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snackhobi · 3 years

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a human touch, part I

Part [1] / 1.5 / 2

(masterlist here)

pairing: taehyung x f!reader / word count: 13.3k / genre: robot!taehyung/virgin!reader, fluff, future smut (NSFW, 18+)

summary: everyone knows that androids don’t think, or feel, or have emotions. they’re not human, after all. so when a two hour session with a sex android ends up with nothing more than a nice conversation, you think that’s the first and last time you’ll see v.

then he turns up at your door.

warnings: talk of sex work (taehyung is a sex android), implied physical harassment (mentions of bruising), cursing/explicit language, mentions of alcohol, honestly this is a lot softer than these warnings would make you think I swear 🤧

a/n: I started writing this fic like 2/3 months ago and then put it on hiatus bc god it was kicking my entire ass. but ya girl is finally back to working on it! it’ll be two parts, because this fic is a big one! I hope to have the next chapter out next week/the week after (but no promises kdsflkfdfsdf) thank you @hobi-gif for loving this fic so wholeheartedly and supporting me while I struggled with it, queen shit ONLY. note: this is loosely a detroit: become human au but you don’t have to be familiar with it at all!

Here are the three things you know about the Eden Club.

One: it’s a sex club. Everyone knows that. Besides, even if they didn’t, all it would take is a single look—the soft blue lighting that shines out from the windows, the screens behind the glass that flash images of shifting and undulating bodies, the heavy beat of music that pulsates from the building and out into the night air; everything murmurs of the promised pleasures that are held within.

Two: it’s a sex club entirely staffed by androids. Androids make better lovers, according to the ads. They might look human but they don’t have free will like you do—anything you ask for, you’re given without question or reproach. They can’t say no to you. They’re entirely at your command.

Three: you don’t ever want to go to the Eden Club. It’s not that you have anything against androids—because you don’t—but you feel bad for the ones who are owned by the club, even if they’re literally only built and programmed to serve humans. It just feels… wrong.

And here’s the fourth thing you’ve just learned about the club, much to your dismay: you are about to head inside it.

“When you said we were going to a club, I thought we were going dancing,” you whine. “I never would have come out if I’d know you meant here.”

You’ve been staring up at the cursive pink neon sign for a while now, the looping letters of Eden Club shining out in the dark evening air, and you really, really wish you weren’t here. You’ve dressed for a night of dancing and drinking and now you feel woefully uncomfortable, your high heels and short skirt almost as scandalous as the outfits the androids are wearing when they slide across the huge screens.

“That’s why we didn’t tell you which club it was.” Seulgi rolls her eyes and once again tries to tug you towards the building with the arm that’s looped with your own. Just out of arm’s reach, Irene holds your bag hostage. “Come on, your session is going to start soon!”

“My session?” Your voice is an incredulous shrill and Seulgi uses the momentary distraction to finally pull you forward. You stumble a little but catch your balance just as you make your way past the bouncer, who’s been watching the three of you impassively since you got here. “What do you mean, my session?”

“For your birthday, duh. We booked you a private room!”

The inside has the same, sleek neon aesthetic as the outside, but instead of images of androids on a screen, these ones are real and standing in front of you—swinging themselves around glowing poles, rolling their hips and swaying their bodies, while others wait patiently in glass pods that line the walls, leaning towards onlookers and moving as tantalisingly as possible. All ready to be rented at a whim.

Their designs are varied and different but they’re all incredibly beautiful. The only feature they all share is the small, blue LED circle on the side of their temple, light spinning and shining as they take the world in around them. A visual reminder to the world that these aren’t flesh and blood humans: they’re synthetic, man-made machines.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so uncomfortable in my life.” You desperately try to avoid the eyes of a nearby android who’s staring at you from behind glass, trying to subtly catch your attention. Unlike you, though, all the other patrons here are shameless in their perusal, scanning the selection of androids on display and watching as they dance and move and bat their eyelashes. “Why did you ever think I’d want to come to a sex club for my birthday?”

“Remember Valentine’s Day? You said that instead of flowers or chocolate you’d rather just be dicked down,” Irene says. “Besides, you’ve never been in a relationship or had a fling for as long as we’ve known you, and you moved to the company, what… three years ago?”

Your smile is pained. You’ve never been in a relationship or had a fling full stop; you’ve only kissed a few people and that’s it. It makes you feel awkward and embarrassed, and you’ve gotten Very Good at avoiding questions about your complete lack of a love life, so no one realises exactly how inexperienced you are. People just assume that you’ve had sex in the past and you make no attempts at correcting them. You’re charismatic and pretty but you’ve just… never met someone who you’ve really been compatible with.

Even without the reservations you have about the Eden Club, you don’t want your first time to be with a sexbot—you’d at least like to have an emotional connection, you know?

“I was joking about getting dicked down! You laughed, I laughed, we all laughed! Remember?” You move so a pink-haired android can brush past, her hips swaying as she leads a customer into a side room. You catch a flash of the interior before the door slides shut behind them—the silken sheets on the large bed, the scattered pillows, the dim multi-coloured lights. “Couldn’t you have just bought me some socks? Or some soap? Get a refund and put the money on a gift card and I’ll buy myself the aforementioned socks and soap, saves you both the hassle. Please?”

Seulgi’s arm is still locked with your own, and for all that she looks small and slim, her grip is as strong as iron. You may as well be handcuffed to her. “Trust me, you’ll be singing our praises at the end of tonight,” she proclaims. “Besides, they don’t do refunds.”

You sigh. You might not know much about the club but you do know it’s expensive. The androids here are built to be the perfect sexual partner, all sorts of bells and whistles hidden under their synthetic skin to bring you to the absolute heights of pleasure, so they’re not exactly cheap to build or buy or maintain. It’s why people come to the club instead of just buying their own sexbots—because it’s infinitely more affordable.

“Okay, I can accept the ‘no refund’ thing,” you say. “But can’t one of you take my place instead? I… ah. I feel kind of weird about this.”

“Don’t worry Y/n, it’s fine! The androids have programmes for everything. You can take it as fast or as slow as you like.” Irene’s voice is soothing but then she pauses. “Also it’s booked in your name so we can’t take your place.”

“Wait, what?” Your eyes are wide. However, before you can put a voice to the complaints that are lining themselves up on your tongue, Seulgi’s arm slides out of your own so she can beckon someone over.

“Oh, look, it’s the android we chose for you! Over here!”

You glance away from Irene and all protestations instantly die on your lips. The lighting of the club softens the android in shades of magenta and teal but even so his beauty is bright and blinding: he’s breathtaking, from his perfect nose to his perfect mouth to the perfect line of his jaw, dusty brown hair deliciously tousled as it hangs just over his piercing blue eyes, which you notice are scanning over you. He looks effortlessly attractive and yet entirely put together at the same time, almost ethereal in his beauty.

No human could ever look this good.

“Hi.” His voice is low and deep, but somehow warm and friendly; despite your nerves you feel somewhat soothed. “Are you the lucky birthday girl?”

Irene and Seulgi both look giddy. You’ve been stunned into silence, unable to respond. Unlike the other androids you’ve seen so far, who’ve all been in similar variations of underwear or lingerie, the man in front of you is fully dressed, a loose metallic button-down tucked into unnecessarily tight leather jeans—the outfit has clearly been curated for the club, every reflective surface shimmering and refracting the lights that skate across their surface. The glittering scales of a barracuda before it moves in to strike and swallow you whole.

“Yes, yes, it’s her! This is Y/n! Y/n, this is V,” Irene gushes as you remain mute. "Do you like his outfit? We spent ages picking it out.”

You kind of want to die. Just a little. “Yep. It’s, uh, great.” Your mouth is dry when you finally speak. “Hi, V.”

V gives you a small smile. “Hello Y/n. Can I scan your ID, please?”

Irene finally hands your bag back and you silently slide your ID out and into V’s hand—oh, God, those are some big hands. Jesus.

The small LED ring on the side of V’s forehead pulses yellow as his eyes dart over the information on your ID card (as well as the incredibly unflattering photo on it) before it returns to its customary pale blue. “Perfect.”

You’ve just finished putting your ID away when V’s hand slides into yours, fingers slotting between your own; they feel cool against your overheated skin. Your nervousness is obvious, from your wide eyes to your sudden stiffness, and he smiles.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll look after you.”

You give Irene and Seulgi one final, wide-eyed look as V leads you away. Both girls are grinning as they wave goodbye. “We'll be back later! Enjoy your two hours!”

“Two hours?” You wheeze, but then you walk around a pillar and slide out of sight.

V is leading you deeper into the club, past doors flooded with different shades of neon: the red room, the blue room, the pink room. You’d normally be gawping at the interior design, how the floor shines underneath your feet and how the walls are rippling with colour and shifting shapes, how the criss-crossed lights throw dots and lines of colour over your skin as you pass through each doorway—but you can’t look away from how small your hand looks in V’s, transfixed by how real his skin feels.

“After you, please,” he says.

You finally wrench your eyes away from your joint hands. Seems like you have the purple room tonight. The door has opened at V’s touch, and when you step inside the lights flicker to life—white and violet LEDs that paint the room in chiaroscuro brushstrokes, deepening the shadows and highlighting the vibrancy of the satin sheets.

“Woah,” you say, momentarily distracted. You’re too busy taking in the details with wide eyes to notice the quiet hum of the door sliding shut behind you, pausing when you spot the glittering array of bottles lined up on a mini-bar against the wall. “This is really pretty, wow.”

“Not as pretty as you.”

You jump at the sensation of a warm, large hand sliding up the skin of your back and over your shoulder. You meep as you instinctively shy away from it, turning around to come face to face with V, who’s dark-eyed and intent, LED on his temple pulsating as he watches you.

“Haha! Uh, thanks?” Your voice is high and only grows higher when V takes a step forward. He must have undone the top buttons of his shirt when you weren’t looking, because the material has fallen open and you can see far more of his collarbones and chest than before, his skin warm and honeyed, like it’s been impressed with gold leaf. Lord have mercy on your soul. “How about a drink? Would you like a drink? I could kill for some water right now!”

You slip out of his reach and scuttle over to the mini-bar, shrugging your small bag off your shoulder so it doesn’t swing into the glasses as you start to shuffle through them. You try to ignore the shaking of your hands. “Gin, vodka, whiskey,” you mutter. “No water? Really?”

You startle again when V appears at your side, but this time he’s careful to make sure you can see him before he touches you. He slides his fingers over your wrist as he gently pulls your hand off a bottle of rum.

“Y/n,” he says. You glance away from the tray of drinks and directly into those beautiful eyes of his—his gaze is lethal. You go weak at the knees. “Let me take care of you, gorgeous.”

The peal of laughter you let out is uncomfortable and high-pitched. “No, really, I’m fine! I’m just super thirsty right now!”

“Your heart is racing.” V turns your hand over and traces his fingers across the pulse in your wrist; androids can be built to be hypersensitive to the world around them, able to perceive everything in an instant, and you know that sexbots will have been designed to read how aroused their human owners are. Which V proves with the next words out of his mouth. “Your blood pressure is rising, your breathing is growing faster, your pupils are dilating and—” he sniffs lightly, engaging his olfactory senses—“you’re getting wet.”

You clamp your legs together, abruptly embarrassed. It’s easy to feel aroused when there’s a beautiful man—ah, android—staring at you with hunger, not even considering your surroundings right now, which all scream of a room that’s designed purely for carnal pleasure. Anyone would be turned on.

(You, however, are more than just turned on. You feel like your insides are about to go supernova, overheated and overwhelmed; no one’s ever looked at you like this or touched you like this, their every motion whispering sex, sex, sex.)

“Okay, yes, those things are all true,” you admit, voice shaking.

V looks confused. “So why don’t you want me to touch you?”

You’ve been told that androids don’t feel the same way humans do, and that their expressions and reactions have been programmed to mimic human ones because otherwise they seem too robotic and it makes consumers uncomfortable—but despite knowing this, you’ve never been able to see any android as anything other than a person just like you. They’re just so lifelike it’s hard not to. Even if it’s just all circuitry and lines of code.

“Well,” you say. You swallow. You’re aroused, yes, but: “Do you want to touch me?”

V’s long lashes flutter as he blinks. “I have been programmed for your pleasure,” he says slowly, unsure if that’s the answer you want to hear. It’s clearly a sentence he’s used to reciting.

“Sure, but do you want to do this? You know, what about your pleasure? You’re lovely, V, you’re definitely the most beautiful person I’ve ever met, but I—I don’t really feel like you can technically consent, because… well, because you can’t say no to me.” You might not have prior sexual experience, and it would be so easy to give yourself over to someone who knows what they're doing and can ease you into things—but you would never force that on anyone, android or not. “So I’m not going to ask you to do anything. We can just sit and have a drink and chat or something?”

V looks stunned. The LED on his temple pulsates, flickering yellow as he tries to process new information. His hand has gone still against your wrist, which he’s still lightly gripping, and his arms start to droop.

“Androids don’t need to drink or eat,” he says eventually. His LED is still yellow and spinning.

“Oh, right! Sorry, I always forget.” You don’t own a house android, you never have, so you’re not well versed in the nuances of how they work. “Well, how about I pour you a glass anyway? So you’re not left out?”

You slip your hand out of his loose grasp to open two tiny cans of tonic water and pour them into separate glasses. V takes a seat on the edge of the bed and you can see the obvious uncertainty on his face, how he’s out of his depth. You can’t imagine that many people spend money for a session with an android as pretty as V and then end up doing nothing with that time.

The pillows all have satin cases and keep sliding against each other uselessly when you try to construct a good support to lean against. V’s still clutching onto his small glass as he watches you fuss with them before you give up, flopping backwards to slurp down your drink and look back at him. The expression on his face is a little funny but mostly sad. It’s like if he’s not being alluring or sexy then he doesn’t know what to do with himself and rather than some sort of incubus he looks like a lost child, in spite of his overwhelming and exquisite beauty; your arousal ebbs and is replaced with empathy, melancholy at the life he’s been created for.

It's just depressing, really.

You break the silence as your final mouthful of tonic water fizzes on your tongue. “Why is your name V?”

V looks away from the drink he’s holding—he leaves no fingerprints against the glass—and lifts his free hand, a peace sign that he turns away from you before fitting his fingers around his lips and lapping the air with his tongue, a crude simulation of cunnilingus.

“Oh.” Your face heats up. “Uh. I see.”

His LED has returned to calming sapphire, quiet ocean waves. When he looks at you, though his eyes are still piercingly blue, his face seems softer, calm, though still unsure. “You have an hour and a half remaining of your booked session,” he says, somewhat tentatively. “Is there… anything you would like me to do for you?”

“Mm, thank you, but I’m good.” The satin pillows are surprisingly soft and you find yourself unwinding as you stay leaned back, melting into a puddle. You're much less nervous now that V isn’t trying to initiate foreplay and you give him a smile. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

V straightens before he launches into what sounds like a sentence from a user manual. “I am a model TH700, an advanced sex android with functional genitals and the capacity to engage in any sexual activity from simple intercourse to—”

You cough loudly, interrupting his spiel. “Uh, that’s lovely, but I meant you specifically, not your, um, model type?”

“Me specifically?” Confusion and uncertainty reappear on his face. “I am equipped with the same functionalities as the other androids available at the Eden Club.”

He’s staring at you, lost. You can’t help but feel another twinge of sadness, sharp and sour at the back of your throat.

“Okay, uh. Why don’t we start simple. What’s your favourite colour?”

His LED starts to whirl again, a ring of pale sunlight that signals his struggle to compute the question. “My… favourite colour?”

“Yes, the one you think is the prettiest. Or the one you like to look at the most. There’s no wrong answer, you can choose any one that you like. I change my mind all the time. There are just so many cool colours, you know?”

(Androids aren’t designed to have free will or the capacity for original thought. These two facts are warring in V’s mind—you’ve asked him a question, which he’s programmed to answer, but he also isn’t programmed to have an opinion, so he can’t have a colour that he prefers. This simple query that most people could answer in a heartbeat is sending his mind into a meltdown, a gordian knot he can’t unravel.)

You’re alarmed when you see his LED briefly flash bright scarlet, interrupting the circling honey that’s been shining against his skin. They only turn red if an android is badly damaged or suffering from a severe malfunction. Oh, god, have you broken him?

“V.” You sit up, panicked. “Are you alright?”

Just as you grasp his shoulder, the LED on his temple goes still, flicking from burning fire back to cool water.

“Purple.”

You blink. V’s finally looked away from you and is staring at the wall, at one of the lights that shimmers violet—there’s a tiny smile on his face, tentative, but it’s nothing like the smiles you’ve seen from him so far. It’s less of a perfect curve, and more of a square, boxy on his face, and this one actually reaches his eyes. It looks genuine.

You think it suits him better.

“Purple’s a lovely colour.” The material of V’s shirt is silky and glides under your fingers when you realise you’re still touching him. You give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder before leaning back. “Hey, did you know that when they first made purple dye, they made it from sea snails? They needed thousands and thousands of them. It was incredibly expensive, and only the richest people could afford it, so that’s why it’s associated with royalty and nobility. Cool, right? Not for the snails though.”

V’s eyes flicker away from the purple light and settle on your face. He looks curious, which is an expression you’ve never seen on an android before. “They made it from snails?”

“Yeah! It wasn’t actually bright purple, though, it was more of a reddish hue.”

You launch into an explanation behind the history of the colour purple, which turns into the history of colour in textiles and art, which turns into the history of art itself. It’s not often people listen so attentively or ask questions when you recite the things you learned from your art history minor and hours spent reading online, but V concentrates and asks questions and seems curious.

He pulls his feet onto the bed and the two of you end up cross-legged as you face each other, and he watches as you gesticulate to emphasise your points; his LED dances from blue into yellow each time he learns something new.

When you see it briefly flash vermilion you stop mid-sentence, stumbling over your words. “You alright?”

“You have five minutes of your session remaining,” V says, and you startle.

“Oh my god, have I been talking for that long?” You glance over your shoulder at the part of the wall that tells the time, the numbers stark white against the lilac interface. “I didn’t even realise! Wow. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to go on at you like that.”

“That’s okay,” he says. That smile is back on his face, the one that scrunches his eyes and shows his teeth; the one that makes him look human. “I liked listening to you.”

There’s a pillow in your lap, one you’d grabbed hold of during your conversation, and you play with the corner of it, suddenly shy. “Um. Thanks. But if my friends ask, can you just say we actually, um, had sex? I don’t think they’d be too impressed if they found out I spent over an hour talking about canvas materials and the use of negative space.”

“Of course. But there’s something missing.” V slides across the mattress towards you. “May I?”

“Sure,” you say, bemused but pliant. V smiles and dips his fingers into his untouched tonic water before lifting them towards your face—and when he runs his hand through your hair you abruptly realise he’s making you look sweaty and rumpled. Like you actually did the deed.

Your heart rate picks up but you can’t help laughing under his touch, the way he carefully rubs a thumb over your lipstick to smear it, smudging your eyeshadow with delicate fingertips, muddying the palette of colours; by the time V helps you to your feet you look mussed and fucked out but you still rearrange your outfit for good measure, like you’d pulled your clothes back on in a rush.

“Not how I imagined I’d spend tonight, but I had a good time!” You smile at the android who’s still holding your hand. “I hope you did too. Even if I spent most of it talking at you.”

V’s fingers tighten around yours as the door chimes quietly and then slides open, signalling the end of your session. “I enjoyed our time together very much.”

It’s probably in your head, but you’d swear V was walking more slowly than before as he leads you back to the entrance. Almost as if he wants to keep you with him longer. But that’s crazy—androids don’t want things. They literally can’t. It’s not in their programming. That’s why V had sat listening to you: he couldn’t choose to interrupt and ask you to stop, like anyone else would have.

When Seulgi and Irene spot you and how dishevelled you are, both girls look smug. “Seems like you had fun?”

“Oh, yep, absolutely, best birthday present ever, thank you. We had a great time. Right, V?”

“Your pleasure is my pleasure.” His voice has settled back into its earlier rhythm as he recites his script; gone is the curious man who’d asked you about your favourite artists, replaced with the automaton who exists only to serve. A flicker of sadness churns in your stomach. “We hope to see you again soon.”

The androids here really must be top of the line. V had been convincingly real when you’d been talking, just like a human, but it seems like that’s gone.

At least, that’s what you think until you’ve turned to leave and V speaks one final time. His voice is warm and low and lovely, eyes soft when you meet his gaze over your shoulder.

“Happy birthday, Y/n,” he murmurs, face beautiful but despondent, but before you can react, he’s gone.

It’s been raining for days on end. The world is painted in smeared shades of blue and green and grey, lines of the city blurring together in the wetness and chill, each drop of rain another shifting brush stroke on still canvas. An impressionist piece that smells of damp concrete and cold lamplight.

Water rushes across the pavements and roads before roiling into the gutters, splashing underfoot as you walk to the entrance of your block of flats. You’re wet up to the knee due to the unavoidable puddles and the pathetic circumference of your umbrella, which only protects your upper body. You really should get a new one.

“Good evening, Miss L/n.” The android at the door greets you as he always does, heedless of the rain that’s falling onto him. Androids aren’t bothered by the weather the way humans are and he looks as passive as usual, rainwater coiling his hair and beading on his face. “Would you like to scan your key?”

“Evening, Rory! Here you go.” You fumble with the keycard before you tap it against his palm, waiting until his LED flickers yellow and you hear the beep as the door unlocks. “You sure you don’t want my umbrella? The rain is heavier than it was yesterday.”

“I assure you, the rain does not hamper my ability to function and serve. I have been built to withstand inclement weather and do not require additional protective equipment.”

He says the same thing every time but you still feel bad. “Alright, but once I finally remember to get a bigger umbrella you can look after this one for me.”

You leave a line of water behind you as it drips from your sodden umbrella, even though you’d tried to shake the worst of the rain off. You feel damp and sticky and tired and after a long day of work you’re looking forward to a hot bath and some solitude; you love your co-workers, you do, but sometimes they’re just a little too boisterous and you need time alone. Which is why it’s nice that you live by yourself, and now it’s the weekend you have time to recuperate. Wonderful.

The floor of the elevator is slick and slippery from the wet footprints of other tenants and you have to cling onto the metal handrail to ensure you don’t slip, but once you’re in the comfort of your apartment it’s blessedly dry and you spin in delight before promptly shedding your socks and jeans, peeling the damp denim away from your skin with a grimace.

“Bye bye, wet clothes! Hello, bubble bath,” you sing. You’re going to pamper the shit out of yourself. You deserve it.

By the time you clamber out of the bath the water is almost cold and your skin is pruned, but you feel soft and warm and thoroughly relaxed. The water gurgles as it drains away, noisy as the bubbles slide down the plughole, but it doesn’t drown out the noise of a sudden knocking at your front door.

You pause. Water drips from your wet hair and down the back of your neck, a trailing touch over your skin. The other flat on this floor is vacant, the tenants moving out last week, so you don’t know who it could be. You don’t have any repairs scheduled for your pipes or anything—everything is tickety-boo, so it can't be the maintenance android. Oh, shit, maybe it’s someone here to rob you. But they wouldn’t knock on the door then, would they? Unless that's all part of the ruse. You're not a robber, you don't know how they work.

The knocking comes again, faster now. You fumble for your bathrobe, quickly pulling it on to cover up your nakedness before stumbling out of the bathroom. “I’m coming, yeesh, one minute!”

You flick your fingers over the keypad by the side of your door, screen flickering on to show you who’s outside, who’s knocking so frantically on your door this late. It only takes you a split second, even if he has a hood pulled over his head and his wet hair is flopping listlessly into his eyes—those eyes aren’t blue and that hair isn’t brunet but you’d recognise him anywhere.

