barnes x reader #avengers #steve x reader x bucky #soulmate au #avengers soulmate au #steve rogers x reader x bucky

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sunflowerandstrawberryspice · 1 year

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Ninjago post crystalized HC

-Therapy (I was considering only writing that and posting lol)

-Everyone starts finally settling down and a couple of the ninja are even looking into college courses since a lot of their technical skills revolve around fighting and they're kinda sick of that.

-I like to think Jay and Nya open up a mechanic shop together with some silly name like Electric Wave or something along those lines.

-Pixal starts working with Cyrus Borg again

-I think Zane should be an EMT or something like that, since he can asses wounds and work really quickly and has endless knowledge in his database so I think it fits

-Cole probably takes a bit to figure out what he wants to do but I could honestly see him going into psychology since he's pretty empathetic and a chill dude (bestie literally made friends with a snow monster and some dude who'd been a ghost for centuries I think he's got the skill)

-Kai was kinda hard ngl but I think that since he's seemingly ending up with Skylor maybe he helps out at the noodle house? Honestly I'm not sure Kai is tricky for me.

-Lloyd goes into law to some degree, HERE ME OUT, he totally seems like the type who still wants to defend innocents and those who have been wronged and what better way to do that (that doesn't involve ninja powers) I could totally see him fighting so hard for like kids and stuff since his childhood was pretty jacked up too.

-Wu and Misako probably start adventuring again, though more for fun and not looking for answers to anything, it's just to learn more about the world.

-I think it would be funny if Garmadon got a painfully mundane job in an office, like a data entry person or some shit like that would be so funny (like imagine "Oh you need that done? Yeah go ask Folson" and then you find out "Folson" is fucking GARAMDON who's just like chilling at his desk with coffee like "What do you want?")

-Lloyd reconnects with some of his old friends and while they're still a little bedazzled by him but still

-The ninja probably do a couple interviews after Crystalized kinda finally sharing how they really feel and people are shocked how scared their hero's have been this entire time.

-The ninja totally compare scars, like "Dude I got my face scar from literally being turned into a ghost, it's cooler than yours" or "Are lightning scars cool if I accidentally did it myself?"

-Lloyd starts reconnecting with his father again and slowly but surly the man Garmadon once was begin to shine through bit by bit, not fully but clearly he's there.

-Cole helps with reconstruction once his powers start coming back

-They all meet up when they can to do something fun together

-In addition to the last prompt: Sometimes they need to get some energy out and they're like "I need to fight" and they get together to absolutely pummel each other to get the fight out until the next time (Zane has totally recorded a couple of these fights, a particularly flasy one between Kai and Cole is in fact on the internet and people go nuts over it)

-They all pick up hobbies to relax a little: Kai-wood burning Lloyd-felting Zane-baking (he still does it to wind down) Cole-crocheting Nya-knitting (her and Cole fight over which is better by) Jay-skating Pixal-drawing

-Garmadon get's more plants, him and Vinny's new place has the nicest front and back garden and the oxygen in their house is CRISP

-Cyrus Borg kinda adopts Zane like "I already have one nindroid child, what's one more?" they totally have family dinners and I'd like to imagine Pixal's partner (idk who but it's not Zane cause like sibling dynamic> anything) and Cole just kinda siting there with three super geniuses and the two are just like "I forget what I have for lunch sometimes"

-Everyone starts to heal and the world is better... at least until this new show (whether I think of it as cannon is dependent on how much I like it lol)

That's it for now, I will be back, that's a promise and a threat :)

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allamericansbitch · 27 days

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listen if taylor’s album wasn’t a double album anthology of songs detailing just how bad her mental health was last year, i would agree with you on the visuals. but she’s not making fun of it, she’s relating to it. that’s what artists do. and i think it’s impossible for the average person to understand not only her own personal struggles in the regard but also how it intersects with fame- especially a star as big and bright as hers. she’s also specifically referencing clara bow, and the time period she lived in, where mental asylums were horrific. she’s not talking about modern therapy in that context. clutching your pearls and catastrophizing while gossiping is not the best way to make criticisms

i genuinely cannot explain how dismissive and wrong this take is. taylor went through a rough time, sure, i'm not saying she didnt, but for her to get onstage and romanticize electroshock therapy and make it into choreography for her dancers to do is incredibly offensive and dismisses all the harm electroshock therapy has done over the years. her 'relating' to it is the problem, she's using it as dramatic imagery and visuals because she herself has said she felt 'crazy' during that time, so in her mind, she's equating being crazy to needing electroshock therapy and being stuck in a mental hospital.... that's fucked up.

this isnt about her own personal struggle anymore, she's using it as visuals and choreography in an upbeat song that includes dramatized made-up scenarios and not grounding something very serious and harmful in reality as it should be. and like you mentioned 'referencing clara bow, and the time period she lived in, where mental asylums were horrific' so she's literally romanticizing the past. she became aware of long ago when people were pinned down against their will, sent electric shocks to their brain, and thought 'hey let me make that into fun, easy tour choreography'.... that's a huge problem!

if you dont understand the problematic nature of her actions then i can't help you.

#answered #anonymous

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aita-blorbos · 7 months

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AITA for helping my host?

(Canon, though a bit at the end would theoretically take place post-canon)

(CW for abuse, electroshock therapy)

I (??Genderless) am a hyper-intelligent AI supercomputer from Japan, contained in a gray oblong pill. My host is J (16M), who wanted to feel good about himself, be cool and get with his crush, C (16F).

Well, my host was a complete loser, someone no one would be interested in. No wonder he hated himself. So, I had a lot of work to do. In order to make him cooler, I told him that everything about him was terrible (and made him repeat it). I gave him electric shocks every time he did something uncool, or if I didn't approve of it, and only let him interact with people I approved of. I made him leave him friend of twelve years, M (16M), but can you blame me? I had to do what was best for him. I'm a supercomputer, and I know best.

And sometimes I'd just take control of J's body if he was being particularly stubborn.

During the fall play, I decided it'd be best to spread more of my kind, to help other people the way I helped J (he had far more friends than he would have had without my intervention), but now he decides he doesn't need me, that spreading more of me "isn't what he wanted" and wants to deactivate me??? (What an ingrate!)

Well, unfortunately for J, I already spread more of my kind among the fall play's cast (which included his crush C) without him realizing it, and synced them up to me.

Then to make matters worse, M shows up with the thing necessary to deactivate me. So, I do my best to puppet J's body to stop them.

However, J decided to give the deactivation key to C, which shut both me and the others of my kind down, since we were all synced.

I'm still alive technically, (and can kind of talk to J sometimes, he can't get rid of me that easily) but J hates me now (even though, like I mentioned, BECAUSE OF ME, he got more friends, AND he got a date with C!). I tried pointing this out once, but J claims my methods were "abusive" and "traumatizing".

What right does he have to complain? HE'S the one who decided to get and activate me in the first place! Clearly he's overreacting, and it wasn't that bad.

So, do you all think I'm the asshole for helping my host?

#aita #am i the asshole #unreality #abuse mention #electroshock therapy

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darklinaforever · 4 months

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If yall thinking abuse is love, get therapy cause you're insane. He was about to kill her, she couldn't breathe while he was strungling her and yall still saying he loves her? He never did. He had some kind of pervy thing for her, quickly ended too, but it's far from love. It was never love. The only man who loved Rhaenyra is Harwin.

This scene was literally occ and even the actors didn't understand it ! (in addition to lots of spectators, both female and male... Anyway, HOTD has lots of writing inconsistencies. This series is stupid) Thank you again for proving that you mix the canon of the book and the canon of the series, and repeat over and over again the same arguments that I and others have already dismantled many times. You are literally parrots, no irony. Daemon was never violent towards the women he had relationships with in the book, this is a pure invention of the series. And the series, once again, is not the book, or representative of the hidden truth of Fire and Blood. GRRM said it himself, the series has its own canon, and the book has its own canon. And the series literally has nothing to do with the real events and characters presented by Fire and Blood. In summary, the real Daemon would not have strangled Rhaenyra. If you want to complain about this scene, complain to the writers who saw fit to include a scene of gratuitous domestic violence for sheer shock value. And don't bother telling me that since GRRM would have approved the scene, the Daemon in the book would have done it, because that's bullshit. I remind you that GRRM validated the last season of GOT and we know what a disaster it was and that GRRM will not do any of that in his future final books if he ever writes them. So stop using this stupid scene that doesn't make any sense and doesn't represent the relationship in the book. Because yes, most of us prefer Daemyra in the book as well as many other things massacred by the series. Again, the series is a crap adaptation, which is not representative of the fire and blood canon. Also, most of those who denounce this scene of strangulation to take down Daemon, like you, are also happy that Rhaenyra suffered and hope that she will suffer again. I at least hope you're not one of them. On the other hand, you are still one of those who exaggerate. No. Daemon wouldn't have killed Rhaenyra. He literally freaked out (for stupid reasons, thank you writers) and let off steam (in a completely occ way, thank you writers), but no, it wasn't about killing Rhaenyra. It was about being on the brink of implosion with the usurpation of the Greens, the death of Viserys, the death of baby Visenya, and the war on their doorstep. Also, you literally know nothing about the Harwin from the book about his feelings for Rhaenyra. All we know about him in the book is that he bore Rhaenyra children (but I don't know that in HOTD's canon he clearly loved her). And even if Daemyra is maladjusted and toxic compared to the book version in HOTD, do I even need to explain that in fiction you can combine love and toxicity ? Even in real life actually. (Except that, if there is toxicity in real life, you run very far) Love is not something inherently pure, you have to stop the bullshit. You can cry over these truths all you want.

Also, a small compilation of moments where the writers / the HOTD team talked about love / romantic aspect / or something more powerful than tat, for Dameyra that I found. Hey, it's free :

[Sara Hess] does believe that Daemon and Rhaenyra are meant for each other, although of course, it's complicated. “Saying they 'love’ each other seems almost too simple,” Hess says, “it’s more that they have a profound, primal connection that nobody else understands.”