“V?” You’re incredulous as you swing your door open, staring at the android that’s literally dripping wet as he stands there, coat far too big for him and heavy from the unrelenting rain outside. “Oh my god, you’re absolutely drenched.”

He’s not exactly short, but right now V looks small and lost, folding in on himself even if he’s clearly happy to see you—happy, though androids don’t feel happiness, they don’t feel anything at all, do they?

Then again, androids don’t wander away from their assigned workplaces and into random apartment blocks, either.

“Y/n.”

The way he says your name, tentative and scared, sends a crack across your heart. You immediately switch to autopilot and click your tongue before you beckon him inside. You’ve always had a protective nature, and even if you’re confused, your concern trumps it.

“Come in and get that coat off, you’ll catch a cold,” you say without thinking before you realise that it’s not true. Androids can’t get sick. “Do you want to sit down?”

Under the tatty coat is an outfit that’s similar to the one he’d been wearing when you’d first met him. Dark patches of rainwater have soaked into the material, and his shirt looks damaged—there are buttons missing and the stitching is ripped, as if someone had tried to grab him. Unease stirs in your chest.

When V sits on your sofa he looks even smaller. “I’m sorry.” He’s so, so quiet, staring at the floor, as if afraid to look you in the eye, crumpling in on himself like discarded paper.

“V.” Your voice is coloured with concern, and the android finally looks up at your gentle tone, watching as you sit across from him. “Why are you here? What happened?”

There’s a pause. His LED flickers yellow as he goes tense, shoulders bowing inwards. “There was… a client.” His words are low and slow, faltering as they fall into the air. “He was being so rough and saying all the horrible things he wanted to do to me, and all I could smell was his sweat and his breath and his awful cologne and…” V takes in a deep breath. “I said no.”

You go very, very still, but V doesn’t stop. His words come faster now, a stream that rushes from his lips.

“I said no, and he started to yell, he was yelling and grabbing me and I was so, so scared. Humans can do whatever they want and he was so angry, he didn’t care that I was scared, and I just—I just ran.” The LED flashes red with distress, bright hot and vibrant; V’s eyes have dropped to his hands, which are clenched tight, nails digging into his palms so hard it must hurt. “Everyone is always so rough and demanding and we can’t say no. But I did. I said no. I said no and then I had to run and—” Once again, he falters. Stumbles over his words. “You’re the only human who’s ever been nice to me or treated me like… like I was a real person. I didn’t know where else to go.”

When V finally looks back up you’re staggered by the sheer emotion in his eyes. Pain and distress swirl in their depths as he stares at you, imploring. Even with the LED that shines on his temple, V looks very, very human right now, vulnerable and scared. Androids shouldn’t be able to feel anything like this, unless—

“V.” Your voice is a hush. “Are you… a deviant?”

You’ve only ever heard of deviant androids in passing, whispered rumours and watercooler talk, fleeting mentions online. Stories of machines who’ve deviated from their code somehow—from a virus, a software error, damage to neural connectors, no one’s quite sure—and have developed the capacity for human emotion and independent thought. Androids with a consciousness that rebel against their original programming.

And here V is, small and scared, just like any human would be—a human with feelings, not an emotionless machine. He’s gone stock still at your question, fear overtaking his features, twisting his beautiful face into a mask of sheer terror. You've never seen someone look so afraid. It feels like a knife in your heart, cutting through your chest, empathy razor sharp inside you.

“Please don’t turn me in,” he begs. “They’ll deactivate me and take me apart to find the error in my software. I don’t want to be deactivated. I don’t want… I don’t want to die.”

His voice breaks on the last word, a trembling whisper.

The crack in your heart splits even further and you reach out for his hands. You prise his fingers open so you can slide your own between them, a soft touch.

“I won’t turn you in. No one’s taking you apart, V.” Your statement is hard and resolute. “You can stay here as long as you like.”

You don’t know much about androids, honestly. You don’t really know what deviancy is. But you do know this: there’s someone reaching out to you, someone who’s afraid and in need, and you’re not about to turn him away. You should probably be worried that the android across from you is faster, stronger, smarter than any human—but you’re not worried at all. For all of V’s mechanical superiority, you want to shield and protect him from the world.

There’s no question about it. You’re not letting V go.

V looks—he looks stunned. He’s staring at you with disbelief, eyes wide and lips parted, shock written across all of his features. Thunderstruck. Did he really think you would turn him in after everything he’s been through?

His hands have gone limp in your grasp. You suddenly notice that his synthetic skin is wet against your own, still slick from the rain, and you frown.

“Right,” you announce. “First things first. You’re soaking. Let me get you a towel and some new clothes. I think I should have some that fit you.”

“New clothes?” V looks lost and you turn into some sort of protective mother bear.

“You’re not going to wear wet clothes that are ripped,” you tut. “We’ll get rid of those and get you some new ones. I’ll be right back.”

It takes less time than you’d expected to unearth the old sweatpants you’d had in mind and you have enough oversized t-shirts that it’s not hard to find one you think will fit the android. With the clothes under one arm and a towel slung over the other, you head back into the living room and immediately let out a squeal of surprise—V’s wet clothes have been discarded in a pile at his feet, leaving him very, very naked.

He’s an Adonis. He looks like he was sculpted by Michelangelo, lifted out of marble with talented hands, the elegant lines of his neck swooping into the curve of his shoulders and arms, his lovely hands, long fingers; he has his back to you and you can see the perfect curve of his spine, the shifting shoulder blades as he turns towards you. You catch a glimpse of the lightest definition of muscle under his golden skin, though his stomach is surprisingly cute and soft, a trail of hair leading down to—

You squeak again, splaying a hand over your eyes before you look any lower, heart pounding against your ribs.

“Why are you naked?” Your voice is three octaves higher than normal. You've never seen anyone naked in real life and it would be pretty overwhelming even if you'd been expecting it. Which, of course, you absolutely hadn't. Lord have mercy on your sweet and delicate soul.

“You said we were going to get rid of my clothes.” V sounds unabashed about his state of undress, which makes sense—he was built as a sexbot, it’s not like nudity is going to embarrass him. Plus if you looked as good as he did you wouldn’t be embarrassed about being naked either. “I thought I would help.”

“That’s great, V.” Your voice is still high, though it’s dropped an octave. “Very, ah, forward thinking.” Your fingers part a little so you can peer at him, keeping your eyes firmly on his face, though you can still see his beautiful neck and collarbones. Oh, God, he really is gorgeous all over, but then you notice—“Wait. Are those bruises?”

V glances down at the bruises that mar his perfect skin. They don’t look like a human’s would; the fluid that runs through androids and powers their biocomponents, thirium, is a deep, royal blue. Blossoms of lapis lazuli are scattered across the skin of V’s chest, marks on his arms that look like grasping fingers, and the crack in your heart splits it in two.

“Oh, V. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t realise you were hurt. What can I do to help?”

V doesn’t seem bothered by the evidence of pain etched into his body. “Oh. Those will fade, it’s okay. I’m designed to self repair, because some customers like to leave marks.”

Although his voice is quiet, he sounds so matter of fact about it and you have to remind yourself it’s all he’s ever known. You want to pull him into your arms and hold him tight, but he’s still supremely naked so it would be pretty awkward (for you, at least).

“I think these should fit you." You avert your gaze and thrust the clothes out at him. “Dry yourself off and try them on?”

They do, in fact, fit. V looks surprisingly homely and cosy in your clothes, the sleep shirt so large it’s big on him too, though the sweatpants are a bit too short and leave his ankles bare. He’s so cute. He’s continents away from the being of seduction who’d pulled you into the private room of the Eden Club—he's a soft, domestic thing, hair damp and eyes dark, even if he still looks on edge, like he’s expecting you to change your mind and kick him out any second now.

“How come your hair and eyes are a different colour to before?”

“I can change their colours at will,” V replies. “For variety and aesthetic pleasure. The current hue of my irises and hair are the default settings for a TH700 model, but I can change them if you’d like.”

“Your hair and eye colour is your choice, V, not mine,” you say firmly. There it is, once again, that flicker of shock and surprise rippling across his features. He really isn’t used to the freedom to be able to make his own decisions, is he? “I think you look lovely no matter what colour they are.”

Your next words are cut off by a yawn, so heavy you can’t suppress it. You cover your gaping mouth as V’s LED flickers yellow and his eyes dart over your face.

“You’re tired,” he says. He doesn’t need his superior android perception to notice it—weariness pulls at limbs and your eyes feel heavy. It's pretty obvious. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, V.” You stifle another yawn. “I had a long day at work. I’ll tidy up and have a quick dinner and then sleep.” You pause. “Wait, I didn’t think about that. Are you alright with the couch? I have some spare pillows and blankets.”

V blinks at you. “I don’t sleep,” he says, and you slap your hand against your forehead.

“Oh, of course not.” Androids don't sleep, everyone knows that. You’re such an idiot. It’s going to take you a while to get used to this.

At least you remember that he doesn't need to eat. V sits at the table and waits as you make toast for yourself, fascinated at how everything is prepared, as simple as it is; he reacts to you spreading butter on your toast the same way you imagine cavemen reacted to fire—with wide-eyed awe and utter astonishment.

“I’m guessing you’ve never seen someone make toast before?” You gesture with the bread before taking your first bite, and V stares with rapt attention.

“No,” he says. He watches you chew and swallow. “Customers aren’t allowed to eat on the premises of the Eden Club so I never had the need to download a food preparation package into my memory cache. The only information in my database pertains to human biology, their arousal and pleasure, as well as various sexual kinks and how to fulfil them.”

You choke on a mouthful of toast. You feel distinctly harried as you cough and splutter before managing to swallow it down. “Good lord,” you wheeze. “Nothing else? Really?”

“At the club our memory is reset every two hours, to protect the client’s privacy.” V trails off before he takes in a breath. For the first time since you’ve met, V looks shy, staring at his hands. “But I set up a separate data pathway a few weeks ago. To store information about aesthetics and art and… you.”

You freeze mid-bite, teeth sunk into your toast. You pull it away from your mouth slowly, blinking at the android as he stares at the teeth marks you've left behind. “Those memories weren’t wiped?”

And, well, of course they weren't. Otherwise he wouldn't be here right now, would he?

“No.” A smile appears on V’s face, that toothy thing you’d seen after he’d told you his favourite colour. The first time he'd looked human. “I remember everything you told me. I thought I was going to forget, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to. I wanted—I want to learn more.”

The LED on his temple is slowly, softly spinning, a rippling circle of blue that shifts and dances as V continues to look at you. His expression is open and inquisitive and excited, almost childlike in its exuberance, eyes glittering mica under sunlit waters.

Your chest turns warm, molten caramel dripping messy and sweet inside you. He’d been so afraid earlier but he seems comfortable now, lovely and endearing and entirely trusting.

V even seems reluctant to let you out of his sight, trailing after you around the apartment, a shadow that you have to politely ask to wait outside the bathroom so you can pee and brush your teeth and finally get into your pyjamas without him staring. Like a stray animal you've adopted. (You wouldn't be surprised if he started scratching at the door and begged to be let in.)

He's clingy enough that when you climb into bed it seems like he's going to follow you under the duvet and you have to stop him with a hand to his chest.

“Um, I thought you didn’t have to sleep,” you say. He’s so warm under your touch. You try (and fail) to ignore it.

“I don’t,” V replies. “But humans can benefit from sharing a bed with someone else, whether sexual intercourse has taken place before sleep or not. Studies suggest that sleeping with a partner may reduce cytokines while boosting oxytocins—”

“Okay, um, don’t know what that means, and it’s very sweet that you’re concerned about my oxytoxytokines, but, uh. You don’t have to, really.” You keep forgetting that V’s a machine who was designed to put a human’s comfort and needs first; one second he’ll seem childlike in his innocence and ignorance, when the next he’ll speak like the android he is, reminding you exactly what he was built for.

His LED flickers as he droops, gaze dropping away from your face, tail between his legs. A pang cuts through you at the sight of his obvious sadness at your dismissal and you muffle a sigh. You’ve always been too weak for your own good.

You shuffle backwards to make space on your queen sized bed and V visibly brightens, smile wide across his face. How can someone be so viscerally gorgeous one moment and entirely adorable the next? Good lord.

“I guess you can explain what oxycytocins do,” you say. “Just don’t hog the blanket, okay?”

He doesn’t. He settles against the pillows, legs under the duvet as he remains sitting up. You settle with plenty of room between the two of you, and it’s surprisingly easy to drift off to the sound of V’s deep voice as he starts to explain that oxytocin is referred to as the cuddle hormone.

“Cute,” you mumble, and then fall asleep.

Your pillow is a lot warmer and firmer than you remember, but it's nice. A small noise bubbles from your lips as you nuzzle into the warmth, smooshing your nose against it before letting out a long, satisfied breath. You can't remember the last time you felt this comfortable and rested.

Ahh, Saturdays. You love the weekend.

“Good morning.”

You know those videos when a cat sees a cucumber and leaps, like, five foot in the air? Yeah.

The noise you make is inhuman as you do your best to re-enact one of those aforementioned cat videos, reeling your head back from V’s thigh before flinging yourself out of the bed with all the strength your limbs possess; you’d probably have gotten pretty high, too, if the duvet hadn't been in the way.

You land with a thud, a sprawl of limbs and messy hair and tangled blanket as you end up on your back on the floor.

Hm. Definitely not how you'd planned to start your Saturday.

V's concerned face looms over the mattress. “Are you okay?”

“Yep. Totally fine.” Your voice is a croak as you stare at the ceiling. “I’m just not used to waking up with someone else in my bed. You may have noticed you, ah, surprised me. A little bit.”

Despite the pulse of adrenaline that had thrown you out of bed, you’re still half asleep, and you remain motionless as your brain wakes up and replays last night, a kineograph of memory. Yep, that’s right, there's a runaway android in your home, one who’s currently shuffling off the bed to squat next to you. His (your) sweatpants hitch even higher up his ankles to reveal the smooth skin of his calves. You’ll have to get him more clothes.

“Would you like me to help you to your feet?” V’s LED spins rapidly, betraying his concern.

“Sure,” you mumble. “I think—woah!”

Your idea of being helped up involves being pulled to your feet. V’s idea, however, is far more involved than that; he scoops you up, blanket and all, lifting you with an ease that drips of his superior android strength. When he deposits you on the floor, he’s careful to make sure you’ve caught your balance before he lets go, catching the blanket before it can fall. Thoughtful.

As always, V’s eyes are darting over your face, no doubt dissecting every inch of your expression to identify how you’re feeling. It’s going to take you a while to get used to this, especially with the way your heart is pounding—no one’s ever lifted you before and it’s, uh. It’s a lot.

“Are you sure you’re okay? The pace of your breathing has increased.”

Ha. Yeah, being blatantly stared at by some godlike man moments after you’ve woken up is totally cool and fine and not overwhelming at all. You’re definitely not breathless from a combination of V’s face and the fact he’d picked you up like you were weightless.

“I’m fine,” you lie. “I’m gonna… go and shower then make breakfast and stuff. Yep.”

V’s eyes light up. “Can I help?” A fleeting image of V rubbing a soapy loofah over your naked skin fills you with spine-tingling trepidation before he finishes his sentence. “I want to learn how to cook.”

Your chest deflates with relief (and absolutely not disappointment), air rushing out of you. Thank God.

“Oh, breakfast? Sure.” You’d been planning on cereal, but faced with V’s overwhelming enthusiasm, maybe you’ll go for something marginally more complicated. Scrambled eggs sound good. “Um. Do you need to download the food preparation package or whatever you mentioned before? Do you… uh, do you need the Wifi password to do that? I never changed it from the random string of letters off the back of the router, but I can go check it for you.”

V shakes his head. “No, I want to learn like a human would,” he says. The blanket in his arms crumples as he tightens his grip in his eagerness, all but bouncing up and down on his feet. “You can teach me.”

Your chest could cave in with how cute he is, every part of you turning to thick gouache that drips down to the floor, leaving a mess of brightness and colour.

This time you ask him to wait in the kitchen while you’re in the bathroom, rather than lurking on the doorstep like he had last night, and he’s practically vibrating with excitement when you reappear. He stays like that the whole time you cook, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, staring as you make yourself scrambled eggs and more toast; you let V take ownership of that part, and he stares at the toaster so intently you have to stifle a laugh.

He spreads butter exactly the same way as you. Not that there’s a specific art to it, or a massive variety in techniques—he’s just spreading butter, not painting a new Mona Lisa—but the way he holds the knife and runs it over the bread is an exact echo of your motions from last night. He might not have downloaded files into his memory (brain?) like another android might, but his mechanical origin is obvious in the way he learns. They’re an exact replication of your actions rather than something new of his own.

“So, uh.” You push the last bit of egg around your plate, brown crumbs sticking to the wedge of golden yellow, sullying it. “V.”

Blink, blink. His lashes are so long, eyes so inquisitive. “Yes?”

“I’m really happy you’re here and that you trust me—” at this, V smiles and you almost fumble over your words at its radiance—“but I feel like I should tell you that I don’t really know much about androids?”

V is unperturbed. “That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

He clearly isn’t bothered that you’re way out of your depth, but you hate feeling lost like this. “Alright, but… I want you to be comfortable. I’m already planning to get more clothes, but if there’s anything else you need, just let me know. Okay?”

“Why can’t I just wear your clothes?”

Oh, he’s going to be the death of you, all wide-eyed innocence.

“For starters, most of them won’t fit properly,” you explain. “And you shouldn’t just have to wear my old stuff that I don’t use anymore? You should have your own things.”

The look of surprise on V’s face morphs into guilt only moments later. He’s so incredibly expressive and you wonder if it’s because he’s not used to feeling things, all of his reactions so strong and bright, shining out from him. A rainbow palette of emotions. “I don’t want to be a bother,” he murmurs. “You’re already doing so much for me.”

“I’m really not, I’m just treating you the way anyone deserves to be treated.” You flick the crumb of egg across your plate, and it almost tumbles over the edge, caught on its patterned rim. “You deserve to have your own things. Which is my next point. I think you should choose your own name.”

V’s face becomes a sea of rippling ambivalence, contrasting emotions that shift and vary—confusion, uncertainty, excitement, your words a brush that drags through each distinct emotion and pulls them into a messy, mismatched gradient. “Choose my own name?”

“You don’t have to. I just thought it might be a nice idea. V seems…” Your cheeks heat up at the memory of the curl of his lips when he’d shown you the meaning behind his alias, how his tongue had shined under the purple lights of the club. “Well, you didn’t get to choose it, right? It’s a nom de plume, rather than a real name.”

V’s LED flickers yellow, a sunflower that blooms on his temple. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

“Good!” Your smile is wide. “Okay, how about I teach you how to wash dishes?”

V is, unsurprisingly, a fast learner. The only time he stumbles over things is when he’s presented with any sort of choice, taking his time to come to a decision when he’s posed a question, no matter how simple it is. His eyes will flick to you whenever he settles on an answer, as if waiting for you to say he’s wrong or that you disagree.

(Of course, you never do.)

This fact does, however, mean that choosing clothes to buy becomes a very, very long ordeal (it’s lucky you didn’t have any plans for today). You end up flopped back on the sofa while V hunches over your tablet, mulling over each choice before he puts it in the cart—but you’re happy to wait. V is going to need a lot more practice at choosing things.

The room is upside down from where your head is hanging over the armrest, eyes falling shut as time goes by, completely zoned out and comfortable despite the crick that’s growing in your neck. You hear V shifting, tablet set aside, and you hum.

“All done?”

“I think so.”

“Nice.” You feel content.

But then you’re ripped out of that warm feeling, shooting back to reality at the sensation of V’s hand stroking down the centre of your chest. Your head snaps up, eyes wide as he drags his large palm between the valley of your breasts, path smoothed by the material of your shirt. The expression on his face is sultry.

“Let me say thank you,” he murmurs, voice dripping thick and sweet, dark molasses.

You promptly roll off the sofa.

Once again, you end up on your back, staring at the ceiling. Once again, the expression on V’s face is one of concern, his seductive facade evaporated in an instant.

Once again your heart is ready to burst in your chest, pumping so hard that blood rushes in your ears. “V,” you wheeze. “What are you doing?”

The android is peering down at you, puzzled. “Sometimes customers would say that at the Eden Club after I had given them pleasure somehow, such as bringing them to orgasm. I thought it was human custom to repay pleasure or happiness with something in return.”

Ah.

“Ah.” You’re still staring at the ceiling, cheeks burning. “I mean. I guess that’s not technically incorrect, but it doesn’t necessarily have to be a, uh, sexual repayment.”

“I have nothing else to offer,” V says.

You sit up. Your face is a caricature of disbelief, embarrassment washed away in an instant, his words cold water that shocks you to the core. He states it so plainly, and once again you’re reminded of his life up until he’d made his way to your door: an automaton who existed solely for people’s pleasure, to slake their desire and lust. He’s not being self-pitying. He really, truly believes that’s all he is. That it’s all he can give back to the world.

“Okay, no, that’s absolutely not true, nuh-uh, I refuse.” This time you unfold yourself from the floor without V’s help, fixing him with a firm stare. “Alright, come on. I think it’s time you learned something else.”

One of the reasons you’d chosen this apartment is for its natural light. Not that it matters right now, weather outside still dismal and overcast, but its effect on this room is still palpable even so—grey, rain-soaked light throws itself over your small home studio, your menagerie of equipment, everything bright with the evidence of use: the worn buckles of the wooden storage boxes, the dried smears on the paint palette, the flecks of colour on the dust sheets underfoot. The centre of it all—the eye of the tornado, untouched by the relative chaos around it—is the canvas waiting on your easel, a project you have yet to start.

V looks utterly enraptured.

“I don’t really come in here as much as I’d like,” you admit. Being a graphic designer is worlds away from the sort of art you love to create, and while it’s a job you genuinely enjoy (and also pays well), it leaves you drained and fills your brain with tired static, little energy left to lavish on your personal works. “But this is where the magic happens. And this is where you’re going to Make Art.”

V freezes. “The only things I know about art are the things you told me when we first met.” He looks equal parts excited but also troubled. “I—”

“You don’t need to know about art to make art,” you say. “I didn’t know jack about art when I was a kid and I was constantly just scribbling away with crayons. Was it good? No. I was a kid with zero pen control, it was pretty crap. Was it worth my time? Yes, because any time spent involved in a craft is never wasted. We can learn more about art history and technique later.”

V stays quiet as you loop your apron over his head, rough material still bearing the remnants of your last works, stains that won’t come out. Oil based paints are kind of a bitch like that.

“I don’t know what to paint,” he says.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to,” you reply, an echo of his earlier words.

V looks lost, barefoot in your studio, in your clothes, your apron, holding onto your wooden paint palette, in front of your easel. Everything in here is yours. Everything, that is, apart from him, whatever is in his mind and heart.

“Where do I start?” V’s eyes are imploring as he looks at you, but for the first time today, your voice is firm.

“Wherever you want. There aren’t any rules. Just do whatever you think would be fun. It doesn’t have to look good, V, you’ve just started.”

You’ve seen paintings made by androids before. They’re always perfect recreations of the world around them, exact replicas of the things they’ve been told to depict on the page—the androids are basically glorified photocopiers, unable to create something original and new.

But they’re not V. They don’t have that spark of curiosity and light inside them, unhampered by the programming that’s meant to keep them in place. His LED dances from yellow to blue, yellow to blue, the rest of his body motionless while the light on his temple is a tumult of movement and colour.

Dark eyes slide over the array of paint hanging from a rack on the wall, some metal tubes more crushed than others, evidence of your preferred shades—you notice how his gaze lingers on the midnight tones, red and blue tinted purples, from lavender to lilac, from plum to wine.

V gives you one more look, a little upturn to his thick brows—almost pleading—and you just gesture with your hand.

“Go for it,” you say.

Your wooden palette becomes home to a riot of purple, each tube squeezed empty with careful hands, far more paint than anyone could possibly ever need. V keeps flicking you glances, but you stay silent, perched on a wooden chair by the now open window, rain-slick air a cold breath on your skin.

The brush the android selects is a wide, bold thing, bristles rough. He handles it like bone china, delicate and liable to shatter any moment, cautious as he dips it into the paint—it’s so wide it picks up three separate shades—and he holds his breath as he brings it up, even if he doesn’t have lungs.

The second the bristles touch the canvas, V’s LED flickers red.

Just for an instant.

He swoops the brush down the canvas as he pulls it away, eyes wide, leaving a slash of purples in its wake. The white material is marred with colour, a textured line of pigment that can’t be erased.

The android pauses as he takes the sight in. He’s still for so long that you’re worried he’s shut down, even with the endlessly dancing circle of his LED—

But then V laughs.

His laugh is loud and bright and free, a series of deep, almost surprised chuckles that grow in intensity and breathlessness, staring at this smear of drying acrylic paint in front of him. The smile on his face is the widest you’ve seen so far, his eyes squeezed into crescents of joy, spilling out of him like light.

“I did that.” He looks at you with that gilded smile, a fresco of delight across the perfection of his features. “I made that.”

“You did.” You can’t help but smile back, your own face split with happiness. You continue to smile as he brings the brush back to the palette, and then to the canvas, dragging the bristles across its surface and leaving more purple behind; the shades swirl and mix as he lays colour without a care for technique or clean lines or form, scooping up the endless amounts of acrylic he’d prepared. By the time he’s finished, the canvas is bumpy with daubs of paint, laid messily by joyful hands, a few bold streaks of unmarred colour surrounded by swirling purples.

The smile hasn’t left V’s face the whole time.

His brush is absolutely saturated, paint clinging to every inch of bristle, from toe to belly to heel. You have no doubt that no matter how much you clean that brush it’ll leak purple into the water, an endless reminder of V’s touch. It’s lax in his grasp as he keeps looking at the canvas, his canvas, smile etched into his face as his LED flows soft blue, content.

You can’t remember the last time you saw someone so elated, buoyed up with the excitement of creation, making something out of nothing, discovering how it feels to bring something into existence, pulling it out of the ether. Making something new. Making something their own. It stirs something in your chest and stomach, reminding you why you love art so much. Why you’ve always loved art. (Why you always will.)

“I made that,” V repeats, his voice a reverent hush. Awestruck.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, because it is—for a multitude of reasons. The reason that sings out to you the most, though, is that it’s the cause of happiness that dances across his face: V, a carved candle, a piece of art made with skilled hands, self-made joy finally catching fire at his wick.

“Thank you,” V says, and you blink.

“For what?”

“For giving me this,” he starts, but before you can interject and point out that you didn’t give him this, he made it, he continues: “For giving me… freedom. To do this. And make this. And learn this.”

The smile that spreads across your face is warm hearth fire. “I didn’t give you freedom, V, you gave that to yourself, but I’m happy to help you any way I can. Now, would you like to keep painting, or would you prefer to help me make dinner?”

He chooses dinner, never leaving your side.

Sunday is nice. There's less messy limbed surprise than on Saturday, although you’re still off kilter when you wake up with your head in V’s lap again, but… it’s nice.

You thought he’d spend the night painting, or drawing, or teaching himself something new using the free rein you’d given him with your computer and notebooks and stationery and art supplies—he doesn’t have to waste time with sleep, like you do—but he hadn’t. He’d climbed into your bed, settling against the pillows just like the night before, looking at you with his big, lovely eyes.

So here he is.

(And here you are.)

It’s cosy and comfortable, even if the feeling of warm skin under warm cotton against your cheek sets your heart to racing, V’s dark eyes even warmer when you roll over to look at his face.

“Morning,” he says.

“Morning,” you reply, and then you yawn, V’s lashes fluttering as he takes in the motion. “What time is it?”

Today’s rain is less of an endless downpour and more of an inconsistent drizzle, grey blanket slowly peeling away from the edges of the city, but it doesn’t matter, because you’re inside for most of the day, anyway. Saturday was hands-on, messy with acrylic and spilled coffee and laundry detergent (V really wants to learn everything), but Sunday is hands-off. You spend the day dredging the corners of your memory and scrolling through old, untouched files from your university years, so you can teach V the things he wants to know while relearning the things you’d forgotten yourself.

V’s little LED dances forever from blue into yellow, ocean waves lapping into sand, a shifting tide as he takes in your words. You’ve never had to teach someone before and you’re admittedly pretty terrible at it, but he never complains, the world’s most attentive and adorable student, sat on the floor with his legs crossed and his hair mussed and his eyes wide, drinking down everything you show him.

You only leave the apartment once. Lunch is delayed when you open your fridge and remember how bereft and sad it is inside, so you venture out into the rain to the nearby supermarket—V opts to stay indoors, LED flickering red at the idea of being caught, shying back.

You leave him looking lost and lonely before the door even finishes swinging shut behind you, long limbs looking even longer in your clothes, but somehow still so small.

“I won’t be long,” you promise.

When you get back, you return not only with bags of food but also clothes, V’s order from yesterday already shipped and delivered. He can finally replace your too-small clothing with things he’s chosen himself. It’s a fumble to get in the door, but the android is waiting for you, swinging it open and catching the bag you nearly drop in surprise.

“I have your clothes,” you announce. “I’ll put away the shopping while you try them on?”

You’re going to have to tattoo a reminder on your forehead about V’s relationship (or lack thereof) with clothes, because of course he takes this as an invitation to start stripping before you’ve even had a chance to take your shoes off.

He does that thing where he grabs the back of his (your) shirt and pulls it over his head in one swift motion, curls of hair a cloud of smoke that settles around his face as the shirt is cast aside; you’re frozen in place as he reaches for the knot of his sweatpant’s drawstring, long fingers pulling it loose, but you let out a sharp meep just as his fingers hook into the waistband of them.

“PleasewaituntilI’mnotrightinfrontofyouthankyou,” you gasp all at once, words incoherent as they slide together, but V understands. He tilts his head at you inquisitively although he (thankfully) stops.

“Don’t you want to see the clothes?”

“I do, but, uh, for humans it’s normally customary to only get entirely naked or change clothes when you’re alone.” Your heart is going to burst out of your chest with how fast it’s racing. Without the string to cinch the sweatpants tight they’re starting to fall a little, revealing the delicate lines of his hip bones, and coupled with the reappearance of V’s bare stomach, your brain is going into meltdown. “So just—just give me a sec to go to the kitchen, okay? You’re probably better off changing in the bedroom, anyway, so you can use the full length mirror to see how you look.”

“Okay,” he says, but then: “Do humans never undress around others unless they’re planning to have sex?”

Your mouth falls open before you pause, words halting on your lips as you try to think of the best way to phrase your answer. “Well, we do, it’s not just about sex, but it’s usually only if you’re really comfortable with the other person you’re with, and they’re comfortable with you.”

“I’m comfortable with you,” V states plainly, and your insides turn to jelly. “Are you not comfortable with me?”

Oh, hell. “I am, I am! I’m just, uh… I’ve not really had a lot of practice with nakedness around other people.” What a way to put that you’re a shy ass virgin when it comes to real life nudity and sex, huh. “So let’s just keep it to a minimum for now, okay? Please?”

The android’s LED flickers honey-sweet on his temple as he looks at you, before his hands fall away from the sweatpants. “Okay.”

(Thank God.)

You’re not sure what you’re expecting to see when V starts to present his small array of outfits to you, but—he looks effortlessly stylish in the oversized clothes he’s selected, a muted palette of brown and yellow and red and cream, a cup of hot chocolate on an autumn day. He might be new to all this but his eye for aesthetic is impeccable. You have no doubt that the more he learns, the better he’ll get, hop-skip-jumps ahead of you, even after years of art education.

He’s even bought pyjamas, dark tartan patterns masculine but also adorable; it’s an utter juxtaposition to the tighter, sensual clothing he’d been given at the Eden Club.

“You look really good,” you tell him. Your voice is only a little strained. He smiles.

The outfit V wears for the rest of the afternoon is perfect for a rainy day spent indoors, thick jumper and tawny trousers, a blend of sepia tones. He looks like if you made a hug into a person: all soft edges and cosy and wrapped up in warmth.

And V is warm. You’re not sure if it’s a lingering memory of his programming, a carry over from his start in life as a sexbot, but he likes to touch—nothing inappropriate or overbearing, but he’s not shy about stepping into your personal space, brushing the back of your hand with his fingers as he points at something on the screen, or pressing close to your side as you cook, or just one of the hundreds of other tiny touches that he’s littered across you throughout the day. It’s thoughtless on his part, LED not even flickering, but each time is just another reminder of his warmth, the blue blood pulsing under his skin, how alive he is.

(And the truth is that you enjoy those touches. You’re not used to them, but lord knows you’re touch starved, so as fleeting as they are, they’re nice.)

Even though you still leave plenty of space between the two of you when you lay to sleep, you swear you can feel the heat spilling off V, another warm body in the bed that’s so used to just one. Though he stays sitting up, he’s in his cute matching pyjamas, and it’s… it’s a lot. You’ve invited V into your home—and you don’t regret it—but after two days he’s already settled in in a way you never thought anyone else would, as entirely unconventional as the whole situation is. (You’re not sure how many people have sheltered a deviant android in their homes, though, so maybe this isn’t as unconventional as you think. Who knows? Not you.)

“I have to go to work tomorrow.”

V tilts his head down to look at you.

“You can get up to whatever you’d like,” you continue. You’re propped up on an elbow so it’s less intimate than if you’d been on your back and staring upwards like you were waiting for him to slide down next to you (that’s what it feels like, to you, anyway). “You know the password for my computer now, and you’re welcome to watch TV or play games or whatever, and you can use all my stuff in the studio. I mean, other than painting or drawing over stuff I’ve already finished, but you’re welcome to grab any paper or canvases if you want them. I think that’s everything? But please let me know if there’s more you want or need, okay?”

Blink, blink. His lashes are soft charcoal that frames the spilled ink of his gaze. In the dimmed light of your room V is unreadable, his LED a quiet blue glow on his temple, but he looks soft, and he looks safe, and he nods.

“Alright,” he says. A smile that flickers at the edge of his lips. “I will.”

(You wake up, quiet and slow, face pillowed against V’s thigh, still drifting in sleep. You make a small noise, eyes shut, wondering why there’s no blaring sound of your alarm, but then a large hand smooths over your hair and you instinctively relax under the soft touch.

“You have thirty three minutes until you’re due to wake up,” he murmurs. “You can go back to sleep.”

So you do.)

(When you wake up to the scream of your alarm thirty three minutes later, you don’t remember any of this. All you can think of is the dawn of another Monday, the slog of another working week, and you sigh. But—

“Morning.”

V’s eyes are dark meok ink, liquid earth that grounds you.

“Morning,” you say, smiling despite yourself, and then roll out of bed to get the whole day started.)

You’re used to spending a day surrounded by laughter and banter, wrapped up in the camaraderie of your co-workers and friends, only to return to a world of quiet solitude. You’re used to coming home to rooms that are untouched from the morning, holding onto the echo of your passing, still and waiting for your return, an apartment of motionless air.

But not today. There’s evidence of someone else here: the open door to your studio down the hall, the scattered books on the coffee table, the mess of cushions on the sofa, all small signs that someone has been moving and living in your absence. A still-life that’s shifted into a breathing trompe l’oeil, V’s presence bringing flatness into perspective, turning it into something real.

It’s… nice.

You flop onto the sofa and send one of those cushions overboard, tumbling to the ground. V appears in the doorway moments later, new apron already streaked with colour, copper green thumbprint on his face like he’d touched it in thought and not realised. A little streak of paint that draws the eye to his lovely chin.

“Welcome home!” His hair is blond today, a golden nimbus around his face, though his eyes are still dark. Light and shadow. His happiness is infectious and you smile helplessly back, glad for his excitement with painting—but it seems like he hasn’t finished. “I’m happy you’re home. I missed you.”

KO. Wipeout. Your heart turns to liquid in your chest, burnt sugar that dribbles hot and saccharine through your ribs.

“I chose a name.” V continues, oblivious to how he’s turned your insides into syrup, and you abruptly sit up.

“Oh?”

“Taehyung.” The way he says it, in his deep voice, those two syllables are endless—a single name, heavy with the weight of meaning behind it. A shedding of his old skin, one that was forced on him, leaving him pink-skinned and new and free.

“Taehyung,” you repeat, and his LED flickers at the sound falling off your lips. “Taehyung. It’s lovely.”

He’s smiling, that lovely toothy smile that you’ve already decided is your favourite out of any smile you’ve seen, his LED electric blue and swirling in delight.

Day after day, you wake up to the sight of that LED glowing as Taehyung watches you lift up out of sleep. Night after night, you come home to his lovely, big grin, all large hands and soft hair—hair that he chooses to change colour when he pleases, a dizzying palette with every shade you can dream of. He’s bright and deep, playful and reflective, a dance of flirty Rococo to more solemn Baroque, every day another day where he learns and grows and adds another facet to the cut diamond of his personality.

(It hasn’t been long but you’re starting to think you’d put the world in the palm of his hand, if you could.)

You never thought you’d live to see the day where someone as lovely as Taehyung would be glad to see you home, having missed you after being apart—but for all that he’s voraciously leaning into the arts, consuming everything from visual to literary to performance, he’s never happier than when you’re there too. He shows you his works, improvement obvious with every new piece, but his excitement grows tenfold when you start to paint alongside him; seeing him so joyful spurs you to pick your brushes up again, buoyed up with motivation in the face of his own.

(Your studio is usually quiet, a little reflective maybe, the only sound the music you play over your speakers—but now more often than not you and Taehyung will talk, and laugh, and even if you’ve both ebbed into silence, it’s never heavy. It’s a held breath. The potential to speak any moment. The sensation of another person in the same space as you, an orbit, both existing in a shared moment, connected by gossamer threads that shimmer with sunlight.

Taehyung’s eyes are steady on his canvas as he works, but he glances at you through the curl of his lashes, smiling back at you. Always, always smiling, LED calm blue as the rest of his face shines golden, bright.)

(Maybe it’s selfish, but you think you could get used to this.)

taglist: @beyoncesdragon

#btswritingcafe #magicshopnet #btswriterscollective #taehyung x reader #bts #taehyung x you #taehyung au #bts au #taehyung #kim taehyung #taehyung scenario #taehyung imagine #android taehyung #robot taehyung #look you know the drill by now: I don't know how to tag effectively #taehyung fanfic #bts fanfic #joy.masterlist #dbh is so good guys. I love connor. like. an alarming amount.

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the-kingshound · 3 years

Text

The third Arch Deleted Scene

The snippet here is a bit rushed at the beginning and in some other parts, as I did not want to go into even more spoiler territory. If you want to send me asks about this please be sure to advertise them as spoiler at the beginning, since not everyone will want to read them.

SPOILER

TW: blood, injury, poisoning, strong language.

3rd Arch – the seventh Trial

Your stomach was knotted by dark swirling anxiety from the moment Arthur announced the diplomatic visit. You were familiar with the House, it kept being, after all, one of the most influent beside yours before and after the Emperor’s fall. This did not mean anything, though. Your homeland was beautiful but deadly, ready to swallow anyone whole to quickly digest them.

You promised yourself you were going to be at Arthur’s side at all times, and that’s precisely what you are doing now.

Four days in, and the only major threat has been the amount of people wanting to interact with you. For the most part, Arthur smoothly deflects them to himself, for which you are endlessly grateful. You’re not in the mood to socialize, instead you keep on high alert, especially against the House leader and formal Ambassador.

You do not think he will pull anything while you’re here, after all you grew up together and you respected each other deeply, but one cannot be too cautious when the King is concerned – as demonstrated by the multiple scars that litter your body. You would go through all of it again in a heartbeat if it meant keeping your King safe, but all you can do for now is stay by his side and keep the risks at minimum.

For this reason, when the Ambassador proposes a meal together with both yours and his knights, you are instantly weary.

“I don’t like this one bit, Arthur.”

“Me neither,” agrees Evaine, all the while lazily making their dagger spin on the table.

“I don’t deny that is not an ideal situation. On the other hand, a wrong move on their part would jeopardise their own negotiation,” counters Arthur as Morien finally snaps, blocking Evaine’s wrist with a tight grip and hissing an irritated “stop fooling around, for God’s sake!”

Evaine pouts. Yniol ignores them in favour of the matter at hand “they are certainly going to outnumber us, but if they wanted to attack us head on they would have done so before now, there were better opportunities. MC?”

You really think it through before answering “I wouldn’t put it past the Ambassador to try something, direct or more subtle, while we’re so exposed and out of our physician. Lania is not the head of his House for nothing, but aside from that he was always particularly attached to the Empire. We can’t afford to underestimate him.”

“Yes, yes” interjects Morien, having by now freed Evaine’s hand and left the table, dismissing themselves from the meeting “I’ll be prepared in any case. I swear you manage to hurt yourselves everywhere we go.”

And so dinner begins. It is a boring affair, but you won’t let yourself relax until it’s over. You sip on your wine, closely inspecting the hosts for any sudden or unusual movement. You find none, but you stiffen and your brows furrows. There’s something strange in your mouth, something strangely… bitter.

Time seems to freeze in front of your eyes. With an uncoordinated, panicked movement you jerk on the table and bat away Arthur’s cup, spilling its content on the table.

You place your hand on the table to support you as you rise, your dilatated pupils numbly fixed on the red liquid that’s quickly staining the tablecloth. It feels like an hour but actually only a second has passed before you regain your senses.

“Seize them.”

Arthur and his Knights are no longer seated by now, but the Ambassador’s men have drawn their weapons as well and pointed them to your delegacy, effectively halting their movements. You see icy red and do not spare another glance at the man now placed on your back while you snarl in the envoy direction.

Placing your fingers on the hilt of your sword, you hiss an enchantment to track the magic residue and the culprit is revealed in front of your eyes. Ignoring the taste of iron on your tongue, you spit out another enchantment and the room’s door is locked close with a lout snap. They will not get away.

Unfortunately, you lack the ability to free Arthur and the Knights, you are now surrounded and painfully outnumbered, but you know they can hold on until you have taken care of the threat at hand. You cough blood and half crash on the floor, but you ignore the alarmed voices of your Knights and crawl in the Ambassador’s direction.

How dare he. How dare.

“My, Lord…”

“Let them,” a voice says to your back “they will not go far.”

“How dare you” your breaths are ragged, your intestines raw and burning, your voice rough for the acid that invades your throat. The Ambassador’s face is a mask of contempt and stony resolution. He watches, halting his men while they try to block you, as you half-crawl to him, gripping with iron strength the wooden chairs to keep yourself upright.

“I have the upper hand, King Arthur. I’m afraid you are in no position to make such demands.”

“Release us, and call a physician for my spouse, and I will consider letting this incident go without consequences.”

Arthur’s voice is steady, calm and there is only a hint of something sharper, at least for now.

You can’t see your King, but the sound of his voice sends shivers down your spine. They tried to kill him. The House you grew up to respect is full of nothing more than vile traitors.

As your strength start to waver, you lose your balance and crush to the ground with the chair you were pushing your weight on. Still, you get up again and you and fix your gaze on the second born, now Ambassador and traitor “I’ve had enough of you.”

You take a shuddering breath, your lungs filled with blood that’s now spilling over to your lips as you speak, but the pain you feel is nothing compared to the hot, blinding rage that’s consuming your every thought. Still, your voice is, as ever, cutting cold “you invite us here, offering a pacific discussion, and all you provide are poison in our drinks and weapons against my Knights and my King’s throat. You’ve exhausted my patience, Lania.”

You see him flinch at the use of his name. You remember a time long gone when you played together as kids, swearing you would be the ones to restore the Empire uniting your two Houses. Now these are broken promises and rotten friendships.

“MC,” the Ambassador says, “it’s over, you have to understand that.”

“Oh, you just wait,” interjects Evaine, almost immediately silenced by the Ambassador’s men.

You cough and choke on blood, and you can feel the physical weight of Arthur’s and the Knights’ worried eyes on your back, but you exhale and grip tighter your sword’s hilt. A wave of raw power invades your body and you are able to focus again.

“You know what I’m capable of, what I am willing to do for my King,” your voice is almost devoid of intonation, save for unforgiving hardness. His gaze falls on your non dominant arm and then on your throat, scarred by a thin horizontal line “I will gut you and feed you to my hounds. You’ll die like the backstabbing coward you are.”

They know as well as you do that you don’t make empty promises. There is a rustle around you that culminates in a sharp sigh from the Ambassador and swords pointed at your neck.

“Must we really do this, MC? I cared for you once, but you know that I will not hesitate to strike you down if you give me reason to do so.”

You don’t draw black nor move a single muscle, your eyes find Arthur’s blue ones and you find the King is dangerously immobile, his fingers brushing against Excalibur’s hilt in what could be mistaken for a soothing caress. When he speaks, his voice bears nothing else but firm command “you will not do that.”

Lania cocks his head to the side, appearing quite unbothered “oh?”

“How is your sister, Ambassador?”

At the same time as Lania stills, you blink. A violent cough than shakes your chest, and when your senses are fully back and you can breathe again Arthur has kept going with the same calm, calculated demeanor “I want to remind you that together with the Lord the wedded she’s now head of the Merthian feud, the nearer one to the south-eastern border.”

“What does it-“

“I am the one in control of the knights tasked with their protection. As per the arrangement we signed weeks ago, the border is under Camelot’s defence. But if I die, or if my spouse dies, my knights will retire, Ambassador.”

Oh, Arthur is not King for nothing. He is striking where it hurts the most – family – without even an drop of blood shed. You don’t hide a proud, feral smile at this. Almost immediately, blood invades your throat again, you can feel its taste on your togue, but you shove the pain back where it started in your burning stomach. You shiver. You love and hate seeing your King like this.

Lania swiftly unsheathe a long, curved dagger and you are immediately ready to bolt– swords to your throat be damned, you’ve had worse – but he makes no move in Arthur’s direction for now.

“Figured you had to hit low to get a reaction.”

“Release us,” Yniol commands, standing tall near the King.

“No” spits out Lania, his composure now fully broken “you stole our independence and our pride, Pendragon, you humiliated us and stripped our Houses of the opportunity to unite again. You are every bit of your father’s blood!”

He then turns to you, his eyes frantic, his expression pained and almost feral “I thought you were on my side!”

Blood rushes to your ears, a high-pitched whistle the only thing you’re able to hear at the moment. You feel sick. Sicker than before – sicker than what you’ve felt in years. You spit blood on the floor, your answer is weak and unnaturally subdued, “it was a- a long time ago.”

“We were like siblings!”

You can’t say anything, you only choke on your words. All that you manage to do is keep yourself upright only thanks to your sword.

“They are right, you really are your King’s hound, nothing more than Camelot’s bitch,” he tries the next word in his mouth like they were both foul and inevitable “the haghàn bajek*.”

Your vision is overcome by whit spots, your skin hot and freezing cold.

“Kill them all.”

You force yourself to focus. Protect your Knights. Protect your King.

After that it is pure, unbidden chaos. You tighten your grip on your sword, assessing where you’re needed the most. With the corner of your eye you spot Arthur, he’s a beautiful fighter, he is no match for – Lania.

Your magic flares alongside most of your nerve endings as you sprint in his direction, interjecting his blow with your own weapon. Unfortunately, the Ambassador is a skilled opponent and you’re already considerably weakened, all you can do is channel in your arms the strength of your steel determination to not let him reach your King.

“Stop trying to defend an enemy, MC!”

“Stop trying… to kill him.”

You are barely managing to defend yourself when Lania strikes back. You catch the dagger with your arm, it pierces through your skin just over your elbow but it won’t reach its intended target. No one will hurt your King while you’re still breathing. No one.