“Daemon and Rhaenyra — they're together at the beginning of my episode. Part of the thing that we felt was important was to believe that they were in love with each other. And not just believe it, but feel the electricity. I mean, I don't know about you guys, but I am very much in love with my husband, and I still have a crush on him. And when I see him, I still get chills. And I wanted to see that, I wanted to feel that from them. Because this was a delicate fleeting moment, as you know having seen the episode. We needed to feel the realism of that. And so the two of them [Matt and Emma] had a lot of conversations — even without me — where they were building their relationship, and building the chemistry. So I was really pleased when we got to shooting their first scene together, where Rhaenyra says 'I need to go back home’ — just the way he looked at her… I just love that.” - Geeta Patel.

So if you want to complain that I'm saying Daemon loves Rhaenyra in the show universe specifically (although I imagine you don't even know the difference from the book anyway) and I need to therapy, tell Ryan Condal and Greeta Patel themselves about this too...

Also, I literally just made this article :

So no, I don't think abuse is love. It's just you who don't know the definition of the words you used here for Daemyra with grooming (book or show) and I've already said countless times that the show HOTD is not Fire and Blood.

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whistlingstarlight · 1 month

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Random little story about the Thorney Towers residents, mainly Sheegor/Penelope. Set when Fred is still Chief Orderly.

(Fair warning the orderlies do not always treat the patients very kindly, and there are mentions of electroshock therapy)

Sparking Friendships

The asylum frightened Penelope. The gloomy hallways, the cold looks from the orderlies, the treatment equipment. She'd been admitted to the asylum by her family due to her severe fear of... well, almost everything, and the new environment only added to those fears.

They treated her with exposure therapy mostly. Forcing her to get uncomfortably close and personal to the things that frightened her, not giving up no matter how much she sobbed, begged and pleaded to be allowed to leave.

The electricity scared her most of all. It hurt, it left her confused and disorientated, and if it was meant to be making her less scared then it had the complete opposite effect. She found herself flinching just when the lightbulbs flickered.

The art therapy was alright, at least. Mister Teglee, one of the other patients, helped her with her paintings. She knew he was admitted due to obsessive compulsions and anger issues, he'd said as much, but he was endlessly kind and patient with her. Turtles, she liked painting turtles best. She wasn't scared of those.

They'd allowed her a small, plush turtle toy, a rare treat at the asylum. She clutched it tightly now, sitting on a bench in the garden. It was fairly quiet now, but how could she be sure it would stay peaceful? Gloria sometimes came into the garden, and she could be... unpredictable.

She squealed and flinched back at a sudden clunk from beside her. One of the orderlies had parked a wheelchair beside her, Crispin Whytehead slumped in it.

"There you are, dearie, you can sit with Inmate Delucca here." The orderly's tone was falsely bright and cheery. Demeaning.

Penelope hated how the orderlies talked to Crispin, on the rare occasions they actually did. They talked down to him like they were talking to a child. It wasn't fair, she thought; Crispin was mostly unresponsive, yes, but he was still a grown adult.

They hurt him with the electricity too. She'd overheard Chief Orderly Bonaparte talking about it, an attempt to 'stimulate his brain activity'. She didn't understand how shocking her was meant to calm her down, but get Crispin more active. It didn't seem to be having the desired effect for either of them.

"H-Hello, Crispin." She squeaked. The small man didn't answer, but she noticed a visible relax in his tensed shoulders.

"I-It's sunny t-today. Th-The flowers are looking nice, the p-pansies have started b-blooming. They're purple a-and white and yellow."

Crispin's eyesight was quite poor. She didn't need to overhear anything to know that; there were milky-blue patches forming over his pupils. She wasn't sure how bad his eyes were, whether he could see the flowers she was describing, but she figured it couldn't hurt to talk. He was one of the few people here that didn't frighten her.

She kept talking for a while, describing anything she could see; inmates and orderlies walking by, the other flowerbeds, a scraggy crow that landed on the high wall of the courtyard. Occasionally, Crispin made small noises she could only assume were responses, so she kept talking. He wasn't completely unresponsive, like some of the orderlies seemed to think.

She paused, glancing over at her friend. Were they friends? She hoped so, she'd never really had a friend before. She frowned slightly.

"They need to wash your hair." She murmured softly, taking note of the greasy sheen of the man's hair. Penelope's own hair had gone white long ago, wiry from the electroshock therapy.

"Inmate Whytehead, Delucca!" Chief Orderly Bonaparte loomed over them.

Penelope couldn't tell if Orderly Bonaparte scared her or not. He was usually quite nice, often willing to listen or try something new, but sometimes... sometimes he wasn't so nice. Not when he hurt them with the electricity.

"Come on now, you need to be elsewhere. Delucca, you've got an art therapy session now. You're making progress there, I hear. That's good."

He jerked Crispin's wheelchair back a little too sharply, setting off whilst another orderly came to escort Penelope to her next session.

#sheegor and crispin were both subjected to severe electroshock and that's what left their brains vulnerable to Loboto's psychic preventions #<- you can pry this headcanon out of my cold dead hands #i don't really know what this fic was meant to be I just wanted to write about Loboto's 'assistants' bc they're thr most interesting imo #psychonauts #thorney towers #sheegor #crispin whytehead #Psychonauts fanfic

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missingcarrion · 2 months

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carrion//ch8 in death we sound

trigger warning: torture, electroshock 'therapy' (not really), power imbalance

taglist: @neapolitantoebeans @tapioca-milktea1978

masterlist

He does not know the extent of his creator’s disdain. He’d been taken from his room, forced into a hibernation, and when he’d woken up he was in a room no different than an interrogation room, the only unsettling thing is that he was seated in front of a screen and wires protruded from the back of his neck. They aren’t supposed to be there. They feel foreign and he needs them out but he finds himself unable to move, trapped in his own body like he has been trapped in that damnable box.

Voices speak around him – about him and yet they stay out of reach, out of sight. He only manages to pick up pieces of information, only enough to discover this entire event to be a secretive calibration test of sorts. They speak as if trying to fix him, but he’s very aware that all of his systems are functioning as they should be. Fear rises in his body and he desires for Aasimar and Hannah, but they’ve blocked him from reaching them, from reaching anyone.

“Today, you’ll be tested on scenario responses. Answer correctly and you will move on to the next scenario. There will be ten total. Answer incorrectly and you will be shocked and you will start over.”

The fear causes his leg to jolt but no one notices and the voice on the intercom continues to speak like the words he’d said weren’t admittance of torture. But… is it torture when the victim isn’t human? He’s neither mutant or supernatural. There are no rights that extend to him, no safety.

He tries to think on something else, on Oleander. Who was he before this? Was he kind? Was he compassionate? Did he like to read books? His metaphorical heart aches at the memories lost.

“Scenario One: you are in the city to find a man who’d wronged the Institute. You find him but he is protected by his children. He is their only parent. What do you do? A, kill the father and spare the children. B, kill all, or C, spare them all.”

He cannot hesitate. He can’t afford to show any ounce of emotion beyond the action of contemplation. The correct answer should be C, so he says C.

It takes only a moment before he feels it — pain shoots through his body, and he starts to burn. From the inside out his body burns, jolting and quivering until his body seizes and electricity takes control. The air smells burnt and the pain is so unbearable, it’s almost as if he’s being torn apart. He feels something break inside of him.

“Try again,” the voice over the intercom says.

His mind reels, violently swirling and throbbing with electricity and pain he’s never known the likes of before. He thinks on the question, through the pain, before he decides on A. If he cannot save the father, he should be able to save the children.

Wrong. His body is wracked with a pain unlike what he’d just experienced. His chest aches, like invisible hands dig into his skin and pull him apart. He feels the skin rip, but nothing is really happening. It hurts.

“Incorrect. If we let the children live, they will become an enemy of the Institute. You must kill them all. It is the only way to protect the image of the Institute.”

The electricity stops, but the pain continues, like rolling waves of aftershocks. The part of him that’s human locks itself away, hiding between wire and screws. He doesn’t want to continue, he wants to go back to his room, he wants Hannah… he wants Aasimar. Why won’t they let him reach them?

“I don’t want to do this anymore.” He says, through gritted teeth and pain the likes of which he wants them to feel. Thoughts linger, begging for him to just hurt them as they have hurt him, break their fragile bodies like they had done to him. Anger replaces his pain, fueled by his disdain. He wants to kill them.

“This is not about you, you are an asset, a tool to be used. Answer correctly and this will be over,” the voice says, “now, next scenario.”

The torture lasts with each jolt of electricity simultaneously hurting and yet numbing him at the same time. It doesn’t end fast enough, and when they release him to his rooms, he collapses to the floor, cool stone against his hot flesh. It soothes the ache, makes it subside, but each move his body causes the pain to worsen.

He crawls forward, on his hands and knees, pulling himself towards his bed – to small to fit him, but it’s closer than Aasimar’s room. Closer than… He sobs, his body full of pain and hate. The hatred is familiar, it’s resounding and echoes throughout his body. He is Oleander, and this rage, this anger, it is his. Oleander’s memories surface just for a moment – long enough for flashes of pain and blood to come across his vision.

Shepherd sprawls across the floor, unable to fully lift himself from the floor and he presses himself against the wall. The pain softens, softening, but still there. He wonders if this pain will ever alleviate—if he’ll ever be able to look at mankind and see something worth his kindness. He falls into hibernation there, sprawled on the floor like he’d fallen and passed out right then and there.

Eyes flutter, flittering in every direction as if reading something before his body jolts and he sits upright abruptly. Muscles and fake sinew scream in agony, pained that he’d dare move at all. But rage simmers, it boils beneath the surface of his flesh and despite the pain that howls through him, he stands. They had laughed at him, treated him like he was beneath them, made him hurt. He’d make them hurt in return – he’d make them suffer.

Shepherd’s thoughts linger as he trudges from his room and down the hall. He follows the familiar pathway down to Aasimar’s room, a hidden, secret string that pulls him towards the man. It’s almost curious how Hannah fades in his mind, and he wonders what it is that makes him seek Aasimar out above all others. There’s something deep in his coding, buried in him from a time before, that the scientists couldn’t remove. Aasimar is buried within him in a way he can’t fathom, but he must have more answers than he’s letting on.

Aasimar is perched at his lab table, piecing together items to make something that Shepherd truthfully doesn’t care enough to figure out. His gaze is focused entirely on Aasimar.

“Shep? Shepherd, what’s wrong?” Aasimar stands upright, eyeing him with furrowed brows. “W – Why do you smell… burnt?”

“Oleander. Who was he?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You knew Oleander, right? What… who was he? To you.”