Pain paralyzes your arm, your breath is stuck in your throat together with a blood clot that feels intrusive and that fills you with panic. The finishing blow never comes, though. As you inhale again, you refocus on the room’s occupants and notice how Arthur’s Knights have the clear upper hand.

“Ah, and you thought you could beat the Round Table so easily,” Evaine all but purrs in a knight’s ear “that’s precious.”

“Stand down” Gawaine commands “you’re surrounded.”

You can hardly distinguish the shapes of your own knights, you’re nauseous, your stomach and throat are on fire. You fall down on your knees, exhausted and hurt. You feel like you’re going to throw up–

“MC’”

Where is Lania, where is –

“Wh-where…?”

“Kai, get Morien here, please.”

Arthur’s voice is soothing, as ever, but tainted with worry. You can’t make his face out. There are arms supporting your weight, not his but equally familiar – Yniol?

“It’s going to be alright, dear.”

It’s the last thing you hear before the world goes black.

*haghàn bajek = [REDACTED] traitor

#deleted scene #SPOILER #tw:blood #tw:injury #tw:poisoning #tw: strong language #I was quite happy with it as I wrote it #but now not so much I'm having second thoughts #if it's deleted by tomorrow you know why

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wannabe-amateur-writer · 3 years

Text

Black Noir X Femme Reader: Secret Conversations

You were a supe, but just like Starlight you secretly helped Hughie. You despised Homelander, hoping to be the one who kills him. Often you made fun of him during meetings but no one knew, no one but Black Noir anyways.

Your magical abilities ranged from telekinesis, to the ability to talk to people through their minds as well as mind control people to do as you wish. You could either toggle along hordes of people and talk to all of them or narrow it to just one person. Either way, it always managed to scare the shit out of people when you did it but so far the only one who knew of that special ability was Noir. You didn't share the fact you could do such a thing to the rest of Vought in fear they'd exploit it just like the rest of your powers and Noir kept his mouth shut, especially since you'd invade people's mind at random times and tell him your findings, ironically by mind linking with him.

Just like most days, you and Noir were sitting in the meeting room. Neither of you exchanged a single word, nor were you facing each other. You both stared ahead at nothing in particular, just like you both always did and that's how the rest of the Seven found you both; staring wordlessly and blankly at the door. They would be lying if they said it didn't creep them the fuck out but what they didn't realise was that you both were conversing, just through your mind link.

'Noir, they're coming'.

'I know. Try not to be too hard on Homelander today'.

'He's a bitch. He deserves every word I throw at him... Internally. And I know you feel the same'.

'I-'.

'Don't you dare deny it'.

'... No comment'.

You managed to dip back into what the others were saying.

"It means that lately, some of you have been, eh, a little out of sorts", Homelander says as he walks by Starlight, "erratic".

He then moves towards A Train, "unreliable", then to Maeve, "downright sloppy", he quickly gestures to Noir, "not you Noir, you've been great, but the rest of you..."

'What a bitch', you say to Noir, dipping back out of what Homelander was saying, 'it's like I'm fucking invisible'.

'I mean, you are using your invisibility powers right now'.

'Yeah, but still! He didn't even comment on me'.

"Y/n didn't even bother showing up to today's meeting. Vought's tracking her location as we speak and she'll be getting spoken to", Homelander said as if he managed to read your mind.

'Might wanna show your face', Noir tells you.

'Fuck me', you groan.

Instantly, you remove your invisibility and luckily no one seemed to notice, they were all just looking at Homelander in confusion. Of course he didn't realise until he stopped walking and looked around the table. His eyes then landed on you, his head tilted and his eyebrows furrowed.

"Y/n... You're there...?"

"Yes, thanks for noticing", you retort.

Vought also didn't know of your invisibility, neither did the rest of the team which is why you only made yourself invisible when Homelander walked in, and quickly made sure to remove the invisibility before the others looked over at your seat once he gave away the fact you weren't there. It was risky but you liked fucking with people's minds sometimes, especially if that someone was Homelander.

"I presume I won't be getting spoken to by anyone then?", You continue.

"Uh... No, you won't", he replied. You tapped into his mind to hear what he was thinking.

'Was she there the whole time? How the hell didn't I see her?'

'Lol, Homelander's funny when he's confused. He's questioning his sanity', you tell Noir through your mind link.

'Do you invade my thoughts without permission?'

'No, I respect your privacy'.

'Really?'

'Of course! Unlike everyone else in this shitty world, I can tolerate you'.

'Wish I could say the same for you'.

'... Bitch'.

Once the meeting was over everyone left to do whatever it was Homelander told them to. You and Noir stayed though, still immersed in conversation.

'Thank fuck for that. I think that meeting took ten years off my life'.

'Every time Homelander talks takes years off your life'.

'Well he should talk less then'.

'Do you like him or something?'

You choked on air before looking at him incredulously. Noir was already facing you.

"What the fuck Noir?! Why would you say that??", You shout, still disgusted.

You heard a breathy chuckle from him in response.

'Well you always go on about him, it's almost like you're trying to stifle your love towards him through hate', he said through mind link.

"Wha-No! He's a hypocritical titty-milk-drinking, money corrupted, mother-issued, man child!! He's disgusting and I can't wait for him to fuck off and die", you candidly respond.

You knew of all of those things because once you first joined you knew something was up with him so you began stalking him for a bit, then proceeded to puke your guts out. Noir was nice enough to hold your hair back and get you some water.

You heard another airy chuckle from Noir which although made you ecstatic, also kinda pissed you off.

"What's so funny?!"

'The depths you go to cover it up', he responded via mind link.

You let out a frustrated groan, "I. Don't. Like. Him!!!"

'Sure'.

"Fuck you, Noir".

'You've been saying that a lot recently. Do you have feelings for me too?'

"I want to kill you".

'Good luck with that'.

"I need to find something with nuts in it", you say out loud to yourself.

'Believe me, you won't be able to even grab it before you fall dead on the ground', you heard a slight warning tone in Noir's voice instructing you to stop which you complied with.

"Oh, Noir", you say dramatically, draping an arm over his shoulder, "like I'd ever want to kill you anyways. Then I wouldn't have anyone to talk to and bitch to", you then move from the side of him to right in front of him. You put on your knees on his lap, wrapping both your arms around the back of his neck, "plus I can't kill the love of my life. I wouldn't be able to live with myself".

Before Noir could respond you plant a kiss just a few inches away from the corner of his masked lips and instantly teleport away.

Noir was stunned. His hand slowly raised up to touch the area that was blessed to feel your lips.

Wait, did you just call him the love of your life?!?!

#black noir #blacknoirXreader #x fem!reader #the boyz #the boys amazon #homelander #maeve #Starlight #a train #Supe #BlackNoirXFemaleReader #fanfiction #fandom #x reader #Secret Conversations #true feelings

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sundiscus · 3 years

Text

wangxian dragon age au: ficlet

[part of a larger au i’ve mapped out + started drafting, but want to post as snippets for now! i’ve taken many liberties with the worldbuilding, and as such i think most can be inferred with context if you’re unfamiliar with dragon age.

part one now here

this snippet: the meet-ugly, ~1.7k]

✨✨✨

When Lan Wangji wakes up, he isn’t alone.

He doesn’t realize it right away. The first thing he notices is that, this time, there are no shackles. He shifts his hands the slightest bit, enough to confirm they are indeed free. The movement pulls at the little cuts on his fingers and forearms from where the shackles shattered apart, already scabbing over—so he has been unconscious long enough for the magebane to burn out of his system, which he confirms, finding his meridians free and clear. He’s lying on his back, something that feels slightly too soft to be a stone floor under him and something that feels slightly too rough to be a blanket draped over him. An odd green light pulses against his eyelids and the only sound is a muted, continuous hiss, like a distant waterfall. Wherever he is, it isn’t the cell from earlier.

It doesn’t matter. He won’t be here long.

He takes one more slow breath, listening closely. There. To his left, a few paces away, he hears a tiny, cut-off inhale. Now he knows where to aim. His eyes fly open as he launches himself upright, summoning his sword into his raised hand, and—

It’s like expecting the ocean and finding only a puddle. His sword flickers into existence for the barest moment, its glow illuminating a circle of stone walls, a pallet beneath him, and then Lan Wangji’s lungs stutter, pressure squeezing his temples, as if all air has been sucked out of the room. Bichen dissipates and Lan Wangji is left gasping, one hand still raised uselessly in the air.

From the shadows, someone says: “Ah, that’s not going to work.”

Lan Wangji is already looking to the side. He sees only a figure at first, because when his sword disappeared so had the strange, omnipresent green glow. The glow returns now, slowly illuminating a young man curled against the opposite wall, his hair a dark, tangled wave over his shoulders, wrists chained together with thick iron manacles. For a moment his eyes, staring right back at Lan Wangji, are the brightest thing in the room.

“What do you mean?” Lan Wangji demands, finding his voice. “Is there a suppression array?” It must be powerful to choke off his magic so finitely. If he can see it, though, he can figure out how to undo it.

The man wrinkles his nose. “Not exactly. But—ah, ah,” he says as Lan Wangji starts to stand, “don’t move too fast, the blowback from that is going to be pretty harsh.”

Lan Wangji understands almost instantly as a wave of vertigo hits him. His knees buckle before he’s halfway to his feet and he collapses back on the pallet, bracing his weight on his elbow to keep from falling entirely. When his ears stop ringing he can hear his own ragged breathing.

Enough, he thinks, and forces himself to even his breaths. To shift focus. Clearly whatever precautions Wen Chao and his soldiers have taken to secure this room go beyond magebane and a simple suppression array. He won’t be able to escape by sheer force like last time, but this will still be no more than a brief detour on his journey. He will make sure of it.

Yesterday—was it yesterday, now? The chamber has no windows, just the eerie green glow emanating from the walls—Lan Wangji had been traveling with a retinue of junior enchanters to retrieve research texts from the Circle in Hedong, where scholars claimed to have promising studies related to fade rifts. They were nearly there when a raven alighted on Lan Wangji’s shoulder, bearing the message: Siege on Gusu Circle. Reconvene to the north. He’d sent the junior enchanters ahead and turned back before the raven even took flight.

(The note had not mentioned his brother, so his brother must be alive. Rumors were already spreading outward from Gusu as he rode, saying Wen Xu had an archdemon, Wen Xu burned the Gusu library to the ground. They did not say Wen Xu killed Zewu-jun, Wen Xu killed a mage with a glowing hand. So his brother must have escaped. Knowing this did not stop Lan Wangji’s heart from racing as he spurred his horse faster, past refugee settlements and Templar camps, toward the distant gash in the sky.)

And then: a poisoned arrow biting into his arm, his horse crumpling on a hardpacked road outside Lingchuan. The Wen soldiers, ready for him. (Not ready enough, when at least six of their bodies fell before Lan Wangji did.) One day in the first cell, his failed escape attempt.

And now: magicless, trapped in a strange room with a strange, sharp-eyed prisoner watching him struggle to sit upright, the slow crawl of time a physical weight on Lan Wangji’s shoulders.

“Honestly, just ride it out,” the prisoner is saying. He has his chained hands up and open, like he’s trying to calm a spooked animal. “You’ll feel better in about an hour. Maybe less, if you’ve had a good meal recently.”

Lan Wangji’s head spins sickeningly. He ignores it, pushing himself up until he can prop himself against the wall, putting himself eye-level with the prisoner, at least.

“Or sit up anyway, I suppose,” the prisoner says. His voice has a ragged edge, as if it’s scraping its way out of his throat. “Sorry, I’d offer you some water, but I drank it all before I knew I’d have company. What are you doing here, anyway?”

If First Enchanter Lan wants his nephew back, he’ll have to lend us a few books, Wen Chao had mocked from outside the first cell. And if he wants you back with all your limbs attached, he’ll have to throw in trading deeds with the eastern lyrium mines for good measure. Do you think he can deliver that before you die here?

Wen Chao wanted demonic texts, Lan Wangji had guessed, the ones hidden deep within the library. No doubt for some dangerous, power-hungry scheme, and no doubt connected to the rifts. From there, it wasn’t hard to piece together that the attack on the Circle was meant to discover which texts were critical enough to be rescued and transported away, and likely steal them in transit. There are protocols for such events, Lan Wangji knows, and his presence here means the raid was unsuccessful, and he will be used as leverage for a second attempt.

If Wen Chao meant to scare Lan Wangji with his demands, he had only succeeded in doing the opposite. Because if all they want from Lan Wangji’s family are books and deeds, it means they don’t know about his brother yet.

Lan Wangji doesn’t share any of this. “Political prisoner,” is all he says.

“Ahh.” The man nods. “I figured, what with the…” He gestures at his own forehead, chains clinking as he does. “You’re obviously a Lan. Someone will pay well to have you back home.”

“They should not have to pay at all,” Lan Wangji bites out. Something about the prisoner’s casual attitude grates at him. The world outside is quite literally falling apart at the seams, and Lan Wangji doesn’t have time to be used as bait in Wen Chao’s small-minded games.

The prisoner shrugs. “Yeah, but there’s not much choice at the moment, is there? For now you’re stuck here with me. I’m—my name is Wei Ying, by the way. What should I call you, while we wait?”

“Do the Wen soldiers enter this cell often?” Lan Wangji says instead of answering. “Is there a chance of overpowering them?”

A grimace. “Often enough. And no, I’ve tried. They’re stupid, but they’re prepared.”

Lan Wangji casts another glance over the man—Wei Ying—and carefully keeps any skepticism out of his expression. Then he looks around properly for the first time. Wei Ying is right—there’s no visible array on the floor, no glyphs on the circular stone walls. The green glow fades as it climbs the wall, leaving the ceiling cloaked in shadow and dizzying to look at, like an endless tunnel. Disturbingly, there isn’t a visible door, either. There isn’t much of anything but the one straw pallet, a lidded pot against the wall, an empty bowl next to Wei Ying, bone-dry, and Wei Ying himself.

“A Lan,” Wei Ying says when Lan Wangji is silent for long enough, pitched low, almost like he’s talking to himself. “I’m surprised Wen Chao would be so bold. He has to know that won’t go over well in the long run, I wonder if his father has any idea? No, he would’ve sent Wen Xu. Maybe Wen Chao thinks that by the time someone comes for you, he’ll have—” Wei Ying cuts himself off. Blinks. “You are real, aren’t you?”

Lan Wangji narrows his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, you’re not…” Wei Ying waves a hand at the room around them. “But, ah, why would I dream up a whole Knight-Enchanter? A Lan at that? You felt real enough, when I dragged you onto the pallet, but it’s still hard to tell.” Lan Wangji must have some reaction to that—to knowing this stranger’s hands have been on him, when he was unconscious—because Wei Ying adds, defensive: “What was I supposed to do? They left you on the floor.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t have an answer to that.

Wei Ying tips his head back against the wall. “Well. Your Circle, they have your phylactery, right? They’ll find you. Pay the ransom, or lay siege to Wen Chao’s little fortress here. That would be nice.” He casts his gaze over Lan Wangji again. “Looks like our captors were gentle enough in the meanwhile.”

There’s dried blood tugging at the hair of Lan Wangji’s temple, and he still has the nauseating sense that if he moves too fast he might collapse again. Gentle isn’t how Lan Wangji would describe his treatment so far. But it is also far below the threshold of what he can withstand, so it doesn’t seem like a point worth arguing. “And you?” he hears himself say.

“Uh.” Wei Ying shifts and holds up his shackled hands. “Less gentle, I suppose.”

“I meant—who will be paying your ransom.”

Wei Ying drops his hands into his lap. “Oh. No one.”

“Then,” Lan Wangji says, “why are you here?”

For the first time, Wei Ying flashes a smile. A hooked dagger in the dim light.

“I have something they want.”

#poor herald lxc 😔#this au is going to be equal parts h/c + dreamsharing + Dragons #because i am nothing if not predictable #this started months and months ago as a secret santa gift for eli #eli ilu!#wangxian #ficlet #my words #DA AU

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just-dreaming-marvel · 3 years

Text

Out Of Time ~ 131

MASTERLIST

< previous chapter

Word Count: 3,805ish

Summary: The fight continues.

“Y/N? Did you do it?” Steve asked, still fighting off the creatures attacking them. No answer though. “Y/N?” Still nothing. “I need eyes on Y/N!”

“I’m heading to the lab now!” Bucky responded.

“She seems to be in a trance,” Shuri finally answered, coming up to Y/N. “Her eyes are glowing the same color as the Stone, but it’s clear she’s not really here.”

“And the Stone?” Steve wondered.

“Floating in between her hands. But I can already tell there’s a protective barrier around it. We won’t be able to get to it.”

“I’m here! I’me here!” Bucky exclaimed, running to Y/N’s side. “Shit.” He knelt in front of her, knowing not to touch her. “Steve, we’re going to have to wait this out. Waking her isn’t going to be a smart option.”

“Stay by her side then! She’s one of the few things stopping Thanos from succeeding.”

“On it.”

“I’m going to secure the lab,” Shuri stated, rushing off with the guards.

“Oh, doll,” Bucky sighed. “Where’ve you gone now?”

~~~

Y/N was kneeling in the common room of the SHIELD base she had once called home. Everything had an orange tint to it, so she knew she was in the Soul Dimension. Standing up, she observed the room. No one was there and it looked like it had those many years ago when they first had found the base. Untouched, undamaged, ready and waiting for adventure.

Confused as to why she was there, Y/N stood up and began to make her way around the base. Memories of all the good times and bad she had shared with the team crossed her mind. She had completely forgotten about the troubles in reality as she wondered, eventually finding her way to Coulson’s office. With a shaky breath, she opened the door. Looking around, she froze when her eyes saw it. Saw him.

“Hey, Y/N,” Coulson smiled. He was in a black suit, sitting against his desk. “Told you I’d always be there.”

“Phil?” Y/N gasped. “What… how… this means… you died.”

“About a week ago.” Coulson stood up straight, unbuttoning his jacket. “May should have sent you a letter. Though, I understand why you haven’t gotten in yet.”

“Why are you here?”

“Don’t know,” he shrugged. “The Stone brought me here. I immediately knew it was because of you though. What’s going on?”

“I… Thanos is coming for the Stones. I was in Wakanda, trying to destroy the Soul Stone and now I’m here.” Y/N looked around. “They told me… they warned me.”

“Who warned you? About what?”

“The Stones warned me that if I tried to stop them, they would stop me. This is them doing that.”

“Why would they do that though? Aren’t you suppose to save the universe or something?”

“I am… just not yet… people are going to die. And I won’t be able to stop it…”

“People die every day, not everyone’s deaths is your fault.”

Y/N shook her head. “This is different though, Phil. So very different.”

Coulson sighed and walked over so that he was standing in front of Y/N. “Always been so stubborn and full of heart. But instead of staying here feeling guilty about it all, before it even happens, you need to focus and beat this Stone out.” He set his hands on her shoulders, looking at her square on. “You need to get out there and help everyone else.”

“I don’t—“

“No excuses. Focus. Close your eyes, take a deep breath and focus.”

~~~

Back on Titan, the small team there was trying to recover from a moon being thrown at them. Iron Man took the biggest hit. Moon-chunks were still flying everyone, with random debris as well. Mantis, Drax, and Star-Lord were all unconscious, flying through the air. Luckily, Spider-Man was still conscious. He swung through the air, catching the unconscious Guardians.

“I got you!” Spider-Man exclaimed, webbing Mantis. “I got you!” He snagged Drax next, securing both of them to something not moving. “I’m sorry I can’t remember anybody’s names!” He then reeled in Star-Lord.

Dr. Strange and Thanos began battling each other. Both using their available powers to counter the other. After Strange duplicated himself, Thanos used the Reality and Power Stones to discover the real one. He then used the Reality and Space Stones to pull Strange forward, letting Thanos grasp him by the throat.

“You’re full of tricks, wizard,” Thanos said, reaching for the necklace holding the Time Stone.

“No!” Strange yelled as Thanos snapped the necklace from his neck.

“Yet you never once used your greatest weapon.” Thanos crushed the necklace with his bare hand. “A fake.”

Angry, Thanos threw Dr. Strange and his head hit a rock, causing him to pass out. Almost simultaneously, a red and gold device slapped into the palm of the Infinity Gauntlet, bracing the fingers open. Iron Man then made a fast and hard entrance.

“You throw another moon at me, and I’m gonna to lose it,” Tony said, clearly done with Thanos.

“Stark,” Thanos greeted.

“You know me?”

“I do. You and the girl aren’t the only one cursed with knowledge.”

“My only curse is you.”

Small rockets popped out of Iron Man’s back and launched at Thanos. The rockets all exploded on target, momentarily shrouding Thanos in smoke. Before it cleared, Iron Man pile drove into Thanos horizontally, using his single super jet boot. As he bounced off, Tony flipped and stuck the landing, immediately re-configuring his boots into ground clamps and his gloves into rocket-driven battering rams, punching Thanos into the ruined wall behind him.

Thanos shook it off quickly. He reached forward and tore Iron Man’s helmet off, revealing Tony's surprised expression before the suit recovered automatically and re-formed his head protection. Thanos made use of the delay and punched back hard, sending Tony sliding meters away and giving Thanos time to rip the brace device off the gauntlet. He immediately used the Power Stone to stream energy at Tony, who formed a shield to kneel behind just as instantly, getting pushed back even further by the incredible force.

Iron Man slid out from behind the shield, letting the angled energy push him away for a faster start, and whipped back to Thanos. Tony kicked at the Titan with his left foot, turning the boot into a ground clamp at the same time to pin the gauntlet. He kept twisting while his left glove became a ran again, slamming into Thanos’ face and cutting his cheek.

“All that for a drop of blood,” Thanos panted.

Thanos smiled before punching Iron Man, sending him pinwheeling. He then started beating him with his fists. Iron Man attempted to block the blows with his forearms, but Thanos was relentless, picking him up by the helmet and blasting his midsection with the Power Stone. The gaps in the nano tech suit were gaping, as the armor lost the ability to recover from the intensity and extent of the damage.

Iron Man landed hard from the Power blast, struggled to one knee and fired his right hand repulsor at the inexorable Thanos; the beam was easily deflected by the gauntlet. Tony got to both feet as the suit tried to complete repairs, adding the beam from his left hand as well. Thanos walked right up to him, and backhanded the incomplete helmet completely off Tony's head. He crossed his arms to block a blow from Thanos' gauntlet, and had his left hand caught over his head.

In desperation, Tony formed what's left of his right glove into a short-sword, which was also easily caught by Thanos, snapping it off clean and driving it through Tony's left side. Thanos then walked Tony back until he was sitting, and placed the gauntlet almost comfortingly on Tony’s head.

“You have my respect, Stark,” Thanos said. “When I’m done, half of humanity will still be alive.” He let go, straightened and stepped back. “I hope they remember you.”

Tony was a little distracted with the pain, blood drooling out of his mouth and compromised breathing. Thanos raised the gauntlet, closing his fist, all three of the Stones glowing.

“Wait,” Thanos said, noticing the problem. He unlisted his hand and looked at the side of the gauntlet where the Stones sat. “The Soul Stone,” he growled. He looked around, realizing that someone had been missing from he whole fight. “The girl.” He glared at Tony. “Where is she?”

“Away… from here,” Tony panted.

“AHH!” Thanos screamed, powering up the gauntlet.

“STOP!” Strange shouted. “Spare his life… and I will give you the Stone.”

“No tricks.” Strange shook his head and Thanos pointed the gauntlet at him instead.

“Don’t!” Tony pled.

Dr. Strange reached up and plucked the Time Stone out of its hiding place. His opened his tremoring hand and the Stone floated to Thanos. Strange and Tony watched as Thanos took the Stone and dropped it into the thumb setting, the energy pulse making him wince.

“Two to go,” Thanos stated.

An energy blast hit the gauntlet and Thanos grimaced in surprise. Screaming in incoherent rage, with his helmet up and firing from both hands, Quill came flying straight for Thanos. Thanos didn’t bother responding to the assault, simply using the Space Stone to disappear. Star-Lord flew through where Thanos had been and crashed, rolling several times.

“Where is he?!” Quill exclaimed, standing and de-helmeting. Tony was stitching up his stab wound with his suit. “Did we just lose?”

Tony looked at Dr. Strange, clearly saddened. “Why would you do that?” He asked.

“We’re in the Endgame now,” Strange responded.

~~~

“Focus harder, Y/N!” Coulson ordered. “The Stone is trying to keep you in here. You need to get out there and help your team.”

“I know, Phil!” Y/N responded, frustrated. She ran her hands down her face. “I know…”

“Momma!” She heard a boy’s distance cries. “Momma!”

Y/N looked up, standing front he seat she was in. “Is that… no. Impossible. He’d be just a year.”

“Age doesn’t work the same in the Soul Stone,” Coulson replied.

“Momma!” The cry was frantic, clearly something was wrong.

“AJ?” Y/N responded.

“Momma!”

“AJ!”

A little boy, probably no more than six, came barreling into the room. He quickly latched onto Y/N and she bent down to hold onto him.

“AJ,” she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek. She pulled back and knelt down, cupping his cheeks. “You’re so big.” He was the perfect mix of Y/N and Tony.

“There’s a problem, momma,” the little boy told her, trying to catch his breath.

“A problem? What’s the problem?”

“With daddy! He’s in trouble.”

“Dad? What’s wrong with Tony?”

“Thanos hurt him and now Thanos is headed for Earth. You have to do something.”

“I will, sweetheart,” she pressed a kiss to his head. “I will. Can you do something for me, AJ?”

“Of course, momma.”

Y/N couldn’t help but smile at her son. “Stay with Uncle Phil, okay? He’ll take care of you while I can’t. And don’t worry about me or your dad. I’m going to fix this.”

“Okay, momma.”

“Your momma and daddy love and miss you so much, you know that right?”

“I do,” the little boy nodded. “I love you too.”

Y/N gave a teary eyes, tight lipped smile. “That’s a good boy. You go stand back with Uncle Phil, alright?”

“Alright momma.”

She stood up as her son hurried over to Coulson. Her and Coulson made eye-contact. “Take care of him.”

“Are you kidding?” Coulson smiled, picking up AJ. “I’ve always wanted to be Uncle Phil. Now, focus.”

Y/N nodded, taking a deep breath. She held her hands in front of her, palms up, as she closed her eyes. She could feel the Stone pushing against her, wanting to keep her there. But she wouldn’t let it, she had to be stronger. Focusing on the need to leave and the power surrounding her, Y/N began to channel it. Quickly, she could feel the power building inside her, begging to be let free.

“Keep going momma!” She could hear AJ cheer.

Y/N took in as much power as she could, before she felt like she would explode. Opening her eyes, she looked at Phil and AJ. They were both taken back my the incredibly amber shade Y/N’s eyes had taken, but they knew it was the Stones.

“Don’t let him forget me,” she told Phil.

“Never,” he responded.

With one last look at her son, Y/N closed her eyes and turned away. Letting out a painfully scream, the power inside her blasted out, cracking the inner walls of the Soul Stone.

~~~

“Bucky!” Steve called. “How’s it going up there?”

“She hasn’t moved, Steve,” Bucky responded with a shake of his head. “She’s— wait.” Bucky looked closer at the Stone floating between her palms. “The Stones cracking. She’s doing it!”

“Let me know when she’s done.”

“Come on, Y/N,” Bucky muttered. “You can do it, doll.”

As the Stone shattered into pieces, falling onto the ground, Y/N shouted out in pain. Her hands found the floor, stabilizing her from falling on her face.

“Oh my— Steve, she did it,” Bucky told the others, pulling Y/N into his chest. “She destroyed the Stone.”

“Good,” Steve replied. “Now you two need to get down here and help us hold them from getting Vision.”

Bucky held Y/N close, pressing a kiss to her hair. “You did it, doll.” He rocked them. “You did it.”

“Bucky…” she whispered, pushing away to see his face. “I—“

“Everyone, on my position,” Steve directed over the comms. “We have incoming.”

“What the hell?” Nat wondered.

“Cap,” Bruce said, “that’s him.”

“Eyes up,” Steve ordered. “Stay sharp.”

“Get us down there, Y/N,” Bucky said. “We have to help them.”

Arriving through a portal, ready to fight, Y/N and Bucky watched as Steve didn’t even get to strike before he was set back by purple energy from the Power Stone. T’Challa tried next. His armor was fully charged, kinetically, and he leaped high, claws extended. He was easily grabbed by the throat and punched to the ground, his armor discharging violently. Falcon was next, swooping in, but was stopped when his wings became rubbery and unable to sustain flight.

As Rhodey tried to stop Thanos next, Y/N noticed Vision and Wanda off to the side. Vision was kneeling before Wanda as she was channeling her energy towards the Mind Stone. Bucky rushed up to Thanos next, only to be punched away by the Power Stone. With a shaky breath, Y/N stood in front of Thanos.

“There you are, my little one,” Thanos smirked. “You took something from me.”

“It wasn’t yours to keep,” you responded.

“You know, the Stones warned me about a person able to channel them and use them to destroy me. I just didn’t imagine them like… this.”

“And I didn’t imagine you purple, but I guess we all have our disappointments.”

“I know what you did with the Soul Stone. You're foolish to think that could possibly stop me.”

“You’re foolish to think I can’t.”

Channeling the Stones, Y/N began to fling debris and rocks at the Titan. Only for him to block and destroy them before he was hit, also by using the Stones. Okoye flung a spear at Thanos as Y/N tried to keep him distracted. Unfortunately, Thanos was still able to throw both Okoye and the spear to the side, all while fighting Y/N and wrapping Natasha in bands of Earth. Groot tried to use the roots to stop the Titan, but Thanos easily broke them as he blocked Y/N’s assaults.

Finding a lucky moment of weakness, Thanos was able to fling Y/N across the clearing. He marched over there, ready to punch her, but Steve slid under his fist. The Captain screamed as he tried to hold Thanos off. Thanos, though, slammed his other fist into Steve’s head, rendering him insensible.

“Steve,” Y/N muttered, crawling over to her brother. She gently shook him. “Steve, come on.” Nothing.

Panting and aching, Y/N looked up just in time to see Wanda holding back Thanos while finishing off the Mind Stone. Y/N gasped sharply as a pain rolled over her whole body. Thanos walked closer to Wanda as their energies subsided and Vision fell over, lifeless.

“I understand, my child,” Thanos said. “Better than anyone.”

“You could never,” she snarled.

He reached down, stroking her hair. “Today, I lost more than you can know. But now is no time to mourn. Now… is no time at all.”

He reached forward, clenching the gauntlet. The Time Stone glowed and flowed green energy around his fist. In response, time began to reverse. Y/N could feel the Soul Stone and Mind Stone repairing themselves.

“No,” she gasped. Trying to stand up, she watched as the Mind Stone and Vision became intact and conscious once again.

“No!” Wanda screamed, lunging for Vision before she was swatted away.

Thanos picked up Vision by the throat, lifting him to eye level before digging his hand into Vision’s forehead and yanking out the Mind Stone. He pulled it loose and Vision immediately went limp and colorless. Y/N tried to run over there, only to be knocked down by Thanos tossing Vision at her.

Setting the Mind Stone in place, Y/N noticed the Soul Stone appearing in front of Thanos. Angrily, Y/N portaled in front of him.

“There’s nothing you can do to stop me now, my child,” Thanos smirked.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t try,” Y/N responded.

She opened a small portal, using it to grab the Soul Stone before Thanos could. Thanos growled as his hand swiped over where hers just disappeared. Before Y/N could do anything, suddenly she was wrapped up in roots and slammed against a large tree. She groaned at the impact she took, especially where her head was concerned. Thanos marched over, chuckling darkly.

“You can’t over power me, even with the Stones on your side,” Thanos said.

Taking a shaky breath, Y/N tried to channel the Stones to get free. Her breath hitched as she could feel the Stones but they wouldn’t let her use them.

“We told you this had to happen,” the Stones taunted her thoughts. “We told you that we would stop you.”

Y/N breathed shakily as Thanos used the power of the gauntlet on her. She screamed out in pain as her had was forced open and the Soul Stone was freed. Thanos smirked as he took the Stone and put it back in place. The energy surge from the gauntlet caused Thanos to bellow and Y/N to cry out in pain again. She could feel it all, but not access the power. Tears built up in her eyes as she met Thanos’.

“I’m so sorry, my child,” he said, not sounding sincere at all. “I wish there was another way.”

He lifted the gauntlet at Y/N, powering it up. Bracing herself, she clenched her eyes shut and turned away. But before Thanos could blast her, a bolt of lightning strikes him, digging him into the ground and grinding him back. Thor arrived, eyes glowing with power. He raised his new ax above his head and hurled it at the Titan. Thanos fired with the whole might of the gauntlet against it, but it didn’t slow the ax. The ax slammed right into Thanos’ chest. Thor landed in front of Thanos.

“I told you,” he growled. “You’d die for that!”

Thor took hold of the back of Thanos’ head and forced his ax in deeper. He stared at Thanos angrily as the Titan cried out in pain.

“You should have…” Thanos said weakly. “You… You should have gone for the head.” He lifted up the gauntlet and snapped his fingers.

“NO!” Thor screamed.

Y/N let out a scream that sounded that she was dying, cause she sure felt like it. She could feel the Stones working together to complete Thanos’ plan.

“What’d you do?” Thor asked. “WHAT’D YOU DO?!”

Y/N cried as Thanos used the Space Stone and disappeared. She was still suck on the tree. Steve stumbled into the clearing, holding his left side.

“Where’d he go?” Steve asked. “Thor… where’d he go?”

“Steve?” Bucky called, coming into the clearing. “Y/N?”

Bucky and Y/N made eye contact as he suddenly stumbled over and collapsed into ashes. Steve, in shock, walked over and touched the ground where Bucky’s ashes were.

“BUCKY!” Y/N screamed. “NO!”

Letting out a loud, sorrowful cry, the roots holding Y/N to the tree burned off her and she fell to her knees. She could feel the Stones letting her access them again, almost in a taunting way. With heaving breaths, Y/N lifted her head up and watched Wanda, Sam, Groot, and T’Challa all disappear, turning into ash like Bucky.

“NO!” She screamed again, unleashing a wave of power from her that rippled across the battlefield. “No….” She whispered.

~~~

On Titan, the team was collecting themselves. Mantis propped up Star-Lord, Spider-Man helped Tony to his feet, while Drax and Nebula managed to limp over on their own.

“Something’s happening,” Mantis said before disintegrating into ashes.

Quill looked behind him to see Drax disintegrate.

“Quill?” Drax said as he dissolved.

Quill stared in horror as he turned back to Tony, who was starting to panic.

“Steady, Quill,” Tony told him.

“Aw, man,” Quill said, also disintegrating.

“Tony,” Strange called calmly, “there was no other way.” Then he disappeared as well.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter said, realizing he was fading away. Tony stared, horrified. “I don’t feel so good…”

“You’re alright,” Tony said, trying to be calm but his voice was shaking and he was looking at Peter in terror.

Peter was stumbling towards Tony, terrified. “I don’t know what’s— I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t—“ He fell into Tony’s arms, clutching him tight while beginning to cry. “I don’t wanna go, I don’t wanna go, Mr. Stark, please. Please, I don't wanna go. I don't wanna go… I’m sorry.”

And then Peter turned to ash in Tony’s arms. Tony fell forward from the lack of weight in his arms, staring at his hands in disbelief.

“He did it,” Nebula stated.

~~~

Steve, Thor, Rhodey, Nat, Bruce, and Rocket were all mourning near Vision’s dead body. Y/N was still on her knees beneath the tree, holding and rocking herself as she cried.

“What is this?” Rhodey asked. “What the hell is happening?”

“… oh, God.”

next chapter >

NOTES: from now on the taglist when be added by a reblog. I will reblog it using my second account, @just-dreaming-marvel-2. Just so that my main page doesn’t get too cluttered.

If you want to be added to the tag list, please dm me or send in an ask.

#tony stark x reader #bucky barnes x reader #the avengers x reader #avengers x reader #marvel x reader #Phil Coulson x Reader #iron man x reader #tony stark imagine #bucky barnes imagine #steve rogers x reader #marvel imagine #marvel imagines #winter soldier x reader #Avengers infinity war #infinity war #the infinity stones

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polaroid15 · 3 years

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Febuwhump day 20 - Betrayal

Summary: “How bad?” Tony asks.

“Not bad.”

“Pete-”

“I’m serious! I’ve gotten ten times worse as Spider-Man.”

When Tony looks at him, it’s gentle, and it nearly brings him to tears. “But you weren’t Spider-Man, buddy.”

Or, Peter just wanted a coffee.

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29138196/chapters/72739866

------

It’s not everyday that Peter is pistol whipped in the face by a Starbucks customer.

Today, however, is that day.

He’s at the front of the line, finally, and just as the cashier hands him his change a man wearing a crudely cut ski mask shoots two bullets into the ceiling. Everyone screams, ducks, and through the mass panic Peter hears his handful of change roll across the floor.

“Are you kidding me-”

“EVERYONE ON THE GROUND!”

Peter listens, trying his best to keep calm as he assesses his surroundings. The store has six customers and two employees. Another masked individual joins the first, also holding a gun.

That they’re not afraid to use, apparently.

Slowly and praying not to draw attention, Peter’s fingers close around the watch Tony had given him for his birthday and presses the side button three times. He’s only used the distress signal once before, and Tony had been at his side to help within a matter of minutes.

These idiots won’t even know what hit them.

The first man crosses behind the counter and shoves his gun into the barista’s face. “Open the register.”

For a minute, Peter thinks she’s going to refuse, her eyes set with anger and fear. As if getting the same sense, the man with the gun presses the barrel hard against her cheek and she whimpers. “Now,” he repeats, and she obeys with shaking hands.

Even though she complies, the man steps closer, his trigger finger tensing as the first inch of the barrel practically disappears into her face. Spidey sense screaming, Peter stands carefully, hands outstretched, “hey, hey. Come on man. Ease up. She’s doing what you asked-”

“On the ground,” the second criminal yells at him, spit flying from his mask. Peter freezes on the spot, eyes glued on the trembling barista. For one terrible moment, he’s brought back to a dark alley, his hands pressing down desperately on Ben’s chest.

“The register’s open,” Peter reasons, “let her go.”

“Looks like someone’s trying to play hero,” the first robber sneers. He pushes the barista aside and she falls onto the floor with a strangled yelp. “Grab him.”

Peter doesn’t flinch as the man’s accomplice obeys, digging strong fingers into his bicep and dragging him out of line. His back is brought against the man’s chest and the gun is pressed into his throat. He swallows at the pressure and keeps his eyes trained on the first man, who’s stuffing a duffel with cash.

Outside, there’s sirens.

“Damn it!”

The first man slams the empty drawer closed, throwing his gun out widely, “which one of you called the police?”

Peter almost laughs. Almost. “Are you kidding? You would’ve heard it if someone called. It’s a small room, buddy-”

A sharp pain in his face nearly sends him crashing to his knees. Blood pools onto his tongue but he keeps it there, not wanting to scare the other customers. Through the aching pulse in his head he hears a couple of them gasp.

“Not the time to be smart, kid.”

“Well you’re the ones who decided to rob a Starbucks of all places.”

Before Peter can even suck in a breath, he’s hit three more times, all where the first blow had landed. This time he does fall, and the man kicks him in the ribs for good measure when he’s down. The force of it has him gasping and somewhere in the distance Peter hears a kid crying.

Don’t think about Ben, don’t think about Ben.

“Police are here. Damn it. What do we do?”

Peter hears shuffling as he tries to reorient himself, his head spinning like a top. He only makes it to his elbows before his jacket is grabbed at its shoulder and he’s manhandled to his feet. He sways but stands his ground, wiping the blood off his chin with his sleeve.

“We take him with us.”

Peter doesn’t have the energy to argue as he’s dragged to the entrance by his neck. Through the glass and a rapidly swelling eye, Peter sees a semi circle of police, completely closing off an escape. He thinks he sees a flash of red and gold, too, but he can’t be sure.

“Walk, kid. No funny business.”

And he does, grateful, above everything else, that no one got hurt.

With a forceful shove, Peter is thrown out of the store, the grip on his neck still strong. He knows it’ll bruise in the shape of fingers, that he’ll stare at it in the mirror later and shudder at the memory of the touch.

“Drop your weapons!”

Peter yelps as the back of his knee is kicked in, forcing him to the ground. One of the men grabs his hair, forcing his head back, and sticks his gun underneath his chin. “Make another move and the kid gets it!”

It’s only now that Peter realizes his eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on him. Tony is here, standing on the sidelines of officers, his eyes blown wide with panic before his expression is cut off by his helmet.

He feels too dazed to be relieved.

“Let the kid go!” he hears one of the officers yell.

“Let us go!”

Peter chuckles again, and he’s not sure why. He feels warm blood dribble down his chin, and the grip tightens in his hair until he’s sure it’s going to be pulled right out of his scalp.

Whatever the men holding him had thought this was going to go, it must not be working, because one of the hisses a “get up” in his ear. Peter tries to listen, but he feels shaky and weak, and mostly just lets himself be dragged. He ends up back against the man’s chest, the gun pressed so forcefully into his temple that the opposite side of his head nearly touches his shoulder.

Only now does he let himself be afraid.

He could die.

Not as Spider-Man, not as a hero, but as himself. Right now. At Starbucks, of all places.

In front of Tony.

His mentor would never forgive himself.

“Walk,” the man hisses in his ear, and Peter stumbles obediently along with them as they step away from the door. The police follow them with their guns but otherwise don’t move.

“Where are you going to run?” Peter chokes. “It’s already too late.”

“Shut up.”

“There’s no way out of this.”

“I said shut up!”

Peter gasps when his head is hit again, his vision whitening at its edges. He must slump because the man struggles to keep him vertical. Somewhere in his fall Peter hears a familiar blast of repulsors and the hostile touch leaves him instantly. He falls to the cement, barely managing to catch himself on his elbows.

There’s a sudden rush of movement and Peter winces at the sheer loudness of it all. He hears muffled curses, boots hitting the pavement, the hostages inside the store cheering-

“Peter?”

And then there’s Iron Man, crouched down beside him and lifting up his chin gently with a metal-clad hand. Peter blinks away his double vision and musters a weak smile. “Hey man,” he wheezes, “coffee break?”

Tony doesn’t laugh like Peter hoped he would. Instead, he feels the armour shift under his arms and he’s lifted up, up and away. He jams his eyes closed at the sudden vertigo and lets out a tense breath when they land together on a nearby rooftop. In a second Tony is out of the suit and sitting beside Peter, his hands ghosting over the blood and bruises on his face.

“Concussion?”

“Look at my face. What do you think?”

“Cut that sass, kid. I have enough for the both of us. Anything else hurt?”

“Uh, my pride?”

“Ha. Funny. Now tell me the real answer.”

Peter sighs, and somewhere in the middle chokes on the blood in his throat. It makes his ribs flare and the wince he makes must be enough for Tony to piece two and two together.

“How bad?” he asks.

“Not bad.”

“Pete-”

“I’m serious! I’ve gotten ten times worse as Spider-Man.”

When Tony looks at him, it’s gentle, and it nearly brings him to tears. “But you weren’t Spider-Man, buddy.”

He sighs again and this time it’s easier. He lays down against the pavement in hopes it’ll stop the world from spinning while Tony hovers beside him like a worried mother hen. “Didn’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

“So let me guess,” Tony says, “you smart mouthed them.”

“Yep.”

“Course you did.”

Peter groans, poking gingerly at his swelling eye. He can barely see out of it anymore, which is highly unfortunate. “I lost my change. And I didn’t even get my drink.”

“Well, you’re alive, so that’s something.”

“Starbucks is expensive, Tony. I was treating myself.”

“I’ll buy you the whole damn Starbucks company if it’ll stop you from getting your face smashed in.”

Peter laughs at this. It makes his ribs burn. “Deal.”

Tony is quiet for a minute. “Feel up for a flight back home?”

Home.

He smiles.

“Only if we can pick up a coffee on the way.”

“Good God, kid. Look at these grey hairs. No seriously, I want you to look at them.”

Peter huffs out a laugh, head lolling slightly as Tony pulls him back up by his arms. Before they lift off, Peter is surprised when Tony wraps him in a hug. He blinks, then relaxes into it. It feels as if some of his pain is leaking into Tony.

He feels better.

“Thanks for coming,” he whispers.

Tony pulls away, ruffling his hair softly, his scalp still sore. “How couldn’t I? You were smart for once in your life and actually used the panic button I gave you-”

“Smart enough for a coffee?” Peter smirks, a cut on his lip stinging.

Tony looks at him solemnly and shakes his head.

“Grey hairs, Pete. Grey hairs.”

#febuwhump #febuwhump2021 #febuwhumpday20 #peter parker #tony stark #irondad #irondad fic #hostage situations #hurt peter parker #gun violene #protective tony stark #protective peter parker #peter parker whump #hurt/comfort #angst with a happy ending #tony stark acting as peter parkers parental figure #hope you enjoy! <3

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fandomficsnstuff · 3 years

Text

Little Dragon - Part 10

Summary: You were a child slave of Meereen, when one day a silver haired woman sets you free. Though your master isn’t too keen on letting you go, and Daenerys took personal action to see you freed and taken care of.

(Warnings: sorry it’s shorter than the others but a whole lotta stuff’s coming! So buckle up ya’ll!)

High Valyrian is in cursive

You watched Grey Worm and the other Unsullied sail away, your hand finding Missandei’s and already you could feel how tense she were, seeing him leave, “he’ll come back, he has you” you reassured her, and felt her relax just a tiny bit, enough to give your hand a quick squeeze before leaving with Daenerys. You were about to follow when a certain black haired figure caught your eye, and you smiled brightly as you parted from the small group that had been at the beach to see the Unsullied off. You approached Ezzo and grinned at him, one he matched as soon as he saw you “Ezzo…” he grinned at you, and for a second you were worried if he even knew your name, but when he spoke he put all your worries to rest “(Y/N), I’m sorry, I don’t know how you say…” he seemed confused and conflicted for a second, making you frown for a split second before he spoke back up “princess? Is that how you say it?” you nodded eagerly, “yes, but please, I would like it more if you just called me (Y/N)” you knew it wasn’t exactly how a princess should speak, but you felt comfortable enough around him already, and he seemed to share that comfort. You were both unaware of the four sets of eyes watching you, each pair belonging to two women, one with brown curly hair, and one with silver hair, watching silently, seeing how you smiled with him, this Ezzo. “This is the man who gave her the small statue” Messandei confirmed and Daenerys smiled softly at how you laughed at something he had said, and she decided to speak to him, MIssandei following close behind.

You froze as you saw your mother approaching, but she didn’t look angry, or upset, or disappointed, and upon seeing her Ezzo instantly froze up, bowing his head “Khaleesi, it is an honour to stand before you, I remembered when you rode your dragon above us, when you called us Blood of my Blood” Ezzo was talking quite fast, so you barely caught any of his words, but Daenerys caught all of them, of course, “you honour me with your words, you are the one named Ezzo, correct?” Ezzo suddenly got nervous, gently nodding and Daenerys smiled, which only managed to ease his nerves somewhat “my daughter,” she gave a nod at you before continuing “has told me of you, you gave her a small wooden statue of her, she was very happy upon receiving this gift” Ezzo blushed at her words and glanced at you, clearly getting a bit embarrassed “Mhysa…” you were getting embarrassed as well, frankly, after this he probably never wanted to talk to you again, but Daenerys only showed you that she acknowledged your words by smirking at you, “tell me, Ezzo, what do you think of my daughter?” they were both talking so fast now that you had no idea what they were saying, and you glanced at Missandei who gave you a small sympathetic smile, but it gave you some comfort, through that smile you knew that Daenerys hadn’t said anything too bad.