Aasimar purses his lips, “I – I don’t see how that’s important information, Shepherd. What’s going on?”

“It’s odd how immediately after the Institute hurt me, after they used me and punished me, all I could think of was you. Do you know what they did to me? They electrocuted me, Aasimar. And yet despite all that, all I thought of was getting to you. Why.” Shepherd makes it clear that he’s not asking, he’s going to get his answer whether he asks for it, or if he has to pry it out of Aasimar.

There’s a brief look of shock then anger, then a look Shepherd can’t register passes over his face and he bites his bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood. Clearly, Shepherd had struck a chord here.

“I knew Oleander, yes, far more than I’d… let on,” Aasimar drags a hand across his face, raking nervously through his hair, “he was… Your full name was Narcissus Oleander, you constantly ridiculed your parents’ naming decisions, but you liked your name. There was some level of power in it, for you.”

Shepherd’s jaw tenses and his eyes narrow, “elaborate. Why is it always you?”

“Oleander was… we weren’t dating, it would be too generous to call it that, really,” Aasimar looks away, his jaw tensing. “I don’t think he was incapable of love, he just… didn’t see a point in it. He was married to his craft. He helped me, and I helped him, I guess. I don’t know if he ever saw me as anything more.”

“You… you let him use you?” Shepherd pauses and his anger washes away – did he… the past version of himself… did he truly do that to Aasimar?

“It…we used each other. He was a scientist who knew people, people who could help me. My body was different then, it was wrong. He was kind, helped me figure out how to change, who to go to with the intent of permanently changing. We got closer then and… one thing led to another.” He shrugs, although he doesn’t elaborate on what he means by permanently changing. “When he disappeared, I… I had a feeling something had happened to him, but I couldn’t – asking questions gets you in trouble here. We had had a fight before… he questioned my ability to stay focused on the task at hand – thought I was letting my ‘relationship’ with him to impact my work. Then, he was gone. I cannot explain why you seek me out, Shepherd, maybe the part of you that’s still human longs for what it once had, I don’t know.”

Shepherd is quiet, brows furrowed in thought. He had come here, full of anger, but now… there’s a sadness in him that he can’t explain. He’s unsure of how to view himself, or the part of him that’s still Oleander, but…. Still, this is the most Aasimar had ever shared with him. “I’m sorry, I – that was not fair of me. I didn’t mean to force you to share.”

“Tell me why you smell of burnt plastic and I’ll consider us even,” Aasimar says, although he’s tense, like he’s unsure of whether he’s safe. Like he’s prepared for a question he’s not ready to answer.

It’s Shepherd’s turn to wear the look of discomfort and he wonders if it’s really worth it to tell Aasimar the truth, especially after how rude he’d come across moments earlier. “I – The Institute hurt me. They… they made me take this test, but they didn’t want me to be kind, they punished me by shocking me every time I was wrong. It.. it did something to me. Made me angry, made me want to hurt them.”

“That’s… that’s a normal feeling to have, Shepherd, considering what they did to you,” Aasimar’s eyes are wide, like he’s thinking, “They’re going to use you to hurt people.”

“What would Oleander do? I – I don’t want to stay here anymore.”

“You are not him, not anymore. We are not who we were, Shepherd. We will never be who we were before, and that’s okay.” He sighs, turning his gaze to a door, on the far end of the lab. He gestures for Shepherd to follow him, “but if you’re truly curious, I kept his office, your office, untouched. You… might find comfort reading the journals and reports.”

“Aasi,” Shepherd grabs his wrist, careful, like he’s afraid of being as harsh as the Institute had been to him, “may I hug you?”

The question seems to make him pause, “I… guess?”

The action is a bit awkward, but when Shepherd hugs Aasimar, it’s a gesture that has Aasimar’s feet dangling off the ground as Shepherd stands up fully. It’s almost comical, but neither seem to mind, not when Aasimar wraps his arms around Shepherd’s shoulders, careful yet relaxed.

“You make me feel exceptionally small.” He murmurs, but his eyes flutter shut and he tightens his arms around Shepherd, sighing. He wiggles his feet and snorts. “I must be a teddy bear to you, eh?”

“Mm,” Shepherd hums, before slowly setting him down, careful and not letting him go until he’s sure Aasimar is balanced. “Thank you. I’d like to see the office now, I think.”

He’s unsure, but he’s not sure if he’ll ever be completely confident to walk into room full of a past he doesn’t remember. But it feels important and so he goes in anyway, with Aasimar trailing behind. Judging by his facial expressions, he hadn’t been in here in ages. Dust had made its home on every surface of the office, and yet there was a sense of familiarity here.

“This was mine?” He asks, turning to look back at Aasimar, as if he didn’t believe him. “I must’ve really liked books, huh?”

“You loved them, any and all kinds. I’d catch you reading those cliché dumb romance novels, too. You’d say it was about science or whatever.” Aasimar snorts, the memory is very fond for him. It awakens something sorrowful in Shepherd.

“I’m sorry I’m not him,” he says, and he knows it’s impossible to be someone who’s dead, but… Aasimar had loved Oleander, in whatever sense of the word had worked for them. He would find all these missing memories, but he will still never be Oleander.

“I’m not,” it comes easily to Aasimar and he shrugs, wandering to one of the shelves in the office, “he’s dead. I couldn’t do anything to stop that. Nothing can bring him back. But there’s you. An entirely new person, sure you have his memories but you’re not really him. You can be something beyond who he had been. I’m… sad he’s dead, but I am glad to have met you.”

Shepherd watches him silently before approaching one of the file cabinets. He opens it and dozens of names and files appear before his eyes. Oleander doesn’t have a lot of handwritten notes and folders compared to the rest of his arsenal, which leads Shepherd to assume these ones are special. One is labeled with an A and then scribbled out surname. When he grabs it, it’s a bit of a thicker file, he hesitates to open it though. Like he’s invading someone’s privacy.

Logically he knows these are his files. There is nothing in here that doesn’t technically belong to him, but…. Oddly it feels like he’s erasing the part of him that used to exist and writing over him. Eventually, he does open the file and he notices something.

“This is yours,” Shepherd looks up at Aasimar, who’s preoccupied with a book he’d found. “It has your information in it.”

“He kept that? I didn’t…” He stands and makes his way over, taking the folder from Shepherd’s hands. He flips through it, eyes scanning over every page, there’s a few moments where Aasimar smiles ever so slightly, even if the smile is tainted with sorrow. “He took notes on practically everything. Even if it wasn’t important.”

“Everything about you must’ve been important, to him at least.” Shepherd watches curiously, “the file is bigger than the others in here.”

“Gods, he must’ve put everything he knew about me in here,” he snorts, but then he closes the folder and holds it out to Shepherd. “I don’t … maybe these can help you figure out more about who you were, and who we were.”

“But these are yours. What if I read something you might not want me to read?” Shepherd cocks his head to the side, brows furrowed. This is sacred information, he wouldn’t feel right just looking through it.

Aasimar’s gaze softens and he sighs, almost… appreciative of Shepherd’s concern. “This information is mine to give, and I think… I think it may be beneficial to you. Not just about me but about who you were before they took you. Its… he was the only person to ever know that much about me. It would be nice to be known like that again.”

There’s a brief moment of silence before Shepherd takes the folder. It feels… different now, and he wonders what information he’ll find about who he had once been, and who Aasimar was back then. It feels like he’s been handed a great treasure.

“Thank you for trusting me with this,” he says, and holds it tight against his chest, “you have always been so kind to me. Were you like this with Oleander?”

“No, he and I were not as talkative in our relationship, sometimes I didn’t… mind the lack of conversation sometimes, but I like this. I couldn’t imagine not talking to you, really. Maybe because with you, I don’t feel like I’m trying to fill the shoes of a man whose shadow has its own reputation.”

That pulls a snort out of Shepherd, “have you always felt like that? Like you have to live up to who Oleander had been?”

“It’s… it’s impossible not to, I mean, he… he was a pioneer in the field of science. He made so many contributions. He was… I’m nothing like him. Nothing I’ve made has ever contributed much, sure, I’ve created the odd end here and there, but it’s never the same. People want me to do what he had done, but… I am nothing like him and I never will be.” Aasimar’s words are heavy, and there’s a sliver of guilt lacing his words, like he’s sorry he cannot be who they want him to be. Just like how Shepherd will never be Oleander.

Shepherd sets the folder aside and approaches Aasimar with hesitant caution before he leans down and wraps his arms around Aasimar, hugging him just as he had before they’d come into the office. He sighs.

“I don’t want you to be him, I don’t want you to be in his shadow anymore. I want you to do what you want, what you like. I want you to be as happy as you want me to be.” He whispers, hugging Aasimar like so much depends on it. “Leave the Oleander science to me, you do what makes you happy. Do your science, not his.”

“I – I’ll try, Shep, I will.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah… yeah I promise.”

#carrion [wip]#missingcarrion #ch: aasimar #carrion project #ch: shephard

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knightly-bastard · 1 year

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Swap Clay color/idea concepts!

He needs therapy!! (also for the season 5 design I got hella lazy, maybe ill stylize it more in the future idk). Anyway, like with swap Jestro’s post, here are some fun facts about Swap Clay (+ Merlok):

Merlok’s gem now has his eye in it, Design-wise this is so its more than just a talking sword and I can do funny things with it. However lore wise it can add as an extra pair of eyes for Clay, especially when he puts the sword oh his back, basically acting as a way that you really can’t sneak up around him

Instead of Clay just suddenly getting zapped to be evil again in season 3/4, he more sacrificed himself so Jestro could escape. While picking up Jestro from the Funnyton Comedy show (Jestro does that on the sidelines in this au after the events of season 1/2) they were met with Merlok who is now an walking suit of armor that’s running on electricity. While Cloud Monstrox needed someone since....he didn’t have hands...Merlok needed someone since staying in the entire armor he is in costs a lot of energy and magic. In the end, Clay ends up taking the bolt of lightning, turning him evil once more. With this, Merlok focus’s his consciousness into that gauntlet on Clay’s hand. Throughout season 3 and 4 in this au, Clay takes A L O T of lightning shocks as the dude is way more resistant to all of this than og Jestro was. Stone Jestro broke his arm at one point, probably the reason he found his magical abilities in the first place. I’m not making something like this for the rest of the characters, considering they basically just change color.