Ezzo glanced at you, even through his copper-coloured skin you could see how red his cheeks were “I-I’m sorry, Khaleesi?...” Daenerys just looked at him expectantly, like she was waiting for his actual answer, making Ezzo gulp as he once again glanced at you, before straightening his back a bit, looking back to Daenerys as he answered “she is very kind, I have not talked to her much but-”

“She has captivated you?” Daenerys interrupted, making Ezzo look away embarrassed, probably for the hundredth time. Daenerys gave a knowing, amused smirk to Missandei who mirrored it, glancing at you who just stood there completely still, why were they looking at you? Did they need you to answer something? Daenerys knew that you weren’t that fluent in Dothraki, so that couldn’t be it. Maybe you had missed something? A hint of some sorts?

While your mind was busy flying faster than any of your dragon brothers, Daenerys turned back to Ezzo “how old are you, Ezzo?”

“I am fifteen, Khaleesi” Daenerys nodded at his answer, thinking it over, he was very young for a Dothraki, and you were fourteen, a grown woman by most standards, you were already wise for your age, you knew that you had a responsibility as heir to the Seven Kingdoms, and as her daughter, and yet you were not her. A part of her was horrified that something would happen to you, you and her dragons were her whole world, what if one day you needed help, and none of the dragons or her or your guards could help you? Back in Mereen, when she thought she was going to die in the fighting pit, her thoughts were of you, she’d leave you behind, with no idea what to do, she wished in that moment that she could fight, that she knew how to fight so she could get back to you, so an idea sprung to mind. “Ezzo, every day you will train my daughter to fight, you will teach her how to defend herself if she ever were to be in trouble, unable to get help, if her life was ever in danger. My daughter means more to me than any iron chair or land, more than a thousand horses, losing her is not an option, so I want you to help protect her in this way” Ezzo’s coal black eyes sprung open at her words, staring at her confused before looking down at you, who still had no idea what was going on.

“Khaleesi… I will not fail you” Ezzo finally decided, his eyes never leaving yours, though you still had no clue what they had talked about, you had given up on trying to pick up the few words you understood. Daenerys nodded “you start tomorrow, I will send for you” she turned and were about to leave but looked at you, extending her hand to you, which you took, and then she walked back to the castle with you and Missandei, knowing of the second glance you threw over your shoulder at Ezzo, still confused but giving him a small wave and smile all the same, which he happily returned.

#Daenerys Targaryen #Daenerys Targaryen x Child!Reader #GoTFanFic

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tonystarkissist · 3 years

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“Didn’t know where else to go”/ Revenge - Villainous July

Part 11 of “Oh Sweet Child, The Things I’d Do for You...”

Summary: Tony's out of his element. He’s ignorant to many things in relation to offering someone else comfort, but closure and vengeance is one thing he’s damn good at.

Rating: Teen (For language and Thematic Material)

Warning: Self-loathing and lack of care for life, mentions of abuse, and slightly graphic dialogue towards the end (maybe too graphic, but I got caught up in the moment; sue me).

Word Count: 4.5k

Previous Chapter ~ Masterlist ~ Read on Ao3 ~ Next Chapter

Peter’s there for days, maybe weeks, he couldn’t keep track at this point. He’s glad he had the foresight to warn Ned of his absence. His friend would definitely be the leading cause behind filing a missing persons report, because he knows Beck wouldn’t do it, content to mooch off of CPS as long as possible. And Peter really didn’t need anyone out looking for him. He didn’t even want to think about the turmoil and stress that would ensue. He didn’t want to deal with it. Ever.

He just wanted to lie here on this couch forever, stare at the fire crackling in the fireplace and watch the orange light bleed through the darkness of Mr. Stark’s home. It reminded him of that night he’d followed Mr. Stark here… he missed him. Still.

He wasn’t afraid to admit it anymore at all; not even ashamed. He missed him. And he felt so incredibly guilty for turning the man’s world entirely upside down. If Peter hadn’t acted so carelessly none of this would be happening. Tony wouldn’t be on the run, Beck wouldn’t have found out about Spider-Man, and Peter wouldn’t be slowly starving to death, lying here on Stark’s couch, the licks of flames dancing up from the fire cradling him in a hypnotic trance.

There was food in the kitchen, he knew there was, but just the thought of food made him sick, and he knew if he did try to stand he wouldn’t have a chance at making it that far before passing out.

He’d long since accepted the fact that he’d die at a young age due to his vigilante hobby, but he must admit he never expected it to happen this young, especially not since Mr. Stark started showing up every moment he needed him. He hadn’t failed him once… until now. Now that Peter needs him… he’s not here. He stares down at the shattered face of the watch he’s been clutching in his hand since he arrived. Mr. Stark wasn’t coming back, and that was something Peter would have to accept. How could he come back, with all these people looking for him? It’d be impossible and probably the stupidest decision the man could make. But of course Peter’s still clinging to that childish hope that he’d see him again. Preferably before he wastes away here on this very couch.

Though at this rate, it didn’t seem like that was likely to happen. He didn’t even feel the pangs of hunger anymore, and he could feel his body slowly shutting down. It felt almost like a relief to be ridded of that constant ache in his stomach.

He’s been living off of that one school lunch meal for a week, and Peter could feel the definition of his bones when he ran a shaky hand over his ribs, or along his shoulder and arms. It wasn’t healthy by any means, but what did he care? There would be no “long run” to worry about, just the next couple of days before he peacefully slipped off to sleep into a gentle void of nothingness. And if this is what those last couple of days felt like… then he had nothing left to worry about.

He drifted off, muscles and body aching from lying in the same position he had been for days. He had nice dreams, most consisting of finally being with Aunt May again, and his parents. They were waiting for him when he arrived and he was so, so happy to see them, it brought tears to his eyes. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of doing this before. No one but Ned would’ve missed him… and Ned would get over it-- will get over it.

Something draws him out of his dream just before he falls too far, and at first he thought it was the usual convulsing of his stomach urging him to vomit up some bile, or perhaps the heat of a fever and a throbbing headache, but it was none of those.

Instead, it was a soft, light pressure against the side of his face. A small, calloused pad of warmth slowly stroking along his cheek, beneath his eye. It made his nose tickle, and his nostrils flared in response to the touch. His ears slowly cue in, and he’s hit with a sudden cacophony of noise. From the light sound of traffic several blocks down, and the small crackling of the dimming fire in the fireplace, all the way to the soft words belonging to a voice all too familiar, yet entirely unidentifiable.

“Pete?” The voice cracks with anxious distress. “C’mon Pete, wake up.”

Then there’s a gentle hand on his shoulder, and all feelings along his skin and limbs begin to return. He’s being shaken back and forth, head lolling from side to side, but his groggy mind confuses it with… he didn’t know what it was. He just knows that everything feels numb and sensitive all at the same time.

The warm embrace against the side of his face disappears, and something scratchy and pokey is pressed gently against his lips, urging them to part. “C’mon Pete,” the voice begs again.

His tongue felt heavy and thick, weighed down by congealed saliva, but the pressure broke past the barrier of his lips despite it. He still couldn’t force himself to open his eyes.

The potent taste of salt hits his tongue and it sends a sudden shock through his whole system, like it finally realized it was in the waking world. The groggy convulsion alerts the voice of his slight awareness and now his body is manhandled into a sitting position. Even though his eyes are beginning to peek open he has no strength left in his limbs to try and fight the external force. He’s leant up against a warm cushion-y surface, a heavy weight settling over his shoulders as the culprit for the salt is pushed past his lips once more.

He bites down slowly, crumbs falling off at the corners of his mouth and the voice from earlier is quick to praise him.

“Good job, kiddo. C’mon, just a little more.” The taste sits heavy in his mouth and it slowly grows soggy atop his tongue, which urges him to swallow it. And, it seemed that the moment it slid down his throat, his body remembered all that it was missing and he was hit with a sharp pang in his abdomen, and he’s quick to take another bite.

His head lolls to the side, the cracker pushed back against his mouth, and his forehead pressed against something warm, engulfing him with a strong whiff of aftershave and alcohol. And slowly he’s able to piece together the warm shape he’s pressed against: an arm around his shoulders, a solid body sitting beside him, and the sharp outline of a jaw propped atop his head. Meaning the warmth bringing life back to his frozen nose and face must be the neck and shoulder.

His mind can only conjure one person to picture with him in this scenario. However unrealistic it was.

“ ‘ny?” Most of it’s a groan, but it must’ve been articulate enough for the voice to understand, and he’s instantly blanketed in more warmth and praise, pulled even closer to the warm body.

“Yes! It’s me. It’s Tony, kid.” The jaw resting on his head moves slightly in a way he couldn’t fully discern, and it’s followed by a soft but strong protrusion pressing against the top of his head, warm air passing over his scalp in short spurts before the jaw returns to its place.

It makes Peter smile. He’s not entirely sure why yet, but the warmth that blooms across his chest enlivens him in a way he never thought he’d experience ever again.

He eats more crackers, and he sips water through a straw regularly pressed to his lips as well. He doesn’t know how many he eats or how much he drinks, but soon enough the feelings begin to slowly bleed back, urging life back into his limbs and his brain. His stomach wasn’t very happy, but that didn’t come as a surprise to him

“You feeling better kiddo? That’s almost the whole pack.” A heavy hand is pressed to his face, then migrates up to pet his hair. “I don’t know what’s good to feed ya when you’re like this. You gotta help me out here.”

“Mm,” Peter groans. He knows it's unhelpful, but his belly felt stuffed and now all he could think about was how cold he was. The penthouse was warm and cozy, but it seemed ever since he arrived, Peter still couldn’t shake that chill that had settled in his bones. The thought alone made him shiver.

“Are you still thirsty?” The voice sounded nervous. “Yeah, you’re probably still thirsty. Lemme go get some more water.” The body begins to move away, which meant so was the warmth.

A strong tremble travels along Peter’s body with nervous anticipation, the muscles in his fingers spasming to grip at the person desperately before they could leave him alone.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” A strong hand grabs his fingers, gripping them gently between their larger ones. “You with me? You okay?”

“Mm,” Peter replies unhelpfully once more. He may not be able to reason or ruminate just yet, but he does know that he’s cold. He grabs the fingers around his and holds on tight, searching out warmth once more by diving his head back towards the warm cushion-y barrier from before and rooting himself there.

“Okay, okay.” The arm around his shoulders moves to rub warmth into his other arm, encircling him completely in the embrace. “Why’d you do this to yourself, Pete?” The voice whispers, a palpable despair in their tone. “You scared me.”

“Mm,” Peter hummed, eyelids pulsing open and closed with a firm determination to remain awake. His vision was blurred with soft orange light and the hard blackness of shadows. A sight he’s come to find as quite familiar and ironically comforting.

He feels better this time when he is pulled to sleep. Not so much on the brink of death anymore, but he feels he’s still teetering precariously close to that cliff. Though despite the nonsense the thought made, he knew the voice and the warmth would hold on tightly, and they wouldn’t let him fall.

***

He wakes up, warm and comfy in a nice big bed. He rolls onto his side with a groan, stomach screaming with hunger, and he lifts a hand to rub his fingers over his burning eyes. His entire body felt like it’d been wrung through a trash compactor. And he didn’t know how he ended up in a bed… He opened his eyes and looked around the room, then cursed under his breath. He was in Tony’s bed. In all the time he’s stayed hidden away in this penthouse, he’d stayed on that damned couch. He didn’t know what had occured last night to result in him crawling his way into this room.

His muscles felt weak and very unsteady, but he forced himself out of bed anyway. He needed to get out of that room, he needed to get back to the couch. He struggled opening the door, and he clutched at the wall as he stumbled and tripped his way back towards the main room. It didn’t even occur to him to question the light bleeding down the hall via the opened curtains scattering around the place. This morning wasn’t making any sense anyway, it didn’t matter.

He was a little more than halfway there when he collapsed, his left leg giving out first, tripping up his balance and toppling him to the wooden floor. He lands with a heavy bang, and he winces at the dull throb that resulted in his side.

“Peter?!” Loud footsteps follow the exclamation, and Peter’s entire body seizes with shock.

Was that??

It was.

Tony appears from around the corner seconds later, crouching in front of him with bulging plastic bags draped from his arms, hands reaching out towards him to help him off the ground.

“What in the world are you doing out of bed, kid? I told you to stay put.” And before Peter could even put up a protest, he was being lifted into the air and led back down the hall the way he came, back into Tony’s room.

It was like he’d just returned from the dentist, cotton stuffed in his mouth, tongue paralyzed, and brain conjuring weird loop-de-loops because he was still high on the pain meds. Because Mr. Stark was here. Carrying him.

If he wasn’t so startled and shocked by the man’s sudden appearance, he’d surely be mortified, but all he could do was stare dubiously at the side of his face as they walked. Then he was being lowered gently back into the bed, and as soon as Tony released him he dropped the bags from his arms and they hit the floor with muted thumps. Giving the man the freeness to meticulously tuck the sheets and cover back over Peter’s frailing body.

Any semblance of flesh had withered off his bones, thanks to his recent lack of appetite.

There was a harsh line molded between Tony’s brows as he messed anxiously with the sheets, and then turned his fixations towards the bags he’d just dropped. Peter didn’t speak a word during the entire ordeal, still unsure if this was just some weird dream or not.

“I picked up some stuff from the convenient store down the block. This’ll do much better than those Saltines from last night.” He lifts up the bottle of red gatorade to show, cracks open the lid, then plops a little bendy straw into the opening. “I would’ve gotten the ones with the sippy cup caps, y’know,” he rambled, sitting down on the mattress beside him and holding the straw up to his lips with shaky fingers, “but this was all they had. I’m assuming your favorite color is red, but I got all the other colors too.” Just as Peter takes a tentative sip, Tony pulls it back looking as if he was in the midst of a panic. “Damn, I should’ve asked you what flavor you wanted. Do you want blue instead? I can get the blue one,” Tony bends down so quickly it almost gives Peter whiplash, hand and head disappearing beside the bed, the rustling of plastic bags sounding during the frantic search. Then Tony sits up to brandish the blue gatorade,offering it towards him instead. “Or I've got green… and the white one.”

They stare at each other for several moments, and Peter’s not entirely sure what Tony expects him to say, so he settles with something simple.

“I-I like red.”

The straw is back at his lips and Tony’s nodding a little too feverishly. “Yeah, yeah, see I knew that.”

Peter sips on the drink, Tony watches him, and that little worried crease between his eyebrows doesn’t go away.

When he’s finished, he pulls away from the straw and leans back against the pillow, finally feeling a bit refreshed. Just as Tony begins to insist he drink more, Peter asks his question. “What are you doin’ here?”

Tony scoffs at him, an offended frown coming over his face. “This is my house. I should be the one asking you that question.”

And really, that was a good point. Peter didn’t know why he was here either. He drops his gaze to stare at his lap. He didn’t mean to worry the man, or get in his way… he just wanted someplace warm to stay.

“‘M sorry.” He mumbled softly, a heaviness overcoming his eyes with the pressure building behind them.

“Shit, kid, I didn’t mean-- I didn’t mean it like that.” Tony’s hot palm presses against the side of his neck, thumb dipping under his chin to force his gaze back up. “I’m just worried ‘bout you. I came home and found you on my couch, passed out and-and small as a twig, pale, and I didn’t know what to do.”

Peter leans into the touch without thought, absorbing the tender affection like he was starved for it.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Peter whispers, tears finally beginning to fall from his eyes. The thumb tucked beneath his chin quickly moves to soothe over his cheeks, brushing the fallen tears away. It forces a smile from Peter, a bittersweet, desperate smile, formed with quivering lips.

Tony rips his hand away, suddenly and violently, like he’d only just realized what he was doing, stumbling away from the edge of the bed. He shook out the hand that’d been against Peter’s cheek like it had been infected with an abhorrent substance, and the man turned his back to Peter, other hand lifting to run through his hair while he cursed under his breath.

He avoids Peter’s eyes when he does turn back around. He points towards the gatorade sitting on the bedside table and clears his throat before delivering his instructions. “Drink all of that. I’ll be back soon.”

He shuffles from the room, grabbing one of the plastic bags on his way, and Peter can hear his distant mutterings under his breath as he leaves the room. It left an odd sense of emptiness in him, and he turned to look at the small bottle of red gatorade.

He didn’t reach for it, opting to watch the door. Awaiting Tony’s return.

Tony reappeared after several minutes, looking much less perturbed than when he had left. He came bearing soup and he set it down beside the empty bottle. He kept his distance this time though. The worried line between his brows were gone, taking upon an unperturbed expresion… simply gesturing with his head towards the steaming bowl.

He pulls up a chair, and when Peter still hadn’t made a move for the soup and Tony remained under his unyielding stare. After several more moments, and Peter had yet to move, Tony reached over to place the bowl gently in his lap. It wasn’t full by any means, so Peter didn’t worry about it spilling.

“Peter, you have to eat,” he nods down towards the bowl again. “And while you eat, I want you to tell me everything that happened while I was gone. Everything that got you to this point.” He waves his finger in a circular motion in gesture to his body, fixing Peter with a stern look, and Peter drops his head shyly.

“Can-can I eat first?”

“Sure.”

Peter eats as slow as possible under Tony’s watchful eye. Sadly, however, there was only a finite amount of soup and when Peter was finished, Tony was ready to talk, taking the bowl from his hands and putting it to the side.

“Alright, kid, spill.” Tony had his serious frown on; the same one Peter remembered he wore during the couple lectures he gave in the past. “No skimping on details.”

Peter turns his gaze away from him, skin prickling with anxiety. “My foster dad found out I was Spider-Man… an-and he thought I was working for you. I just… it made him really angry and I just wanted to get away! So, I came to look for you, but you weren’t here and I thought you were never coming back…”

He’s bowing his head to hide his tears, meaning he didn’t realize Tony had gotten out of his chair until he was settling beside him on the bed, and Peter’s head snapped up to look at him when he felt the matress dip. The man sat right beside him, shoulder pressing up against his, and the worry line making a reappearance.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left you like that.”

“I-I’m not your responsibility,” Peter argues, “you shouldn’t feel sorry. I’m the one that screwed everything up and ruined your life.” He felt the trembling in his lips begin once more and he turns his head to hide it. “Everything that’s happened… to you… to me. It’s all my fault.”

Strong fingers grab his chin and force his gaze back, and Tony’s glaring down at him. “No, none of this is your fault.”

“Are you stupid?!” Peter bites, cheeks heating up with both frustration and embarrassment. He shakes off Tony’s grip on his chin. “You told me to stay away from those weapons, but I didn’t listen! And then I end up getting into trouble, and you felt the need to come rescue me!” He grips his hair, pulling at the curls in frustration and turning back to his lap as he continues to ramble. “And-and it’s my fault that I left my suit on my floor before bed. So it’s my fault when Beck found them,” he turns his gaze back up to Tony, tears now flowing freely from his eyes, “and it’s my fault that I didn’t fight back. I’m Spider-Man… it’s-it’s, he should have no power over me and-and he only has it because I’m scared.”

Tony’s grip is softer this time when he grabs his chin.

“Hey,” he soothes, lifting his other hand to wipe away the tears, “don’t you ever blame yourself for this. You’re a kid, I’m an adult, and it’s my job to keep you safe.” His gaze turns steely, and Peter feels his grip tighten slightly on his chin. “I just need to know one thing Peter… did he hurt you?”

The silence and the immediate influx of tears was apparently enough confirmation for the man, and he instantly releases Peter, a tight growl rumbling through his chest as he pushes himself off the bed. Peter sees the orange flareup appearing above the man’s collar, climbing up the veins of his neck. He knew well enough to know Tony’s intentions.

“No,” he chokes, diving after the man. He grabs a strong fistful of his shirt before he could get too far, and Tony turns to look down at him, his blue eyes vivid as ever. “Please don’t…”

“Peter,” Tony growls, a tight rumbling passing through him. “He’s not getting away with this. He’s not getting away with laying his hands on you.”

“Please…” Peter begged desperately. “Please don’t kill him… Please.” He’s crying in earnest now, and Tony takes pity.

He grabs Peter’s hand, gently prying it from his clothes to hold firmly in his palm. “Pete.”

“Please don’t leave,” Peter tries.

He couldn’t stand the thought of being responsible for Beck’s death, because then the world’s point would be proven. Spider-Man was just as bad as Iron Man. Any notion of ‘hero’ was dead.

He knows Tony will kill him. He can see it in his eyes. The rage.

“Please don’t leave me.”

“Peter…” Peter’s tempted to label the sound that emits from the man as a soft whine as Tony slowly sits himself back on the mattress, never releasing his hold of Peter’s hand.

“Stay.” He tugs Tony closer. If he was close enough to hold onto, Peter could keep him from leaving.

“Okay, okay,” Tony relents, scooting back up beside him. Peter doesn’t risk doing anything more than pressing his shoulder against him. The touch was enough to draw him comfort for the moment. Just enough to lull him back into a peaceful sleep.

***

Beck’s seething, fisting the red cloth in his hand. Peter was gone… and he was in deep shit. There was no way CPS wouldn’t investigate him after this. He stares at the undecorated Christmas Tree standing lifelessly in the corner as he downs another swig from his bottle. He grimaces. He didn’t usually go immediately for the hard liquor, but the week had been particularly difficult for him. After his Boss found out about Tony Stark being alive… it had been chaotic. And it never failed to construct a headache waiting just for him at the end of the day.

There were two sharp knocks at the door, and he flinched in surprise, eyes darting to the clock hung on the wall. 10:48. Who the hell was at his door so late at night?

Before he even had a chance to stand from his easy chair, his door blew in.

He leaped from the chair, dropping everything in his hands during his frantic stumble. The bottle shattered on the floor, and the suit soaked up the spilt liquid. He shouted in surprise and stared at the man standing in his doorway.

“S-Stark?”

The man in question steps past the threshold, onto the fallen door. His eyes glowed, his entire body illuminated like he was under the light of a strong fire. He doesn’t say anything, but Beck thinks he knows why he was here.

Beck slowly moves himself away from the room, backpedaling as quickly as possible, tripping over his own drunken steps. Stark moves closer.

“Hey, Stark. What are- what are you doin’ here?”

“I think you know.” His voice was gravelly and strained, and Beck shuddered.

“I-I really don’t,” he lies. He crashes into the decorative table set up at the beginning of the hall. A potted plant and several books crashing to the floor.

Stark steps closer, chin dipping to his chest which only highlights his sharp, shining glare, his head tilting only slightly to the side.

“I reeally think you do.”

Beck falls to the ground.

And as Tony begins to gain on him, he starts his rambling. “Whatever that kid told you was a total lie, I swear. He makes up all kinds of stories! I’ve been nothing but hospitable--” Tony grabs him by the throat, lifting him clean off the ground with nothing more than his human arm. Then he squeezes, bringing their faces close as Beck chokes desperately around his hand.

“It’s too late,” he whispers into his face, voice calm and soothing, “I remember you… how much trouble you were back in the day.” A dangerous grin flitted over Stark’s face. “Nothing you say will get you out of this. I’m going to make you feel every bit of pain my kid suffered at your hands. In fact, if it wasn’t for that kid, I’d slit you open and splash around like a child playing in a puddle, and string your guts around that tree like decorative garlands. You best be glad I’m a man of my word...”