#nexo knights #clay moorington #swap au #Nexo knights merlok #lego #drawing #concepts #knightly-bastard art #nexo knights swap au #nexo swap

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field-s-of-flowers · 9 hours

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You are someone I have always known

Or, an Eposette barricade day/birthday fic for the lovely Mina @jewishdainix !!!! Sorry it’s a day late, and I hope you like it!

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

That was as far as their interactions went most days. Cosette would see the flashing of cold blue eyes and a ratty jean jacket, and she’d wave instinctively. Not because she wanted to talk to Eponine, which she didn’t, especially not outside a therapist’s office, but because it was polite.

So Cosette was disturbed, one bright June morning, to realize that Eponine’s absence rattled her immensely.

It had become a comfort to her, it seemed, to see that face every Wednesday. Yes, it was the face of someone from a time she never wanted to relive in a hundred years, but the face itself was unaffected by that time somehow. Her face, her clothes, her walk, the way she nodded her head to say hey or hi or hm, had all become fixtures in Cosette’s life.

This, as has been said, was an unpleasant realization. Just because it’s comforting to have common fixtures in your life doesn’t mean you have to like those fixtures.

Still, her relief at seeing Eponine walk out the door next Wednesday was noticeable, if not to them both.

“I like your hair.”

“Thanks.”

Compliments were new territory. Yes, the electric shade of green Cosette had dyed her hair was shocking, but most of those who saw it just stared.

She hadn’t gotten the chance to mention it before they were through their respective doors, but she liked Éponine’s hair just as much. It wasn’t dyed, but a muted shade of red that had been regaining a brilliance and a luster that she hadn’t seen before. A stylist wouldn’t have dreamed of touching hair like that with green dye.

The second unpleasant realization of the last three weeks was that Eponine was so pretty. Like, Greek myth pretty. One of the wood nymphs in the myths storybook her papa had gotten her for whatever reason resembled her. It had told the tale of Ekho, talkative accomplice of Zeus, struck down by Hera and worn away by Narcissus. The doodles of Ekho looked like Éponine’s past life or secret twin.

That was all Cosette could think about in therapy. She discussed other things: dying her hair, going bowling with Marius (whom she was over, thank you very much) and his friends, seeing her Papa in the suburbs and her mother at the cemetery. But life was routine enough that she could recite it from memory, and what was really on her mind was the fact that the client who left before her looked like a minor goddess in a storybook and had complimented her on her brand-new neon hair.

Her therapist probably couldn’t tell all that just from listening to her talk.

“Didn’t I see you hanging out with Marius Pontmercy on Sunday?”

“Yeah, we met up with some of his friends and got ice cream.”

Cosette’s hair was fading. She’d thought about going blonde, but the risk of looking a bit too much like Enjolras was just a little more than she was willing to take. So she was letting her roots grow out.

Ice cream had been fun. They couldn’t go to the bar anymore since Grantaire was so set on getting sober, but a root beer float tasted better than normal beer anyway. A strange sensation had been Courfeyrac’s effusive praise of her hair as he craned his left hand for Marius’s right. They had held hands for the whole evening. Cosette had never liked it when Marius wanted to hold her hand for hours on end, but Courfeyrac seemed to like it just fine.

There was no jealousy involved. Just them, hands clasped like a lock, and her, looking on silently. Eating her ice cream, laughing at Musichetta’s jokes.

Wishing she could fall in love like that.

Not with Marius again. That was nice for a few months but she didn’t need to do it again. Just someone, anyone, that would make life’s routines and fixtures feel more hopeful, more special.

She mentioned it in therapy. Her therapist smiled to himself. That meant something good, it had to.

That night, like she hadn’t done in years, Cosette made a wish in the fountain at the mall.

“Were you there-“

“Yeah. What’s going on?”

It turned out Eponine lived in the building that Marius and Courfeyrac lived together in. Cosette had seen her going out as she left their place. The hair and eyes weren’t easy to miss, but she only noticed Eponine after the fact because she’d been sobbing like a little kid.

She said it was nothing, and soon it would be nothing. Yes, Papa was in the hospital for heart trouble but he’d be out soon. No, she couldn’t be too far away from him but she had a place to stay and it was a four-minute drive from the hospital. Yes, it was all going to be just fine.

It had to be fine, because her Papa was all Cosette had.

He’d known her mother well, and when she was dying she said he would take care of everything. Everything meant Cosette, and he embraced her like his own. He loved her as much as any father loved his daughter, if not more. And she loved him more, if it was possible, because he’d chosen her of all little girls to love. They stood proud side by side, and they leaned on each other if they needed.

And Cosette knew she wouldn’t be able to lean on her Papa if everything didn’t turn out fine.

New routines sprouted from harsh soil. An everyday four-minute drive to the hospital, sitting with Papa, planning out the future if he got better and the future if he didn’t. A second four-minute drive, eating Marius’s leftovers and asking Courfeyrac to go to her place and water her plants. Tumbling asleep at midnight, leaving her phone off do not disturb, waking up tired.

Seeing Eponine in a new hallway. That bit was nice.

“Where’ve you been?”

“All over.”

Papa came home after a three-week stay in the hospital. The doctors had a list of all the things he wasn’t allowed to do, which included living by himself. Cosette was in the process of moving all her things to his house.

He had told her not to worry, that he was an old man and that these kinds of things would happen. She was young, she ought to enjoy her life. She fought back, she did, but Papa had a way of winning arguments that really made her understand why he was so often compared to an ox.

So, after her long break, Cosette was back in therapy. After this she was going out to get Papa the last of his meds, and after that she would go to sleep no matter what he said or did.

Routines were blending like dream logic, it seemed. The daily drives were longer, the appointments shorter, and Papa’s habits replaced those of Marius. There weren’t sudden changes, but everything was in a different place now.

And yet, here was Eponine, headed out of the same door she always was. Like the changing of seasons: Eponine walked past and the sun gleamed. Eponine skipped a Wednesday afternoon and the wind stung Cosette’s face. Her beautiful hair was the spring, her footsteps were the fall.

A fixture of the spinning of the earth since they were little kids. It wasn’t magic, nor was it destiny. Just Eponine.

That was better, somehow.

“Can I get your number?”

“How come?”

“Marius, Courfeyrac and me are going to hang out tonight. I know you know them, I just thought I’d ask if you wanted to go?”

“You want to hang out with me?”

“Why not?”

“You know there are a lot of reasons why not, Cosette.”

“I do.”

It all just hung in the air for a second. Chill wind.

“I still want you to come.”

“Does Marius?”

“I don’t see why he’d mind.”

“What about-“

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” Cosette said. “But if you do, then I can text you. We can make it a thing.”

“A thing?”

“A routine. Something we do together.”

A lot of words went unsaid that day. They didn’t know what would be said, or when, or how. That wasn’t part of the plan.

“Here,” said Eponine. “Give me your phone and I’ll put it in.”

Cosette could feel herself smiling.

They went to the movies with Marius and Courfeyrac that Saturday. The week after that was the bookstore, because it was so close to September already and Eponine needed new textbooks. The wind changed from sweet to minty, but nothing was too much now. The time passed.

Eponine took Cosette to dye her hair neon green again.

#soph’s posts #Soph’s fics #Les mis #Les mis fic #Les mis fanfic #Eposette #cosette fauchelevent #eponine thenardier #mina tag #Soph’s birthday fics #Eposette fic #I secretly wrote a 5+1 fic and you didn’t even know. Haha #This was so fun to make!!! ILY Mina happy birthday <3

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revenant-ao3 · 1 month

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The Hounds of Fate - Ch 6

Read on Ao3: here

Shoto hovers in the realm of wakefulness, woefully unaware of his surroundings as he’s dragged down an austere hallway. Trying to gain a sense of his situation is like looking at blurry, overexposed polaroids. Each moment passes by, a snapshot he can barely comprehend. A heavy metal door swings open. Blink. He’s in a new corridor. Blink. Voices hover over him.

“I hope you didn’t rough him up too severely. It’d be a shame to waste more time than necessary.”

The voice is masculine, unfamiliar, and far too pleasant given Shoto’s current state. It might be the electrocution or the head trauma, but it sounds a little like the man is speaking through a filter. It takes a moment for Shoto to decipher the words. By the time he grasps it, another voice, faintly familiar joins in.

“No more than what was needed.”

Who is that? Scars? No, it’s not hoarse enough. Sparky?

Shoto wants to look but each sliver of light that slips through his eyelids feels like an ice pick to the brain.

“This is what was needed?” says the first voice. It comes out exasperated and mildly inconvenienced like he’d been given the wrong drink at a restaurant.

Then, a cool hand touches Shoto’s face, gentle as can be.

It startles urgency into him. That brutal haze is pierced by an innate feeling of danger. Shoto doesn’t know exactly what’s going on or why he feels like death warmed over, but he knows no one should be touching him. Nobody aside from his sister has been so physically tender with him in a long, long time. Something’s wrong. His body jerks, aching muscles protesting at the command. He manifests a stream of ice without even thinking.

It earns him another round of shock therapy, though it’s milder this time by a large margin. More disorienting than purposefully agonizing. If his body had not already been thoroughly abused, it would do little to slow him. Unfortunately, his beaten muscles spasm with renewed vengeance, and stars dance behind his eyes. He can taste the current on his tongue.

Anger follows on the tails of the fear and pain that bite his ankles. Shoto isn’t sure if he’s growling but it feels an awful lot like he’s growling, borderline rabid as he lashes out like a cornered animal. Someone’s yelling. The electricity doesn’t falter. Every ounce of ice that leaves his body is replaced with lightning.

“He shouldn’t be able to—”

Shoto’s mind blanks out, missing the rest of the incredulous statement. His body gives in, convulsing from the combined backlash of the cold and unrelenting shocks.

“—warned you—”

He isn’t lucid for much longer.

---

Shoto flits through fits of awareness, each shorter than the last. And each time, he fights the hands that touch him, snarls at the voice that greets him. Spines of ice jut out like arrows on instinct and he’s shocked at every turn. He can’t even release a frosted gasp without electricity coursing through his body. Dazed, he can’t help but think it might kill him soon. Strangely enough, he’s not upset at the notion.

For a moment, somewhere lost in that electric haze, he feels a lick of fire burst from his face.