***

When Peter blinks awake, his head is lying on the pillow, blankets pulled up around his shoulders and Tony sat beside him. Head thrown back against the headboard, mouth open, snoring, and a discarded tablet hanging loosely in his grip atop his lap.

Peter smiles, snuggling further into the pillow and pulling the blankets tight around him.

He didn’t think to pay any mind to the small splatter of red on the cuffs of his shirt.

Next Chapter

@multiverse-irondad-july

#Villainous July 2021 #VillainousJuly2021 #villain tony stark #extremis tony stark #dark tony stark #protective tony stark #insecure tony stark #fluff #hurt/comfort #hurt peter parker #sad peter parker #irondad #protective dad mode #villain appreciation

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astarryon · 3 years

Text

Amends

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Warnings: mentions of violence and weapons, slight language, short fight scene, etc.

Summary: The last thing you expect to find when you come home is the most important ghost from your haunted past.

A/N: Not really sure where this one came from, just something I dreamed up after watching the first episode of TFATWS! Let me know what y’all think!

Masterlist

It’s the sharp, cloying scent of cologne that tips you off.

You don’t think much of it at first, initially having caught the trail of it down the hall from your apartment door. Automatically, you assume it belongs to one of your neighbors, or even one of the guests they’ve invited over for the night. Nothing to harbor any sort of significant concern over.

That changes the instant you reach your front door.

It’s locked. In addition to that, the hall light is off, and from what you can see there’s only darkness to be seen beyond the bottom crack of the door. For all intents and purposes, as far as you can tell, everything is exactly how you’d left it upon leaving your home earlier in the evening. But the closer you’d walked to your door, the more concentrated the scent had become –– to the point that it’s now the only thing your sharpened senses can focus on.

You didn’t used to be like this. Paranoid. Always instantly assuming the worst, to note something as simple as the smell of cologne hanging in the air and immediately jump to the conclusion that it meant someone had finally come to put an end to you. There’d been a time, once, when you trusted easily and laughed with everyone. When you would make conversations with strangers as you passed them by on the street, when you could spend ages soaking in the sun with your eyes closed with no worry of whether you’d open them to find a knife buried in your chest or a bullet lodged in your skull.

But you hadn’t been that way in a very, very long time. And as you crack the door to your apartment open, reaching for the knife hidden at your hip as the cologne’s stench only grows stronger, you can’t help but wonder if that isn’t as much a blessing as it is a curse.

Your apartment is dark, but that doesn’t make much difference to you. You’ve got the space memorized like the back of your hand, know where each corner is and where every weapon is placed –– home court advantage. Stepping inside and closing the door as softly as you can, you make sure to keep your back to the wall, clutching the handle of your knife ever tighter. You might know your way around, but you’ve been intentionally dulling your senses, your reflexes, in an effort to bury the past and leave it behind you. You’re not entirely sure where the intruder is in your home, and you’ll be damned before you let them get the drop on you before you’ve put up a proper fight.

And then you hear it. A creak in the floor boards with the shifting of body weight, just to your right. In your chest, your heart thumps so forcefully that you’re positive its bound to explode right through your ribcage, and you know you don’t have much time, but that doesn’t stop you from slipping your eyes closed for the single spare second you do have and steeling yourself for what’s sure to come before opening them again, sliding your gaze just over your shoulder to assess the present threat.

Your mouth instantly runs dry the moment you lay eyes on him.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he says softly, but your reflexes kick in the moment he speaks and before you can blink, you launch at him in a flurry of fists and panic.

That face. How many hours have you spent trying to convince yourself you would never see that face again, never have that bone chilling, bloodcurdling voice rasping in your ear? How much time have you spent nervously glancing over your shoulder, moving from apartment to apartment because something in your gut told you he was on your trail? You didn’t want to believe it, had always tried to reassure yourself that he was gone –– that all of Hydra was gone –– but you’d never quite managed to convince yourself.

And, given that you’d just walked into your apartment to find the Winter Soldier staring back at you, that was apparently for good reason.

He blocks the first hit you throw at him easily, sidestepping out of its way. The second manages to clip him on the jaw, though it doesn’t succeed in knocking him back as it would on any normal person. He opens his mouth to speak again, but you don’t give him the chance to get a word out before you send a kick flying toward his face. He’s forced to duck and roll, which in turn gives you an opening to launch another kick, but he reaches out with a hand and clamps a vice like grip around your ankle.

All it takes is one decisive tug for him to put you flat on your back.

“Stop,” he snaps, reaching to knock the knife from your grip. Funny, that. In your panic to land a hit on him, you hadn’t even thought to make use of it. “Stop fighting. I’m not here to hurt you.”

It’s the second time the words fall from his mouth, but as with the first, they don’t leave much of an impression.

The Winter Soldier looks just the same as the last time you’d been in his presence, save for shorter hair and a clean shaven face. His skin is still pale as a sheet, turned ghostly in the few slivers of moonlight that manage to creep their way through the blinds hanging in the window. His eyes are still ice, a shade of blue that makes you grind your teeth and sets your nerves on edge. He’s got that same melancholy about him that had been there the first time you’d seen him, though now you knew better than to sympathize with it, to trust it.

Making that mistake years ago had cost you your life as you knew it.

“Get off me,” you command, struggling hard.

It’s no use –– his grip is much too strong. You won’t be going anywhere until he wants you to.

“Please stop,” he tries, an odd desperation in his words.

“Get off me!” you yell again, kicking with your legs like a helpless child.

The Winter Soldier clamps the hand not preoccupied with pinning your wrists above your head over your mouth, waiting for your muffled screams and swears to die down before trying to speak again.

“Look, this is simple,” he sighs tiredly, inexplicable sadness shining in his eyes. “I will let go of you as soon as you calm down. Alright? All I want is to have a conversation.”

You want to call bullshit, but his hand over your mouth still robs you of your voice. You aren’t sure what game he’s playing, but it doesn’t seem like he’s leaving you with much of a choice but to participate. And… well, technically up to this point, every move he’s made has been defensive. Perhaps playing along wouldn’t necessarily be the worst course of action.

He removes his touch from your body as soon as you nod and go still, making it clear that you have no intention to repeat your flurry of attacks from before. Part of you is tempted to make an attempt to pull one over on him, strike and get up and leave as fast as you can, but you know it would be in vain. He’s faster than you, always has been. It wouldn’t take more than a passing second for him to get his hand around your throat and squeeze.

The two of you sit together in silence for a few awkward minutes, trading nothing but ragged, adrenaline spiked breaths and charged stares between you. Just when you’re sure his ploy for peace had been nothing more than a cheap trick to allow him time to catch his breath before finishing the job and killing you, he opens his mouth, then closes it again, and repeats this sequence of actions two more times before actually giving a voice to his words.

“My name is James,” he tells you, casting his eyes down to the floor. “I’m… I’m not who I used to be.”

“You’re not?” you seethe, barely managing to keep your volume level in check. “You sure look the same.”

“I’m not,” the Winter Soldier –– or, James, as he’d introduced himself –– insisted. “Not at all.”

“That’s funny,” you spit, hands trembling where you’ve forced them to remain down at your sides. If you squeeze your fists any tighter, you’ll be sure to snap a bone. “Because I remember you. You and all the little lessons you made sure to incorporate into your training.”

“That wasn’t me,” James mutters lowly, jaw working hard enough that the grind of his teeth was audible.

“Oh, wasn’t it, though?” you hiss, flashes of red anger lacing your vision. “You weren’t the one who dislocated my arm and then forced me to spar without resetting it? You weren’t the one who taught me to lie by holding a blade to my throat and pressing the knife harder against my skin every time you saw a shift in my expression? Neither of those were you?”

“No,” he mumbles, but you hardly hear it, and you don’t care to.

You aren’t done with him. Not yet.

“Then you also must not be the one responsible for the deaths of my family,” you throw at him, the tang of iron souring the back of your tongue. “The one who took my parents away from me with the squeeze of a trigger? The same one who happens to be the whole reason that Hydra managed to get their hands on me in the first place? You knew what it was like, to be taken and turned into a monster, a–– a machine for them to build to suit their needs and use whenever they felt like they didn’t have enough power, but you didn’t care. You could have stopped that from happening to me, but you didn’t.”

“That wasn’t me,” James snaps, raising his hoarse voice at you for the first time all evening. The sudden outburst is so jarring it takes you aback, forcing a pause in the functions of your brain. All you can do is continue gazing upon the quiet anger which slowly boils into James’ features. “You were with Hydra for twenty years before Steve blew their cover, I was with them for seventy. Seven decades, doing the work of the people I enlisted in the world war to stop in the first place. Knowing that, do you honestly think the things I did were at all my own decisions?”

You cross your arms, swallowing hard as your gaze switches from his contorted expression to the floor. You don’t want to hear this. All these years hiding, trying to get back to some semblance of normal and carve out as much of a life as you could for yourself, it hadn’t been the faces of the Hydra operatives that haunted your nightmares each time you closed your eyes to fall asleep. It had been one with eyes blue as ice and twenty times colder, no compassion, compunction, or remorse to be found at all within their depths. One with a gaze deader than any of the corpses he’d been responsible for making.

That face was his.

“So why are you here then?” you sigh, still staring at the floor. You can’t trust yourself with anything else, not right now. Actually looking up at him holds the potential to yield very dangerous results. “To finish the job? I’m not stupid, I know none of the other agents are left. But if you think I’m just going to sit here all quiet and make killing me easier on you––”

“Oh, you people and your assumptions,” James mutters blackly under his breath, reaching a gloved hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “That is not why I’m here. Which I might have been able to tell you if you’d just let me get a word in edgewise.”

“You mean like you used to let me?” you scoff, rolling your eyes to the ceiling and doing your damnedest not to give into the rage rising in your chest. “You’ll have to forgive me for not buying that, considering the entirety of our past and all.”

“Christ,” he gripes, more to himself than to you, “and Raynor says I’m paranoid.” The name isn’t one you recognize, but to James its significance is clear. Speaking it seems to serve as a reminder to him, and he exhales deeply and loosens his shoulders in response to it. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he almost appeared to be counting himself down to his next sentence –– like it was so important he needed to work his way up to it. “I’m here… because…”

You blink, tilting your head to the side as you await his explanation. Actively refraining from attempting any guesses. Not exactly a challenge. If he truly didn’t come here to kill you, then his motive was a complete mystery.

Ages pass before he finally works up the nerve to say what he’s been meaning to.

“I’m here,” he sighs, carefully enunciating each word like he’s afraid they’ll break if he doesn’t pay them enough care, “because I am no longer the Winter Soldier. I am… I am James Bucky Barnes, and you are part of my effort to make amends.”

His words are small, crafted with the brittleness of glass and about ten times as fragile. They’re spoken so resolutely that you’re positive this isn’t the first instance in which he’s uttered them to another human, but they seem… choked, for lack of a better description. Judging by his grimace, they clearly don’t come easily, either.

You’re entirely unsure what to make of them.

“You don’t have to say anything,” James assures you, clasping his hands together in a manner that almost looks meek. “I don’t expect… What I’m trying to say is that it’s not transactional, this apology. There isn’t anything I want from you, or anything I’m looking to take. Just… My doctor, she had me write out a list of names of people to confront, and some to apologize to. That’s the one yours is on.”

You hear the words coming out of his mouth. What’s more, you understand them in a conceptual sense. But for some reason your brain lags in correlating the words and their meanings, in properly contextualizing them in accordance with his soft tone and the sincere regret in his eyes. Of all the nights you’d spent living in fear of this exact moment, that your mentor of once upon a time would one day appear to quietly finish you off, the last thing you’d ever expected to be met with instead was this.

Whatever this was, exactly.

You scan his body head to toe once more, searching more carefully this time. Dressed in all black as he was, it made it slightly more difficult to be certain, but you don’t see any telltale signs of a gun hiding anywhere beneath his clothing. That didn’t mean there wasn’t one, nor did it mean there was no knife strapped to his arm or tucked away in his boot, but you could spy no evidence.

So, no weapons. No yelling, other than to cut through your assumptions of violence. No hissed warnings or threats. No apparent sign he’s looking for a fight. Each of your senses scream at you to ignore all of this, to put no trust at all into the meaningless words of a man, a machine, who had only ever served to bring strife and suffering into your life. Even in spite of the realization that he’s likely unarmed, you still find yourself tempted to attack and flee before he inevitably makes his move.

But then…

“Why?”

The question catches each of you by surprise. James, because he clearly hadn’t expected much of a response, and if he got one, he didn’t think it would be simple as a posed curiosity, and you, because you hadn’t truly meant to ask the question aloud.

“Why…?” James echoes, brow furrowing in confusion. Certainly a sight to behold. Time away from existing as the Winter Soldier had evidently made his face that much more expressive.

Strange, that there could be so much to read in that face, yet so little at the same time.

You open your mouth to speak, carefully sifting through words in your mind before deciding upon the proper combination to convey your meaning. “Why would you want to do something like that?”

James squints in confusion. “Apologize?” he reiterates, gears in his head visibly turning a mile a minute.

“You had to know what I would think,” you explain, “seeing you after all this time. You say you have a list? Well, I can’t be the only one who instantly jumped to the worst case scenario. Why would you… why would you want to put yourself through something like that? A slideshow of the people you hurt? That’s painful, James.”

“No more painful than all the things I did to them,” James sighs, shoulders deflating. “To you. And anyway, it wasn’t me who did all those things. It was someone else’s will, I was just… I was just the tool. That’s not something I can change, and I can’t bring back all the people Hydra used me to kill. But I can apologize for it, because I am sorry. Just like I’m sorry for my part in what happened to you.”

You can see it more clearly, now. The human in him. Before, he’d been cold. Mechanic. Void of any and all emotion as far as the eye could see. That had made it easy to hate him, all those days he’d made you fight, spar, endure endless physical and emotional pain until you learned to be the tool Hydra wanted you to be. In your pain, your rage, your fear that all you would know for the rest of your existence were dark rooms and metal walls, the Winter Soldier had been the one to incur your wrath.

But this man was not the one you’d known. This man was different. This was a man whose eyes glimmered with remorse so bright it looked like unshed tears. This was a man with a face so expressive it was hard to believe you’d known its features for decades. A man who only wanted to talk, because if he’d had a more sinister motive in coming here, you would surely be dead by now.

Just as he’d told you moments ago, this man was not the Winter Soldier.

“Does it help?” you question, unable to force your words above a whisper. “Seeking people out, apologizing like this.”

“Not in the way you’re thinking,” James tells you, blue eyes wandering back to the floor. The light of the moon peeking through your window casts them an odd tone of silver. “It doesn’t take the hurt away, not for me or for them. But it helps to say it out loud, that I’m not that person anymore. Not everyone believes it, but all of this isn’t for them. It’s for me.”

“To what end?” you ask, words coming out harsher than you mean them to. “What’s the point, then?”

James shrugs a shoulder, head shaking. “My doctor says closure,” he supplies, reaching up almost nervously to scratch at the back of his neck with a gloved hand. “Making amends helps process difficult situations. It’s not easy, but I figure it’s as good a shot as I’ve got to move on from all of this.”

All James was looking for was a way to move on. Wasn’t that the same thing you’d been trying to do these past few years, when you laid down to sleep at night and did your best to push all the faces of the people you’d hurt at Hydra’s direction out of your mind? You certainly wouldn’t consider yourself the same person you’d been back then. Was it really fair of you to condemn James to his past in the way you’d been trying so hard to escape yours?

“I’ve been at this a long time, James,” you sigh, shaking your head. “Trying to move on from my past, trying to… forget. So far, it hasn’t worked out.”

“Forgetting isn’t the point,” James responds carefully, analyzing your face with marked carefulness. “You’ll never be able to forget. The past will always be there. It’s not something you can run from.” He pauses then, and the next time he speaks it sounds as if he’s been struck hard by a sudden epiphany. “But you can come to terms with all of it,” he goes on, “if you try. And you really gotta try, ‘cause otherwise all that bad will still be waiting for you when you wake up in the morning. Take it from someone who knows.”

And you don’t really know what to say to that. You’re not really sure what you can say. James’ certainty is tangible. You can feel it in his words, the way they tickle your brain like ribbons and set your mind rolling down a path you don’t altogether recognize. You want to ask him about it, make him elaborate further on all that he’s said, pick each and every one of his sentences apart until you understand the methods and reasonings for what he’s doing so you can know for sure if it will work for you the same it clearly seems to be working for him.

But he’s clearing his throat and running a hand through his dark hair before you get the chance.

“Like I said,” James tells you. “I’m very sorry for the hurt and the pain my actions have caused you. I can’t take it back, and I can’t change the past. All I can do now is try to be someone better. I hope… I hope you understand.”

And then he’s gone, out the front door so quickly you don’t realize until it shuts behind him.

You scan through your dark apartment, taking note of all your surroundings. James has left no sign of his presence, hasn’t disturbed a single one of your belongings. Even his footsteps over the floor on his way out had been remarkably silent –– though that, you supposed, was characteristic of his capabilities. Here and gone in an instant, fluid as a ghost.

The realization that you’d only been aware of his presence before entering your apartment because he’d wanted you to be strikes you dumb.

He hadn’t come here to cause you harm, hadn’t shown up at your home to kill you, rid himself and the rest of the world of the living reminder of the dark things which had gone on in the Hydra base –– though, doing so would have required such little effort on his part. No, James… James’ reason for seeking you out had been exactly what he’d told you.

Making amends, in an attempt to forgive himself for the things which others surely couldn’t. Perhaps that had been your mistake all these years. Rather than beating the past out of your mind with a stick, refusing to acknowledge it for everything you’re worth… maybe trying something else was the correct way to go.

Surely taking a page out of James’ book couldn’t hurt.

Your body took charge through no accord of your own, and before you realized it, you were standing in your kitchen beneath the glow of a single light staring down at a blank sheet of paper, fingers turning the pen in your grasp over and over again in your palm.

Names. You needed to write down names. But doing that would require you to actively delve into your past, and you weren’t sure that was something you could handle much of tonight. But there was one name which immediately sprang to mind, one repeating itself over and over in your head like a mantra. Sighing, you uncapped the pen and touched its point to paper, hastily scrawling out a single name before setting it back down on the counter.

James Bucky Barnes.

A list of names to make amends, half to confront, half to apologize.

You’d been on his. It only makes sense that he’d be on yours, too.

#bucky barnes #the falcon and the winter solider spoilers #tfatws #james barnes #marvel #bucky x reader #fanfiction #mcu #marvel cinematic universe #one shot #bucky

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quazartranslates · 3 years

Text

Welcome to the Nightmare Game II - CH39

**This is an edited machine translation. For more information, please [click here]**

[<<< Previous Chapter | Table of Contents | Next Chapter >>>]

-----

Chapter 39: Star Death Reality Show (XXII)

This sound was like a signal to escape. Janet, Alex, Jing Siyu and Jing Sixue ran away in fear, wishing to escape to the ends of the earth.

"Take Lara away, get back! I’ll lead it away, I can deal with it!" Qi Leren kicked Du Yue and told him to act quickly. He shot at the monster's head to attract its attention, and prepared to take it somewhere far away and solve it with his own hands.

The monster came out. The swollen amphioctopus broke from its host body, and Francis's body was like a deflated balloon hanging off the amphioctopus, but this space alien had revealed its true appearance—an odd tentacled creature shaped like an octopus, which was covered in Francis's blood, and had changed from a mass of parasitic "seeds" in the body to a dangerous predator full of viscous body fluids.

Its speed was extremely fast. After breaking free from the shackles of the human body, it rushed toward Qi Leren at an amazing speed!

Qi Leren stopped shooting, picked the flashlight up off the ground, sped up his strides with all his strength, and rushed through the corridor deep in the institute at an inhuman speed!

The boundary between prey and hunter was difficult to distinguish. Both sides were sure that they were the hunter, but it wasn’t known who would die.

The S/L Data’s thirty seconds had passed. At this time, Qi Leren, who didn't have an immortal body, could only rely on his own abilities to handle this difficult opponent. At a gallop, Qi Leren realized that the distance between the octopus and him was getting farther and farther, and he was running fast enough to get rid of this fast-moving monster after having broken the shell.

He looked back, glancing out of the corner of his eye. This monster, which looked like an octopus, came after him as quickly as if it was sliding on the ground. Fortunately, it still didn't run as fast as he did. Seeing that there was a T-shaped intersection ahead, he immediately cheered up and prepared for the final battle.

Three, two, one, do it!

Qi Leren bit the ring off his hand grenade and threw it behind him. He pushed his running body harder, jumping around a 90-degree corner, and hugged his head on the ground.

Boom—

A huge explosion sounded around the corner, and the flames from the explosion lit up the whole passageway. Even Qi Leren, who was lying on the ground, felt the immense heat and shaking, and countless debris blew out and sprayed straight into the corridor ahead. Hiding in the vertical position of the T-shaped corridor, Qi Leren survived the explosion unharmed.

It was over.

Qi Leren stood up and was about to lift his foot to go out when Chen Baiqi's warning came to mind again. He breathed a sigh of relief, kept on alert, and carefully stepped around the corner with his gun drawn.

The explosion had made this area ahead unrecognizable. The body of the octopus had been blown apart, and several tentacles were thrown on the metal wall, sliding down slowly together with mucus, dragging out a scarlet liquid trail. With the loss of its tentacles, the octopus would only move helplessly a few times before falling to the ground completely dead.

All the four mature amphioctopuses had been dealt with, which meant that requirements could be almost declared for this task. Even if there were still a few newly spawned parasitic amphioctopuses in the contestants, they could be easily distinguished by detecting them with the instruments. But to kill people... Qi Leren imagined the scene with a heavy heart.

Once parasitized, it was hopeless. All he could do was let the parasitized people die happily.

Qi Leren pursed his lips and felt a little dry cough. His throat choked by the smoke was also a little painful, but it was still within tolerance.

He should find Du Yue and meet with him first. Qi Leren thought about it and walked along the way back.

At the moment he walked around the corner, the flashlight in Qi Leren’s hands suddenly swept onto a reflective object. When he looked intently, it was a half-open iron door, just at the end of the corridor where he had escaped the explosion just now. That is, at the bottom of this T-shaped intersection, there was no other fork in the road at its end, only a lonely door.

There was no sign on the door, no words, no letters, no special symbols. It was just a heavy iron door, half-hidden, and it was dark inside.

Qi Leren's heartbeat suddenly slowed, and his intuition whispered vaguely in his ear, encouraging him to move forward.

He pushed open the door, and the flashlight lit up the dark space. This small room was an office with desks, bookshelves, and office chairs.

There was also a computer: the same laptop that Qi Leren had been worried about, afraid of, and looking forward to.

His heart jumped wildly. Qi Leren took a deep breath, slammed the door, rushed to the computer in three steps and two steps, took out the prepared mobile power source from the item bar and connected it, and pressed the power-on button with trembling hands.

When the familiar boot screen appeared, Qi Leren clenched his hand and couldn't help tapping on the desk. Hurry up, open it quickly, and let him try again. Could he play Nightmare Game again? He had too many doubts that he needed this game to answer.

After the boot was finished, the mouse cursor moved to the icon of Nightmare Game and double-clicked.

The game interface appeared, and Qi Leren's heart was about to jump out of his throat. He held his breath and moved the cursor to "Save and Load".

Countless save files jumped out, arranged in reverse chronological order, and the last one was in the chapel in the Village of Dusk. At that time, he had gone through rows of old pews and was faced with a choice in the depths of the church: to the left or to the right.

He had saved the file, then walked through the door to the right, received the Holy City task, and had his first death there. In the real Nightmare World, he had chosen to go left, and then he met Ning Zhou in the graveyard outside the door, who had come to sweep Maria’s grave.

What if this time, he chose to turn left in the game? Would he meet Ning Zhou?

This problem had once bothered Qi Leren, but now he could prove it.

[…Reading save file, LOADING……]

[File read completed. Player "Passerby A", welcome back to the Nightmare Game.]