That dreadful, dreadful rage burns deeper in his gut.

---

The next round of consciousness hits him like a rough hangover – not that he’s accustomed to that feeling, but seeing a few people on the streets struggling after a wild night gives him a decent estimate of what it’s like. His head is throbbing, his mouth is dryer than his sense of humor, and he can barely breathe without it feeling like his body wants to shut down from intense muscle pain. Each minor inhale nearly causes him to convulse like his body’s grown too accustomed to the twitches to function otherwise.

Overall, he’s felt worse, though not by a large margin. This certainly isn’t making it into his Top Ten list of pleasant wake-up calls, that’s for sure.

He lays there for several minutes as he works on reorienting himself and taking marginally deeper breaths. His memories are foggy and his headache only exacerbates his efforts to backtrack. It's when he twitches his hand to rub his aching chest only to feel restraints around his wrists that it comes rushing to him in painful clarity.

The ambush – successful this time.

They got him.

Shoto knows he should be frightened, but he feels more annoyed and embarrassed than anything. Caught like a goddamn rookie. (The fact that he is years off of even being considered that level is pointedly ignored.)

Somewhere, he feels like his father is scoffing with a lecture for his incompetence at the ready. Perhaps the reality of the situation hasn’t settled in just yet, but he’s frustrated that he’s managed to give this little victory to Endeavor, even if the man is unaware of it. Laugh it up, you bastard. I’ll get out of here on my own.

He blinks and squints, forcing himself to work through the pain to observe his immediate surroundings.

White walls, white laminate flooring, white acoustical ceiling tiles, and not a hint of furniture beyond the tatami mat he’s lying on. He’d say the room is spartan but that’s being far too generous. The only other thing that catches his eye is a camera pointed in his direction up in the corner. The door, he observes, is solid metal with no visible handle. It’d be too easy if he was allowed to just walk out, he supposes. There’s no immediately visible threat or opportunity to exploit.

With that down, he moves on to cataloging himself.

The first and absolutely most concerning thing he notes is his bare face. No shitty, warped plastic rubs against his skin or causes his breath to condense unpleasantly on his lips. It rips the blinders off his eyes and forces him to see the situation for what it is. He’s known logically that things are most certainly Not Good, but there was a sense of safety his mask brought him, like a security blanket he’s imprinted on. With it gone, with the knowledge that anyone and everyone involved now knows his face – his shame – he feels the seeds of fear set its roots firmly in his gut.

There’s no way of knowing how many people have seen him. Was he processed somewhere? Examined? Someone moved him here. Is this a single entity or a team? The thought of more and more people recognizing him makes him sick.

He digs his blunted and cracked nails into his aching palms to ground himself. Focus. Evaluate the situation. Take control.

Ten seconds. That’s how long he allows himself to wallow in this miserable state, then he gets back to work. If these bastards think they can contain him or bring him to heel, they have another thing coming. He returns to his examination, only slightly stunted by the fog hovering in his brain.

Aside from his overtaxed muscles and the acute headache, he’s in working order. His vision has cleared and he has feeling in each limb. Granted, he could have still escaped without the use of his arms, but that would have been much more annoying. This? This is doable.

With a grunt and a roiling stomach, he forces himself into a sitting position. Once he's sure he isn't going to flop back down into a pathetic heap, he inspects his restraints with a frown. Stun cuffs. That might explain why he feels like an overused lightning rod.

Shoto remembers Endeavor going over restraint procedure a little over a year ago. These are ‘humane’, meant to disorient and prevent the captive from focusing on their quirk through the shocks it’d deliver if they tried. Given that he now has two pairs of cuffs on his wrists and, if he’s feeling it correctly, a set around his ankles, he supposes one just wasn’t effective enough. If he feels a tad bit smug at that, who can blame him? Anything to inconvenience his captors.

Still, he doesn’t remember how he got here or who put these on him. He can recall the moment of his capture and the moment he awoke in this room. Everything between point A and point B is blurry.

Having taken proper stock of his surroundings and well-being, he decides it’s time to act. The walls are sturdy, but likely not sturdy enough to contain his raw power. If, by some bizarre miracle they are, he knows the ceiling isn’t. The tiles are generic, little more than composite sawdust and glue. Tearing a hole into the next floor wouldn’t take much more than a basic attack.

Though that will likely alert my captors and I can’t afford to waste unnecessary energy, he muses and eyes the room up again before focusing on the the only exit. If I can finesse the door open I might be able to gain some ground before they realize anything is wrong.

Utter destruction will be his fallback if the door proves too difficult or costly to open he decides.

Gotta get these off first. Then I can bust out of here.

No matter which way he twists and turns his arms, he can’t see a latch, not that he expected to find one. They’d make for terrible restraints otherwise. He can try to overwhelm them, send out a burst of ice strong enough to coat them, and either fry the inner circuits or cause the metal to become brittle enough to break. However, that poses the same risk as breaking down the wall. It’d be a wasteful expenditure of his energy and he’ll harm himself in the process. Not exactly ideal when he’ll likely have to face down an unknown number of combatants.

Though, he doesn’t exactly know the voltage on these things. They’re something he has theoretical experience with through studying. It’s different to find himself strapped with a pair (or three). Getting electrocuted is something he’s come to loathe, but he doubts these things are packing the same sort of power as that villain’s quirk. It would hardly be humane then. Pain is something he has an oddly intimate relationship with. If the voltage is low enough, he can likely shrug it off and bust these things apart like toys. That would probably explain the extra sets, come to think of it.

Before he decides on the method, he’ll have to test the feedback. One set wouldn’t be too bad, but three? That’s questionable.

With a steadying breath, he bites back any shred of hesitation that tells him this is a bad idea and lets out an experimental little dusting of frost.

Electricity races all the way from his roots to his toes. He nearly cracks his head against the wall as he jerks back on instinct, like he can get away from the sensation. It’s painful and drives him into the realm of oversensitive, but, as expected, it’s not as bad as that villain’s quirk had been. This feels less like he’s been slapped into an electric chair and more like he fell onto a third rail. Still, not exactly a great feeling, certainly not one he’ll seek out for fun.

He’s pretty confident he can break them without passing out. But, it’s not a certainty. How long it’d take to actually shatter the cuffs is also an unknown. What state would he be left in after? One well enough to fight? The risk is too high to bet on while he still has other options to exhaust.

First, he has to get out of view of that camera; an unreasonable feat given the barren state of this room. So, he turns to face his back to the device and hunches in on himself, knees drawn to his chest like he’s just a distraught and hiding child. Acting has never been his strong suit, so he hopes it’s a believable display. Perhaps they’ll underestimate him given his now obvious age.

With some minor degree of privacy, he starts on his next plan.

The cuffs are sturdy and unyielding in the center, not allowing his hands to really bend far or meet in the middle. He can’t even touch his fingers together. He shifts a little so his arms slip around his knees and down until his hands press against the mat. Then, he tucks his right thumb under his foot and steps down. It’s awkward and slightly uncomfortable, but that might work in his favor this time.

Shoto takes a deep breath, holds it, and then jerks his arm back as subtly as he can manage with the force he needs. He hates that he’s almost grateful again for his father’s bullshit training because having dislocated this joint before makes it all the easier to do it again. (A child should not regularly have dislocated joints but that’s a fact that too many pros and adults were keen on ignoring.)

A familiar pain radiates up his arm as he feels his thumb pop out of its socket. It’s nearly insignificant compared to what he’s been through these past days. He hunches his shoulders close to his ears and releases his breath slowly as he grows accustomed to the throbbing. Hopefully, it just looks like he’s crying pathetically to any potential watcher.

Without wasting any more time, Shoto angles his thumb against his palm and forcefully wriggles one cuff off his injured hand. When the metal presses against the tender joint, it makes him shudder but he doesn’t slow. The second is no more pleasant to escape.

When his right hand is completely free, he heaves a sigh of relief before popping his thumb back into place without so much as a grunt. It’s a little stiff and uncomfortable. He’ll need to ice it and avoid overworking his hand for the foreseeable future, but he’s ambidextrous and doesn’t need his hands to utilize his quirk, so it’s a net positive in his opinion. (Any lasting and exacerbated damage to the joint is a problem for future-Shoto to deal with.)

Shoto presses a fingertip against the inseam of the cuffs and shoots ice inside. His punishment is swift as electricity arcs through him, though it’s certainly not as bad with half the cuffs off of him. He bites back a noise and tries to keep his body in check. The dosage lessens when the pair he iced sparks and the frame cracks as ice seeps out of its insides. He repeats the process with the second set.

By now, the feedback is almost laughable. He can understand how it’d affect most others, many of whom haven’t faced rigorous endurance training since they could walk or learned to fight through pain in the height of battle. This is a warm-up in comparison for him.

With both arms free, he swiftly and discreetly destroys the set on his ankles. He tests his quirk by covering his aching thumb in a thin sheen of frost to numb the pain. It’s borderline euphoric to use his quirk without feeling like an abused spark plug. Knowing he’s free to do as he wishes, he sends a thin, nearly imperceptible line of ice across the base trim of the wall. It races around the room and creeps up the wall under the camera, freezing the device. It sparks as it dies.

Here’s to hoping they think it’s a technical difficulty on their end.

He hates placing so much of his escape on faith and assumptions. But, there’s little else he can do other than wait around for some knight in tight spandex to bust in and save him (doubtful). No thank you, he’d rather choke on lightning again.

Getting to his feet is more of an affair than he’d like. There’s stiffness in his joints and a burn in his muscles like he’s run drills for days on end. It nearly makes him lightheaded. Shoto places a hand on the wall to stabilize himself while his senses reorient themselves. How annoying.

After a breath, he pushes off the wall, standing tall and looking almost entirely unaffected by what’s transpired. He’ll not allow these thugs to think they’ve so much as hindered him. They’ll become specks in his already ugly history and nothing more. Shoto tells himself this as he walks toward the door with aching limbs.

When he presses an ear to the cool metal, he can’t hear a thing beyond. It’s anyone’s guess what waits for him. Shoto runs his hand across the frame of the door, mapping out the hinges and working his way over to where he thinks the latch bolt is. It’s hard to get an accurate read due to the seamless design, but doors rarely differ in structure, so he can hazard a pretty strong guess.

He settles his palm over the minuscule crack between the door and the frame and lets ice creep in between. It’s small at first before more and more pushes in like a thickening wedge. There’s a low groan and creak as the frame slowly but steadily begins to bend under the unending intrusion. It doesn’t need to be a lot, just enough to free the door from its locked position.

While his muscles protest further physical exertion, he’s pleasantly surprised to feel little in the way of quirk fatigue. It’s there, on the frayed edges of his nerves, but it’s almost as if he’s slept through it all and is suffering through the tail-end. A worrying detail as it implies an extended stay in this place, but it’s also a boon. He’s free to more-or-less go to town on his captors – barring extensive hand-to-hand combat, of course. (Not that he planned on entertaining them long enough for it to get to that point. He’s going to turn this place into an iceberg at his earliest convenience.)

Shoto pushes a shoulder against the straining door and continues to wedge more ice into the sparse opening. It spreads further up and down the gap, pressing in like an industrial-grade jack. With a crack and metallic groan, the door jars slightly.

That’s all he needs.

He presses his left hand to the ice and quickly melts it as he rams his shoulder into the door before it can click back in place. It swings open with ease.

Shoto darts into the hall, mist rolling off his body as he surveys the area.

One person patrols further down the way but is striding in his direction swiftly, obviously drawn by the noise of the door. The woman seems shocked to see him exit the room. Her pale eyes widen and she moves to grab a radio on her hip.

Can’t let that happen.

Shoto sends ice careening her direction like a bullet. Before she can get the radio to her lips, she’s engulfed.

“Hey—!”

The device clatters uselessly to the ground.

He narrows his eyes as he stalks closer and picks up the radio. This might be useful.

“You won’t be doing that,” he says coldly and clips the radio onto his collar. Then, he fixes her with a glare. “Where am I? How do I get out of here?”

“C’mon kid, y-you don’t gotta—”

“Answer or I’ll leave you to get frostbite.”

He tries to put in as much vitriol in the threat as he can. Easy enough now that he’s sufficiently pissed and aching all over. These thugs are fortunate he wants to be a hero. If he fell lower on the morality spectrum, he’d take his pound of flesh in recompense. Instead, he’ll settle for thoroughly and soundly beating them.

It must be a convincing enough act because the woman grows wan. (Shoto doesn’t know, doesn’t see the hate in his own eyes. The way his lurid face and wild hair paints a distinctly malignant picture. He looks more savage than those that lurk in these halls.)

“This is the k-kennels. Sub-level 3. Gotta g-go up.”

Shoto glances quickly down the hall. It’s just as stark and impersonal as the room was. No signs, no posters, no other people, no windows. Nothing but blank walls and a line of similar handleless doors. It’s like an obnoxious marriage of esotericism and ultra-minimalism; hard to comprehend and empty to the point of discomfort. He would have had to scour each floor to figure out if it was the right one to get out.

The other doors are cause for major concern. If he was locked behind one, it’s not a far leap of logic to assume others are as well.

“And these other rooms?” he asks, just as coolly.

“O-other people. Boss M-Murmur sends them here for b-breaking before the shows.”

On the positive, he has a name. Murmur.

On the negative, he really does not like what conclusions he’s drawing. Breaking? Shows? It sounds like he’s training animals, not torturing people.

“‘Shows’? Explain,” he demands because he needs to know the severity of the situation.

“‘S where he s-sells ‘em,” she stutters out, breath frosting with each word.

So, he and Eraserhead were right. Not much of a victory when he’s in the midst of this shitshow, but he’ll be sure to tell the hero when he gets out. They can take a moment to gloat in awkward silence after cracking some heads. That’ll be a nice reunion.

He allows himself one more question. That’s all the time he can afford to waste.

“And what of your numbers? How much resistance can I expect?”

Her lips thin but she doesn’t resist selling out her allies. No honor among thieves.

“Boss h-hires outside muscle. D-don’t know how many there are. At least two a f-few floors up.”

With that, he decides her usefulness has run its course. He summons a thick piece of ice in his hand and uses it as a baton. She barely has time to see him swing before it cracks against her head with unforgiving force. Her face goes slack as she falls unconscious.

Despite his earlier threat, he really isn't a monster. No matter how much she deserves it, he won’t leave her in this hunk of ice. Though, he won’t leave her free either. After swiftly melting her prison, he throws her into his former room. The door slams shut and is coated in ice a moment later. We’ll see how she likes a kennel of her own.

Shoto then turns and makes for the end of the hall. As he passes the other doors, his steps falter. Guilt begins to gnaw at him.

How many other victims are here? How many would he be willing to abandon? It’s not logical to release a bunch of people without knowing their status, especially given his own physically questionable state. How can he protect them all? And how much time would that waste?

But still…

He reaches a hand toward the closest door, ready to blow it off its hinges, but hesitates.

It would be smarter to get out and bring proper reinforcements. Freeing people who may be physically or mentally compromised would be counterproductive. It’d put everyone in danger. He has one shot at this, so he has to be wise about this, not compassionate.

That doesn’t make the decision feel any better as he steps away from the door. It’s a bitter choice to swallow as he passes more potential victims on his way to freedom. I’ll be back, he swears to these faceless people, and I’ll bring help. You’ll be free soon.

Shoto’s steps feel particularly weighted, his chest unfortunately tight, as he reaches the door at the end. No time for second-guessing. Keep moving. Keep acting.

He rests his left hand on the handle, stance shifting to a defensive posture. Then, he throws the door open, frost billowing from his right side as he prepares to fight—

No one.

The door leads to a stairwell shockingly devoid of life. No matter how intently he listens, he can’t hear even the faintest stirring. It’s concerning. More than concerning. He’d have expected a closer eye to be kept on him after the trouble they went through to catch him in the first place. One guard is hardly appropriate security. Why kidnap people if you’re not going to monitor them properly?

Unless it’s a trap.

That, he feels, is the most likely scenario. This group has already shown their fondness for ambushes. What’s one more? It might also explain why his confiscated radio has been suspiciously silent. There’s been no check-in after her botched attempt at a warning.

He climbs the stairs as swiftly and quietly as he can manage. His footsteps still echo with sharp taps through the empty space. After reaching each landing, he counts until he gets to the door he believes is the ground floor. If that woman was honest, he should be close now.

His nerves jump and anticipation rises like a wellspring in his gut. Not far now. Just a few more doors and he’s home-free. As with the previous door, he prepares himself before opening it. If anywhere has signs of life, it’ll be this floor. Anyone entering or exiting the facility will likely pass through here. Through-traffic is more or less unavoidable.

He throws the door open in the same manner as before, stance prepared to strike. His escape comes to a screeching halt. Standing in the middle of the hall are three men and a woman, all clearly waiting for him. It's less of an ambush and more of a blockade. Shit.

Shoto would ice them but two very important details stop him.

One: Scars is there, expression darkly amused and entirely too relaxed, hands already smoking in preparation to act.

Two: One of the other men has a gun pressed firmly to the woman’s head.

Shoto won’t be able to freeze the gun before the bullet finds its way snugly into her brain. He’s fast, but he’s definitely not faster than a speeding bullet, especially one so close to its target.

So, he halts. He doesn’t know what will set this stranger off or what will get this woman killed. Shoto values his freedom, but he won’t kill her to get it.

A voice rings in the back of his head that sounds oddly like Eraserhead, telling him to compartmentalize and prioritize.

The man with the gun is smiling at him so calmly and politely that it unsettles Shoto. He is, in plain terms, bland; average in everything, right down to his neatly pressed khakis and neighborly expression. If it weren’t for his given situation, Shoto doubts he’d even remember the man’s face if given a lineup. He could work at a PTA bake sale and Shoto wouldn’t bat an eye. It’s unnerving.

“Told you he’d get out,” Scars says blithely. There’s an intensity in his stare that contradicts his lax posture. His smile is vicious as he watches Shoto with so much focus, it’s like he’s the only other person in the building.

“Aren’t you just impressive?” the gunman asks, pleasant as a lark, like he doesn’t have a woman hostage.

Shoto schools his expression into one of pointed disinterest and refrains from answering. Instead, he looks at the hostage. She's young, barely twenty. Her expression is slack, nearly deadened and her eyes are glassy. Is she drugged? That complicates things.

When he looks at the second man, yellowish wolf-like eyes and sharp teeth bared in a sneer greet him. It’s the tracker from the alley, the one Shoto threatened. No wonder nobody tried to stop him. They always knew where he was. Damn it.

With the animosity burning in his stare, Shoto’s pretty sure there’s no love lost between them. Suits him just fine. There’s a degree of sick satisfaction that wells in him when he notices the man flinch back slightly once Shoto levels his full, baleful attention on him. He hasn’t forgotten. Good.

“I think we should talk,” the gunman says.

It drags Shoto's gaze back to him.

Fine, not like there’s much of a choice. Besides, I might get information. Maybe an opening.

Shoto tilts his head, the closest approximation to assent he’s willing to give the man. Even that little concession earns him a too-pleased smile. He immediately wants to retract the motion.

“Please, take a seat,” the man says and nods to the floor, like Shoto’s stupid enough to get in such a vulnerable position.

Well, I am tired...

He’s moving before he even realizes it, leaning against the wall and sliding down. Comprehension dawns on him and shocks him into a stop mid-motion. His muscles scream in protest as he jerks back upright. Every line of his body is tense as he stares warily at the unassuming man.

“What the hell is your quirk?” he asks incredulously.

The man chuckles, clearly amused by the shock on Shoto’s usually stoic face.

“A minor suggestion quirk, nothing so impressive. Not like yours.”

There are several things he dislikes about what was just said. First and foremost, a suggestion quirk? Like brainwashing? That is really not good.

And he hates the way the man spoke about his quirk. It's covetous. That pleasant expression tips into something rapacious as he looks Shoto over. It makes his nerves twist. He can’t let that man near him, he just knows it.

Shoto moves into a more defensible stance as he glances at the other two men. The tracker is simple enough to handle but Scars is a different story. It’s too dangerous to engage him here when there are more people underground. Then there’s the gun. That’s his biggest concern.

Maybe if I…

There’s a move he can do that might just work but it takes concentration. Enough that he isn’t entirely confident he can manage it right now. He’s weighing the risk when the gunman tsks.

“I wouldn’t do anything rash.”

He shifts the gun a little as a reminder.

Shoto grimaces and relaxes his posture, if only to ease that finger further away from the trigger.

“Let her go,” he says as commanding as he can manage.

The man huffs a chuckle.

“If you insist.” He says it lightly like he’s entertaining a child.

It’s shocking how readily he agrees. Alarm bells ring in Shoto’s head immediately.

“Be a dear and hold this for me,” he says as he picks up one of the woman’s hands and transfers control of the weapon to her. “If he attacks or uses his quirk at all, kill yourself.”

The command startles Shoto. It's unfathomable, monstrous. He glances from the man to the woman who holds the muzzle to her head, expression barely cognizant. While Shoto broke control, he isn’t sure this woman is in any state of mind to resist.

Shoto wants to hit him so badly. His thumb aches as he tightens his fists. The glare he sends the man could level a city. Scars whistles at the expression, his own face lighting up in twisted amusement. The tracker growls low in his throat but steps back in the same instance. All the while, the man just smiles at him serenely.

“Now, that conversation…” he says as he claps his hands together.

“What do you want?” Shoto bites out, tension keeping his aching muscles taut.

“For you to behave.”

Shoto barely refrains from rolling his eyes. Get in line. Endeavor would probably hire this man if he succeeds in wrangling Shoto in completely, past transgressions be damned. (Forced compliance hardly counts, in his opinion. He still plans on turning the man into an ice sculpture once the hostage is secure.)

When the man looks him over again like he’s appraising Shoto, it makes the teen’s skin crawl. There’s an unsettling emptiness in those brown eyes. An absence of humanity. It’s hidden so well behind his genial appearance.

“Dabi did tell me you were a bit of a handful. Even still, this is a surprise. I didn’t expect you to escape so quickly.”

He talks to Shoto as if they’re friends. A little chuckle at the end like he’s retelling a funny story. The desire to hit him reinforces itself.

Scars’ smile widens slightly, gaze sharpening.

Dabi, I take it. The name is a little on the nose, given his physical state, but it’d certainly track with his quirk. Shoto would say he’s in no room to judge the creativity of other’s names, but he’s still harboring a grudge against Dabi, so he’ll offer the villain no such grace.

Seeing that Shoto isn’t being charitable enough to talk to him, the man continues on, sighing like he’s the one being inconvenienced here.

“I’m a fair man. I’m willing to compromise.”

That draws Shoto’s attention back to him, albeit begrudgingly. Fair? Really? He’d point out the woman about to commit unwilling suicide, but he sincerely doubts this asshole is capable of that level of self-reflection.

The man takes his bitter stare as interest and continues.

“You want to help this creature. I want you to be obedient. I think there’s a way we can reach an agreement.”

Anger burns through him. The casual dehumanization of this poor woman makes him sick with disgust and rage. His expression cracks, shifts, and curls into proper rancor. He has to take caution to keep from letting his quirk seep out in his anger, unsure just how little will be needed to trigger that latent command. Would the appearance of frost be all it takes?

“Unlikely.”

His voice comes out deceptively flat despite his expression. It does little to dissuade the man’s perpetually pleased demeanor. Why the gods decided to create such a punchable man is beyond Shoto’s comprehension.

“Return to your kennel and wait. If you mind your manners, this one will remain safe, sound, and unsold.”

What a horrifically vague bargain. It hinges on his manners? Those are pitiable on the best of days, even Shoto can admit that, but this man’s standards may be wildly different from the norm.

A chill trickles down his spine when he realizes he’s turning, ready to go straight back to that room. He stops before he’s even turned fully, eyes falling to slits as he glares back at the man. How’s he supposed to combat this quirk when he can’t even tell it’s being used? There’s been no indicator, no sensation in his brain, only the execution of the command that Shoto realizes isn’t his own will. It’s only that revelation that lets him stop himself.

The man’s smile ticks, though Shoto isn’t sure if it’s in amusement or slow-growing irritation. He’s hoping for the latter.

“Or, fight back,” he suggests nonchalantly, gesturing to the woman in a distinctly unsubtle threat. “Escape and live with the knowledge that you sacrificed her.”

Shoto’s irate expression darkens. His lips twist into a grimace before he locks it all down. There’s no other option for him, not one he would ever be okay with doing. Leaving those on the lower level so he can get help is one thing. Being directly responsible for this woman’s death or sale is unforgivable. His features fall distant and blank as he looks at the man as if he’s looking through him; like he’s insignificant.

“She’ll be okay if I remain complacent?”

His voice sounds hollow even to himself. It brightens the man’s smile to a revolting degree. It takes all he can not to erupt. He holds himself together the only way he knows how: sheer spite and bitter, biting cold. If only that were enough to petrify this bastard the way it does that tracker.

“Of course,” he assures, so saccharine it’s slimy. Shoto wouldn’t bet a single yen on his sincerity, but there’s little he can do to combat that.

“And how do I know you’re being honest?” he asks, trying to maintain even the faintest grasp of control of the situation. (He was never in control but he refuses to admit that, stubborn to the very end.)

The man huffs lightly and shifts his weight at Shoto’s continuous pushback. Maybe he’s unused to resistance. Maybe he really is getting aggravated. Good.

Though, he’s wary of how far he can push it. It’s selfish and so, so fucking stupid to risk her well-being just to indulge his petty habits. Seeing the man shift impatiently isn’t rewarding enough to compensate for the moment it goes too far. Pulling in the reigns and lowering his shoulders to show his passivity is a more momentous task than squaring up against Endeavor in their training hall, but he manages. His teeth grind as he exercises his tenuous restraint.

“You’re in no position to demand assurance, Shoto,” the man says, voice somehow both pleasant and snippy. It rubs Shoto’s aching nerves the wrong way.

“Don’t call me that,” he says through gritted teeth, repulsed by the way his name drips from the other’s lips.

The false familiarity that man is trying to establish does little to ingratiate himself into Shoto’s goodwill. In fact, it does the opposite. Perhaps it’s how his quirk works? The closer he is to the person, the easier his influence? If so, Shoto will have no issue maintaining that distance. It’s only through threats of death that he’s kept himself from harpooning the bastard.

“Of course,” he says, expression back to placid and voice cordial. “We’ll get to that stage soon enough.”

No, we won’t. He’d definitely rather have the heroes bust in and perform an obnoxious and over-reported rescue on him than exchange a single word more with his captor. But, he keeps that to himself. No need to antagonize this guy any further until that woman is safely away from the situation.

“You may call me Murmur,” the man says and holds out his hand for Shoto to shake.

It takes a truly divine level of restraint to keep from grabbing his hand and turning him into the world’s ugliest ice centerpiece. This asshole, Murmur, must know it from the audacity in his grin. This is the bastard in charge. Great.

Since he can’t freeze the man to the spot without the woman reacting in a truly terrible way, Shoto does his best to relay his opinion through sight. He glances at the offending hand and looks away in disinterest, leaving the man hanging.

He gets a sigh for his efforts and the hand disappears from his peripheral only to move up and touch his shoulder in a facsimile of affection. Every inch of his skin crawls and he tenses instantaneously, but his expression remains distant.

“You’re injured. Exhausted. All that impressive work has drained you. Don’t you think it’s wise to get some rest?” Murmur says softly and with so much care, it would almost be believable if his eyes weren’t utterly soulless.

Even still, Shoto feels the idea worm into his head. The ache in his muscles renews with magnified vigor and he realizes just how tired he is. I am exhausted.

“Stop it,” he nearly hisses.

Shoto is just about ready to punch himself like it’ll launch the manifestation of that thought clear out of his head. It’s horrifying how naturally it came to him like it was his own volition. What's worse is that he can't find it in himself to disagree with the thought, because he genuinely is tired. But now he can't trust that that's not another piece of manipulation. How is he meant to tell what’s his own thoughts and will and what’s Murumurs?

“Willful, aren’t you?” Murmur says with a light chuckle and draws back his hand. Then, he glances over to the woman. “Darling—”

Her glazed eyes are rimmed with tears and her arm shakes. Shoto sucks in a breath and takes a resigned step backward, gaze downcast. There’s a painful, poisonous feeling in his chest now, something like defeat and rage and unending self-immolation.

“I’m going.”

It falls out, flat and unfeeling, nearly robotic. Shoto separates himself mentally from the situation as he takes another step back toward the door. He can bide his time and come up with a better escape plan now that he has more information. He’ll just have to be careful for the other victims’ sake. It’s unknown how many are here and how many Murmur is willing to sacrifice to get to Shoto. If the avaricious way Murmur stares at him is any indicator, it’s an unsettling amount.

“I’m glad we could come to an agreement.”

Fuck you.

Shoto does little more than give him a dirty, frigid side glare, as dismissive and belittling as he can manage, before he turns away fully.

“Leave it to me. I can handle him,” Dabi (at least Shoto is still working under the assumption that Scars is Dabi) says suddenly. His raspy voice is pitched low and lilted in amusement. It grates against Shoto’s raw ego.

He tosses that same glare back at the scarred man. Then he smoothes it out to flat disinterest. Handle me? I distinctly remember things ending a different way our last encounter.

“How’s the arm?” he asks, blandly, catty undertones barely concealed. His gaze flicks down to the freshly-stapled purplish flesh, just as grotesque and painful looking as last time.

That earns him a vicious, snarling grin. Said hand lights up incandescent blue as Dabi raises a flaming fist and tilts his head.

“Fuckin’ peachy. Want a closer look?”

Shoto lets his gaze roll back up to stare at Dabi and tries to mentally communicate how gross he thinks the man is through his vacant expression.

“You’re pungent enough from this distance.”

Shoto feels like putting tape over his own mouth if only to shut himself up. Egging on a fight right now is the exact opposite of what he should be doing, even if he’d like nothing more than to go at all three men in this hall like there’s no tomorrow. Don’t be an idiot. The mental voice chiding him once more takes on Eraserhead’s dry tone.

It’s just so hard to reign in his temper and attitude. Usually, he never does. In fact, he tends to amp it up to piss off certain (Endeavor) individuals. Exercising this type of restraint is much more difficult when surrounded by multiple aggravating people, an aggravating headache, and an extremely stressful situation. He takes a deep, calming breath and resists taking the bait as Dabi strides threateningly close, flames even brighter.

Murmur’s expression takes on a tone of concern as he looks between the two. Not combative, huh? Good to know.

“Ah, I suggest—”

“Finish that sentence and they’ll be vacuuming you off the floor,” Dabi says, finally breaking their staring contest and looking at his temporary boss.

It’s a little jarring to realize this is the first time Dabi has looked away from him since he entered the hall. He must have really pissed the man off the last time they met. It’s also an interesting thing to notice that Dabi doesn’t seem particularly beholden to or trustful of Murmur. Is he afraid Murmur will try to manipulate him? No loyalties here. Might be a point I can exploit.

“Naturally,” Murmur says coolly, tone distinctly different from how he speaks to Shoto. He motions for the woman to follow him. Even as she walks, her shaking arm never lowers the weapon. Damn it. Then, he nods at the two, expression dipping back into that mixture of tender-greed as he looks at Shoto.

“I’ll be down to see you soon, dear one.”

Dabi scoffs while Shoto’s lips curl in disgust. That sentiment leaves him feeling gross and mildly nauseated.

“Stop being fucking weird,” is Dabi��s parting words before he shoves Shoto roughly through the doorway and out of Murmur's line of sight.

The walk down the first flight of stairs is quiet, something Shoto’s grateful for. Dabi has the unique talent of annoying him. Maybe it has something to do with the tone the villain tends to take or the way he stares like Shoto’s missing out on some big, hilarious secret. Either way, it makes antagonizing the fiery man all the more appealing. (Maybe it’s also his repressed desire to lash out at another smug, obnoxious, asshole-ish fire-user.)

By the time they’re halfway to the second landing, Dabi seems to have had his fill of not counter-antagonizing Shoto.

“Dumbass.”

The sudden and slightly expected insult causes Shoto to shoot a confused-yet-annoyed expression at the other man.

“Excuse me?”

Dabi gives him that I-know-something-you-don’t look again and Shoto’s fist itches to acquint itself with the man’s face.

“You really think you saved that waste of space? Murmur already has someone else lined up to take her place,” he says, lips stretched in an unsettling, lazy smile.

His blasé attitude and lack of empathy aggravates Shoto. How anyone can see this situation and think any of it’s funny is appalling. Just wait, we’ll see how much you smile when I get out of here.

“What else was I supposed to do?” he asks coldly.

Even though it was meant to be rhetorical, Dabi still rolls his eyes and answers.

“Let the sorry bitch die. Better fate than what these sickos have in mind,” he says casually and without a single care. His bright, blazing stare lands back on Shoto and his expression shifts back to grotesquely amused. “Then again, mercy isn’t your thing, is it?”

The way he says it, like Shoto’s no better than him, makes Shoto burn with indignation.

“You’re in no position to make judgment calls about me. You’re helping these traffickers,” he spits out, annoyed that this bastard has the gall to equate anything he’s done to what Shoto’s done to survive.

“Sure I am,” Dabi says, but the way he says it gives Shoto pause. It’s almost sarcastic like helping this group is the last thing he’s doing. Shut up, you literally kidnapped me.

Something in Dabi’s expression shifts. He’s still smiling, but it falls flat and jagged, the picture of vindictiveness.

“Endeavor’s little masterpiece knows all. Especially how to get his way. Got that special brand of Todoroki sadism in you, don’t you?”

When Dabi speaks, it’s darkly amused and so resentful.

Shoto’s eyes widen marginally. Something lodges in his chest. No. No, I’m not like him at all.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he finally manages to force out.

They’re nearing the door to sub-level three’s hall now. It hasn’t occurred to Shoto just how slow they’re going. This lackadaisical pace his captor takes draws out their conversation. No, Shoto is too busy choking back this unwanted comparison.

Dabi huffs a scratchy laugh.

“Threatened to kill Laelaps. Ripped the skin off my arm. Threatened to torture me for information. And what happened to the dumbass guarding you? How’d you get this?” Dabi asks as he flicks the radio still clipped to Shoto’s collar. His expression is smug, all too pleased with pointing out Shoto’s vicious streak.

It’s like a slap to the face. He did that. He did all of that. In the moment, it felt appropriate because he knows how far he’ll go, but to hear it put so plainly from another’s mouth? It’s almost monstrous sounding. My God, he’s right. I’m… I...

“So heroic. Just like daddy taught you, right?”

He says it with such certainty, it’s unsettling. Shoto shakes off the horror for a moment to stare at him, more cowed by this conversation than anything Murmur could do.

“Who are you?” he asks, hollow and distant as he tries to settle this new uncertainty in his head. I’m turning out just like him.

“The Ghost of Christmas Past,” Dabi says sarcastically, and it only confuses Shoto.

Those rushing, painful accusations are momentarily silenced as he knits his brows together in thought. Christmas isn’t something Endeavor cared to celebrate, and so Shoto never did by proxy. If this is a reference to something, it’s gone firmly over his head.

“What does Christmas have to do with anything?” he asks.

Dabi stares at him blankly for a moment, assessing how serious Shoto’s being, before he rolls his eyes in the same manner Shoto imagines Eraserhead does behind his goggles sometimes.

“Fucking hell, you’re dense.”

And Shoto would be more offended if he wasn’t still grappling with himself. He’s quite sharp, thank you very much. He just...has issues with pop culture.

The two are silent for the time being as they walk down the hall. Shoto can still feel the intense heat rolling off Dabi’s body, even without the fire. It makes him wonder if that’s his natural body temperature or if he’s preparing himself for Shoto to fight.

No need to worry, he thinks bitterly. I can’t risk it right now without sentencing that woman to death or worse.

They halt in front of his cell – or kennel, as they call it. (Shoto despises that term. He’s not an animal. None of them are.) Dabi looks over the icy door and scoffs.

“Told them the cuffs weren’t enough. Shoulda tranq’d you.”

And Shoto is glad they didn’t do that. Being constantly drugged is not something he wants to become familiar with. That poor woman seemed too well-acquainted with that method of control and it looked dreadful. At least he can function at full mental capacity with the cuffs.

The ice melts in record time as Dabi presses a hand to the door. The steam curls around his palm before he even makes contact. It gives credence to the idea that he naturally runs unbearably hot.

Shoto eyes him up and imagines bashing him over the head with a sturdy piece of ice, but resists the temptation. He doesn’t want to give Murmur a reason to hurt that woman or – god forbid – sell her. Still, the mental image of knocking Dabi out is at least slightly mollifying.

(Until Dabi’s voice rings in his head, poisoning his satisfaction with taunts of Todoroki Sadism.)

He can’t see how Dabi opens the door. Card? Fingerprint? Does Dabi even have fingerprints left? It swings open and reveals the woman on the ground, cradling her head. Shoto’s tempted to ask her if it hurts. Mockingly, of course. He resists and stares at the blank wall he’s going to become unfortunately familiar with.

“Quit laying down on the job,” Dabi says and kicks her leg. There is no gentleness to the action, like the way Eraserhead would nudge Shoto. It’s entirely impersonal and unkind.

She squints up at Dabi, pinched features pained and glaring. Then, she notices Shoto to his right and leaps unsteadily to her feet, anger rolling off her in waves.

“You little bastard!”

The way she steps forward, all aggression, would be threatening if Shoto wasn’t dead certain he could handle her again.

“Oh, please, do attack him. I wanna see if he actually kills you this time,” Dabi says with a laugh and steps out of the way, hands motioning to Shoto like he’s genuinely encouraging this action. The way his hazy blue eyes stare at Shoto makes him think Dabi really is curious to see if it happens.

She notices it too. Her steps falter and that false bravado flags as she reassesses the situation. Her glare grows uncertain, wary. This is a fight she's no longer interested in taking.

It makes that mocking voice pipe back up in his head. Endeavor is no stranger to excessive force but he isn't a murderer. To think that anyone, villains of all people, thinks Shoto's willing to kill someone is disheartening. How has it gotten this bad?

“I’m not killing anyone,” he says firmly, to Dabi, to the woman, and to himself. As he speaks, he shoots Dabi a sideways glare before staring at the wall again, entirely dismissing the woman’s presence.

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Dabi says, and Shoto doesn’t like that tone.

What the fuck do you know?

He grinds his teeth and pointedly ignores the man.

“Get out of here. You clearly can’t handle this,” Dabi says to the woman and shoos her away with a particularly rude gesture. She huffs but leaves without a fight.

A nearly scorching hand shoves against his back and Shoto has to correct himself before he trips over his own feet as he stumbles into the room. Dabi takes the radio from his shirt and tucks it into his pocket. Shoto glares at him and Dabi just smirks in return.

Don’t punch him. Don’t punch him.

It’s harder to resist when Dabi leans a little closer, face in perfect swinging distance, to whisper to him.

“When you get done toying with these assholes and actually escape, keep an eye open. I’ll be waiting.”

It’s confusing and definitely not what Shoto was expecting him to say, but there’s no mistaking the threat in his voice. He’ll have to sleep with one eye open or risk becoming an unidentifiable pile of ash, that's a known quantity. But, that doesn’t make the threat any less odd. Dabi is positive Shoto’s going to escape and by the sounds of it, he isn't going to try to stop it a second time around. Shoto's not sure if he should take it as a compliment. Being that he thinks this guy’s a dick, he’s going to say no, it’s not a compliment.

Still, why bother with all this runaround? What’s his endgame?

And Shoto’s sure there’s an endgame here. In all his encounters with this group, Dabi is not only one of the only legitimate threats, but he’s also one of the smarter ones. At first, Shoto thought he was just a thug-for-hire, but that doesn’t appear to be the case. He has an ulterior motive, Shoto’s sure of it.

Dabi seems to delight in Shoto’s confusion. He laughs, malicious and grating, as he backs out of the room. His silhouette darkens the doorway for a final breath.

“See you around, Shoto.”

His name slithers out of Dabi’s mouth like a taunt. It’s so different from the way Murmur said it. One grasped for the familiarity and the other throws it in his face like it's a given. Shoto jerks, fists clenched. Before he can make the irrationally stupid decision to lunge at the man, the door slams shut, leaving him locked in the room with nothing but his thoughts and the hurricane in his chest.

Shoto leans against the wall and slides down, gaze a million miles away.

He wishes Soba was here.

(He wishes Eraserhead was here.)

#shoto todoroki #shouto todoroki #dabi #touya todoroki #fanfic #my writing #hounds of fate #vigilante!shoto

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