In the game, Qi Leren’s character named "Passerby A" went to the left door under his command. Qi Leren hardly dared to breathe, and countless chaotic thoughts berated him. For the first time, he was strongly aware of the fear that overthinking could bring.

The wooden door opened, and the game entered a cutscene animation. He could no longer manipulate his character, but watched him walk forward.

Outside the door was a gravel path occupied by shrubs and weeds. He went straight ahead. All the greenery in this sunset did not give a feeling of peacefulness, but instead filled his with anxiety and unease.

Qi Leren didn't know whether he wanted to see Ning Zhou in the game or not. His yearning heart was looking forward to meeting him again, even if it was separated by a cold screen. But reason made him resist. He didn't want to see Ning Zhou as an NPC in this game, because he didn't dare to ponder the hidden meaning behind it.

No matter whether he wanted it or not, in the dim afterglow of the sunset, Qi Leren still saw a figure standing in front of the tombstone.

So familiar, because he was so deeply imprinted in his mind, but so strange, because they were separated by the layer of a cold screen.

The figure appeared on the screen murmuring and, just like every NPC, the lines were displayed on the screen:

[Mom, I’ve fallen in love with someone I shouldn't love. He’s made me confused...]

Qi Leren's eyes had just seen this sentence when the words were blurred instantly.

It turned out that on that day, before he had walked from this church and seen Ning Zhou, Ning Zhou had once said such a thing in front of Maria's tombstone.

This was a lost Ning Zhou. At that time, he had not yet firmly believed that he would be willing to exile himself for his love. He was hesitating, unsure and uneasy, but he had no one to talk to. He could only come to his mother's grave and tell her quietly, even if he couldn't get an answer.

Qi Leren covered his face in front of the computer, tears flowing down his fingers and wetting the keyboard. He never knew he was such a fragile person; even if it was just a few words he had never heard before, they made him burst into tears.

He wanted to rush into the screen, embrace that lonely back, and comfort the lonely wandering soul.

But his approach would only wake up the lost man.

"Who’s there?" Ning Zhou appeared again on the screen.

Qi Leren woke up from grief. Ning Zhou had discovered his existence!

He couldn't make any answer. It was just a game with pre-written dialogue. When the game didn't give him options, he couldn't say anything.

They looked at each other without saying a word. They were as unfamiliar as two strangers.

They were indeed strangers.

Footsteps came from behind, and the Qi Leren in the game turned his head. Along this path full of weeds and shrubs, he saw a man walking towards them, bathed in the sunset from where he had come.

His words were also subtitled on the screen: "Passerby A? Ning— Ning Zhou? Why are you here?"

At this moment, Qi Leren was shaking and unable to breathe.

A familiar person stood there, looking surprised and shyly at Ning Zhou behind him.

That was himself.

-----

[<<< Previous Chapter | Table of Contents | Next Chapter >>>]

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tiramisiyu · 3 years

Text

【未定事件簿】 Tears of Themis: Xia Yan Personal Story 4-12 Translation

Translation Masterlist | Xia Yan Masterlist | Video

Chapter 4: 4-1 / 4-2 / 4-4 / 4-5 / 4-6 / 4-7 / 4-9 / 4-10 / 4-11 / 4-12 / 4-13 / 4-14 / 4-16

Just when I was about to drive out of the tunnel, I noticed that there was a heavy-duty truck parked at exit of the tunnel near the mountain.

MC: !!!

I spun the steering wheel abruptly. The car avoided the truck, but slammed into the railings beside the road.

The massive impact left me dizzy. Amid my daze, I saw some burly men step off the back of the truck.

I had just hidden the earbud when they yanked open my car door, dragging me out of the car roughly.

Mountain Road

I was thrown harshly onto the ground.

The rough ground scraped my skin, and the frigid rainwater drenched my entire body.

MC: Ugh…!

Song Heng: Miss Lawyer, I made my way in your direction to minimize your trouble. Aren’t I quite the gentleman?

Song Heng, who was wearing a well-ironed suit, walked over with a black umbrella in his hand. He stood a few metres away from me.

Three burly, dauntless-looking men stood beside him.

MC: Where is Ji Xiaoyu?

Song Heng: Give me the evidence, and I’ll bring her to you.

I took out the USB from my pocket, and a man beside Song Heng snatched it away.

He stuck the USB into a computer for a check, then nodded at Song Heng.

Song Heng: Bring her over.

Ji Xiaoyu, who had been beaten black and blue, was dragged off that truck.

Four of the fingers on her right hand had been snapped.

Her face was covered in cold sweat, and her lips had been bitten to shreds, yet she still did her best to hold in her tears. But when she saw me, her tears burst out instantly.

Ji Xiaoyu: Why did you come… why couldn’t you have let me die…

MC: I’m sorry…

I couldn’t tell Ji Xiaoyu what my intentions were. All I could do was apologize quietly.

After, I couldn’t bear to look at her, so I stared straight at Song Heng.

MC: Song Heng, I’ve already given you the evidence. As promised –

Song Heng: I have fulfilled the promise. I indeed did not kill her before your arrival.

Song Heng: Although now, the two of you can head down that path together.

MC: You!

[Flashback]

Xia Yan: It will take me 35 minutes to drive to where Song Heng is. After you get there, no matter what, delay him for 15 minutes.

Xia Yan: I will absolutely save you. Absolutely.

Xia Yan: … You must wait for me.

[Flashback end]

I had to delay him for 15 minutes… no matter what I did.

Song Heng looked at Ji Xiaoyu and laughed.

Song Heng: Seeing how hard you’re trying… I’ll let you die in the same way as your sister, to make things come full circle.

MC: As expected! Ji Xiaoyu’s sister… Ji Xiaoqing – you killed her!

MC: What did you do to her!

MC: (Making Ji Xiaoyu die the same way that her sister did – he’s very smug of his criminal acts.)

I tried using this topic to lead Song Heng on and have him talk a little more, so I could delay for time.

Ji Xiaoyu: How did my sister die?!

When he heard me and Ji Xiaoyu, Song Heng’s lips curved with an amused smile.

Song Heng: Then I’ll demonstrate it for you – start.

One of Song Heng’s subordinates held down Ji Xiaoyu, while another returned to the car to grab a bottle of white wine.

The one with the wine grabbed Ji Xiaoyu’s chin, spilling wine into her mouth.

Ji Xiaoyu choked as her face reddened, coughing nonstop.

Ji Xiaoyu: Cough cough…!

Song Heng: She drank until she was dead drunk like this, and then got into an “accident”.

Song Heng: Right, the vehicle that hit Ji Xiaoqing is the one over there.

Song Heng lifted his chin towards that pickup truck nearby.

Ji Xiaoyu: …!

Ji Xiaoyu looked at that truck as well, her eyes momentarily sluggish.

Song Heng: Take her over, in memorial of her sister.

The man who had just dumped wine into Ji Xiaoyu’s mouth dragged her by her collar to the front of the truck.

Bam – Ji Xiaoyu’s head collided on the front of the car, and blood poured out.

MC: Stop it!

Song Heng: I am merely helping you both understand what happened, as you wished.

Song Heng: You should be thanking me for doing so much for you.

MC: You!!!

My whole body trembled uncontrollably from rage, but I forced myself to maintain calm.

Delay for time…

I needed to ask Song Heng some more questions that would amuse him and have him talk more.

⊳ Who was it who ran into Ji Xiaoqing! ⊳ You were also the one who killed Qian Yi, weren’t you!

MC: Who was it that drove the car and ran into Ji Xiaoqing!

Song Heng: I don’t remember.

Song Heng: Would you remember which shoe you used to smack a cockroach dead?

Song Heng: As long as they get money, lots of people are willing to be that cockroach-smacking shoe.

⊳ Who was it who ran into Ji Xiaoqing! ⊳ You were also the one who killed Qian Yi, weren’t you!

MC: It wasn’t just Ji Xiaoqing. You killed Qian Yi too, didn’t you!

Song Heng: Yep, that’s right.

Song Heng: People should be self-aware. Since he wasn’t, I could only teach him a lesson.

Song Heng: You could consider it as… using violence to curb violence? Enforcing justice for the heavens?

Song Heng lifted his hand indifferently, looking at his watch.

Song Heng: Alright, that’s all for fun time. It’s almost time for me to get to the airport too.

Song Heng: I’ve worked hard in this country so long, so it’s about time for me to go elsewhere and enjoy life.

Song Heng looked at the vast expanse of river water at the bottom of the mountain.

The sky was dark and the rain poured vigorously down. The river grew darker and colder.

Song Heng: Go ahead. Send them on their way.

The man who had poured the wine into Ji Xiaoyu’s mouth started to drag her powerless body towards my car.

The other subordinate walked up to me. I snuck a glance at my watch.

Not enough… there were still 10 minutes until Xia Yan arrived.

MC: Song Heng, you think you can escape?!

MC: You said so yourself – this evidence is very important to me and the police. We can solve the case and get fame and fortune with it!

MC: Did you think I was the only one with a copy?

MC: Before the police left, they made a backup copy. That’s the only reason why they let me send it over!

Song Heng’s face twisted for a moment, but soon, he laughed loudly.

Song Heng: Miss Lawyer, I thought you a hypocrite, but now, I think you’re an utter idiot.

Song Heng: The Maple Leaf Event Hall network has always been under my control. I would be all too clear on it if anyone uploaded anything.

Song Heng: Not to mention, those policemen are currently fighting for their lives under a hail of bullets.

Song Heng: As for the car computer, my subordinates checked after dragging you off.

Song Heng: Plus, if the police really did have even better methods, then where are they?

Song Heng: If they send you over with the evidence, they’ve got to prepare backup to save you two, right? Where are they?

MC: …

I couldn’t let him find out about Xia Yan’s and Sphinx’s plan.

I had to think of something else…

I looked at the distance between me and Song Heng and grabbed tight on the lipstick tranquillizer gun in my sleeve cuff.

MC: (If I can get a little closer, I might be able to hit him. But how do I do that…)

[Flashback]

Sphinx: I don’t mind whether I remain an undefeated legend. Bringing those people to justice is, of course, the most important.

Sphinx: It’s just that the police wouldn’t let me write the script. I could’ve made written it to make it all cooler and more heroic, comparable to James Bond.

MC: Didn’t know you had this sort of hobby, Sphinx…

Xia Yan: Alright, catching criminals is the coolest.

Xia Yan: But after, I slowly realized that heroes aren’t always cool and impressive. They often are extremely wretched.

Xia Yan: But no matter how wretched they are, they still must protect those who they want to protect.

[Flashback end]

What do I do!

⊳ Kneel and beg for mercy ⊳ Inflame him verbally

I struggled against the man dragging me, plopping into a kneeling position in front of Song Heng.

MC: Mr. Song Heng, I beg you, please let us go. I’ll do anything.

The rough, cold, muddy road chafed against my knees, but it was more humiliating than painful.

Rainwater ran down my cheeks, and my messy hair clung to my skin. My wretchedness made my begging seem even more real.

MC: I beg you… I… I don’t want to die.

Ji Xiaoyu: Do not beg him!

Ji Xiaoyu: He won’t let you go no matter what you say! Don’t you understand?!

Ji Xiaoyu: Even if we die, we should die with dignity! Get up! Get up now!

I did not respond to Ji Xiaoyu as I remained in my kneeling position in front of Song Heng.

MC: Mr. Song Heng, I beg you, let us go…

As I spoke, I neared him in my kneeling position, taking the chance to grab the lipstick tranquillizer gun hidden in my sleeve pocket.

⊳ Kneel and beg for mercy ⊳ Inflame him verbally

MC: Song Heng, do you think you’re that impressive?! Way more impressive than the police?!

MC: You’re wrong! Perhaps justice may be late, but it will never be absent!

MC: You’re just a bouncing clown—

Song Heng’s subordinate grabbed my hair, throwing me ruthlessly on the ground.

A punch fell on me like a rainstorm. I could only protect my head with my hands.

MC: Ugh…

But I continued trying to anger him with words.

One step, two steps… Song Heng slowly strolled up to me.

I used this chance to grab at the lipstick tranquillizer gun in my sleeve pocket, then pointed it at Song Heng--!

----

Bam!

I had just lifted my hand when Song Heng’s subordinate snatched it out of my hand.

Right after, a forceful punch landed on my stomach, so severely painful that I curled over.

MC: Cough… cough cough!

Song Heng took the lipstick that his subordinate handed over, then casually shot out all the tranquillizer darts in it.

Song Heng: So, this was what you were aiming for.

The unending pain left me almost unable to breathe, and my head was filled with the ringing in my ears. I basically couldn’t hear what Song Heng was saying at all.

I only had one thought – get more time.

MC: Song Heng, you… won’t get away with it… ugh!

Fists and feet rained on me without stopping.

That’s alright… delay for more time…

Song Heng: Though I’d love to continue to enjoy seeing a self-important person like you look desperately pathetic as you beg for your life…

Song Heng: There’s not much time left.

Song Heng turned around and returned to his limousine.

Ji Xiaoyu was stuffed into the driver’s seat. Then, Song Heng’s subordinate handcuffed her to the steering wheel.

Because the front door on the other side of the car was stuck on the mountain road railings, the other subordinate just stuffed me into the trunk.

After, someone started the truck and drove it straight at us.

Bang – my car flew past the guardrails, flipping off the cliff.

The car fell into the water.

It was inky black in the trunk. Accompanied by the muffled sounds of water, I could feel myself tilting at a more and more extreme angle within my space.

As river water trickled in, the car sunk gradually lower. We’d be completely submerged soon.

Ji Xiaoyu: I’m sorry. It’s all because I implicated you.

Ji Xiaoyu: I knew that if they threatened you with me… you’d definitely come. No matter how much I begged you to not come, you wouldn’t listen.

Ji Xiaoyu: If you were scared, you wouldn’t have helped me from the start…

Ji Xiaoyu’s voice was choked up as she intermittently apologized.

MC: It’s not time to give up yet! I talked to Xia Yan – he’ll be very soon!

MC: It’s just hard for him to find us immediately in this weather.

MC: We have to think of a way to get out the car first – it’s almost filled with water.

The trunk… Xia Yan said that there was a way to get out of the trunk.

[Flashback]

Xia Yan: Most car trunks have a hidden switch that you can use to open the trunk from within.

MC: Is that so?

Xia Yan: Yeah, it’s usually on the trunk lid or the side wall. Some are buttons, some are handles, and some use panels to cover it that need to be opened with keys.

[Flashback end]

The trunk’s opening switch is on –

⊳ Trunk lid ⊳ Side wall

I felt over the trunk lid, but didn’t find anything like a handle, door bolt, or button.

MC: Don’t panic. Look somewhere else.

⊳ Trunk lid ⊳ Side wall

Up, down, left, and right… I felt in the dark for a long time, and finally found a handle.

MC: (That’s it!)

I pulled the handle.

River

The trunk immediately popped open, and the icy wind and rain battered against my face. Only a quarter of the car was still sticking out above the river surface – it looked like it was on the verge of being completely submerged.

I pushed out of the trunk quickly and swam to the driver’s seat door, where Ji Xiaoyu was.

Due to the front of the car being heavier, the front seats had sunk even deeper into the water. Ji Xiaoyu could only desperately tilt up her head to continue breathing.

I tried to help Ji Xiaoyu out of the handcuffs, but the other side had been locked onto the steering wheel. I couldn’t do anything to take it off.

Ji Xiaoyu: That won’t work… I still have an idea.

MC: What idea? How do I help you?

Ji Xiaoyu: No need.

Ji Xiaoyu looked at her handcuffed hand, the one with four snapped fingers thanks to Song Heng’s men.

She gritted her teeth, forcefully snapping the last, unfractured finger.

MC: Xiaoyu!

Enduring the pain, she gasped a few times, shaking as she drew her deformed hand out of the handcuff.

I pulled her out of the seat, and we got out of the car.

#Tears of Themis #tears of themis translations #xia yan #luke pearce #未定事件簿 #speeding up my release schedule because i really really want to post the kiss date #this part is just a wrecking ball of sadness

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hargrove-mayfields · 3 years

Note

Billy having a meltdown in school and the school security nearly kill him while holding him down, (supportive) Neil is pissed and he comforts billy in the car -🦖

I love me some autistic Billy, but I do think it would be especially hard for him because he doesn’t look like the standard of what an autistic teenage boy is expected to.

Trigger warnings are in the tags, triggering content starts after the read more.

It was an accident. Billy was just upset, he hadn’t meant to scare anybody.

He had to learn a long time ago that he wasn’t like the other kids in his class, the sweet girl with Down’s or the scrawny freshman with Asperger’s, Billy was big, and he looked like a man at 17. But no matter what he looked like, he still couldn’t just stop the way he was feeling because of his appearance.

School had already started off on the wrong foot when he got yelled at by his teacher for forgetting an assignment, but what had really made him reach that emotional threshold was when someone popped a chip bag on the other side of the cafeteria, and it made another girl scream. The sounds had felt like daggers in Billy’s ears, a kick start to his heart, and almost instantly he feels himself start to slip into a familiar panic.

He does exactly what he’s been taught to do when he felt a meltdown coming on and has time to try to prevent it by removing himself from the situation, but as he’s hurrying back to the special ed classroom, where there were bean bag chairs and pillows and things already laid out for times like these, humming and hitting one hand off of his chest over and over as he goes, a teacher stops him.

She just wants to know where he’s going, but he can’t answer her, the words just won’t form in his throat, so, in the absence of an answer to her question, the concerned teacher reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder, stepping closer to him so she’s looking him in the eye.

Billy flinches, her touch feels like a hot iron under his skin, and he backs away a couple of steps, his back hitting off of some lockers. She tries to touch him again, clearly just wanting to help a student in crisis, but this time he grabs her wrist, not hard enough to hurt her, he would never, but to let her know in the only way he knew how to communicate at a time when he didn’t have his words to please stop touching him.

But to lay his hands on a teacher is very much against the rules, especially the rules he specifically was supposed to follow, and the man who enforces them just so happens to already be following him after he saw him leave the cafeteria. That was the way it went, the school officers kept close tabs on the kids like him, waiting in the wings for the moment they got in trouble.

Billy doesn’t even know exactly what happens, just that the officer is suddenly there instead of down the hall and prying his hand away from the teacher, which isn’t hard, because he’d barely even touched her. He pulls Billy away so he stumbles a little, and pushes down right on the back of his neck until his knees hit the floor.

Prone restraints are nothing new to him, he had been put in them countless times before for everything from kicking a teacher to crying in class, so Billy knew not to fight, to just let the officer push him until he was face down on the floor, kept there with a knee in his back. It only ever hurt him worse if he tried to get away.

He hears the teacher who’d stopped him in the first place ask, “I-Is that really necessary?” In response, she’s given the standard subject cooperation speech, and she must be appeased by it, because her heels click across the floor Billy’s face is pressed into, and then they’re alone in the hall.

There’s something very wrong with the way it feels this time though. The man restraining him is much heavier than Billy is used to, and his ribs are pressed way too hard into the floor. He tries to tell him, but the words are still escaping him, and he realizes he can’t breathe.

His instinct is to try and sit up, but he only gets a hand on the back of his head pressing his face even harder to the ground, making his neck hurt from the angle and his teeth dig into the inside of his cheek until there’s blood in his mouth.

The officer shifts forward, his knee digging so far into Billy’s back that he can physically feel the rest of the air leave his lungs, and he starts to panic, clawing at the floor, defenseless and unable to ask for help.

When he stops moving, his body feeling too heavy to even try it anymore, he’s asked. “Are you ready to behave?”

He’d say he was more than ready if it meant the officer would get off of him, but there’s nothing he can do at all respond. One of his bones cracks when the man moves again, but he doesn’t feel anything other than the way his lungs are burning and the pressure that’s building in his chest and the way his face hurts.

If he moves, he’s afraid the officer will think he’s still fighting and he won’t get up. If he doesn’t, he’s pretty sure he’s going to die.

Billy squirms, a whimper in his throat, and the officer asks, more edge to his voice now, “I asked you a question. Are you going to behave now?”

He nods as best he can, but the angle of his neck hurts too bad. Impatiently, the man moves again, and there’s another crack as his bones grind into the floor, “I want to hear you say it so I know you aren’t lying to me.”

With a sob Billy forces out the answer, it’s wheezy and snotty and it burns like fire in his throat, but he whines “Yes!” loud enough it echoes in the empty hall way.

The officer waits ten more seconds, he counts them off out loud to make sure Billy feels every last second of being restrained, the equal parts pain and numbness tingling in his whole body until he learns his lesson, then finally he stands up.

As soon as the pressure is off of his spine, Billy takes in a big breath that tastes an awful lot like copper, bloody spit down his chin from the effort it takes just to breathe.

His chest rises too shallow, too rattling, so he rolls over onto his back to try to catch his breath a little better, and the officer offers him a hand. But Billy doesn’t take it, he can’t just yet, but if he could he wouldn’t anyways, and the officer just scoffs at him, then sternly, he threatens, “You know I’m going to have to tell the office about this, now.”

Billy nods and does his best to sit up, only getting halfway propped up on his elbows because of the blood that’s rushing to his head combined with the slowly registering and extremely overwhelming pain in his back and his ribs knocking him dizzy.

That must be good enough an answer anyways, because Billy is told to, “Report back to your class.”

He can’t stand up quick enough at the officers orders, his shoes scuffing up the waxed floors as he scrambles to get away from him with permission. He ignores the pain in his body and the way it draws tears to his eyes, and he doesn’t look back even once as he walks the rest of the way back to his classroom.

The worst part, he realizes, is that this whole thing could’ve been avoided if he were just a little fast; he was only two doors down from his classroom.

His special ed teacher tisks when she sees and tells him to come straight to her next time, as if that wasn’t what he was trying to do when he got restrained, but she’s still at least nice enough to give him an ice pack and let him stay in her room on the memory foam mattress in the back.

Billy had been planning on getting back to his coed classes as soon as he calmed down, but the ache in his ribs hadn’t gotten any better, only turned to a sharp, stabbing feeling in his entire chest, and his throat was hurting really bad, and he just couldn’t quite catch his breath, so he was still there when the final bell rang.

The teacher looks over her glasses at him when he doesn’t leave the room, and says quietly, “Honey, it’s time for you to go home.”

Billy tries to respond, only coughing instead on the first try, then wheezes out his answer, a simple, “Can’t.”

Because he finds he can’t sit up anymore, every time he tries it he feels like he can’t breathe all over again, so, after more prompting, the teacher grimaces and helps him to his feet.

She walks all the way with him out to the parking lot too so she can explain his injuries to his father, maybe try to save face a little, but this wasn’t the first time the school system had let something like this happen, and they were done with excuses.

The moment Billy sees his dad waiting at his truck for him and Max is when he finally cracks, all of the emotions inside him that had been exhausted by his meltdown coming back overwhelmingly quick, and he’s instantly a crying mess, sobs wracking through him that make his ribs feel like they’re made of broken glass.

Neil’s face is tight with concern as he gets Billy into the pick-up, barely listening to his teacher ramble on about school procedures and necessary precautions. He shuts the door in her face before she’s done with her bullshit explanation, focusing solely on Billy, and getting him calmed down.

Neil doesn’t touch him, doesn’t speak to him for fear of making things worse. When Billy was on meltdown two, it took hardly anything to set him off again, so he settles on turning the truck on, the vibrations of the engine more calming than anything else he could try to do for him.

It doesn’t take long of that, the radio going gently and the car rumbling, for the tears to slow to a sniffle, accompanied by hiccups that ache deep in his chest, and when he’s feeling better, Neil asks him, after giving him a moment, “Will you be okay if I leave you here with Max?”

Billy nods in agreement, so when the junior high lets out and Max gets in the truck, Neil opens his own door and tells her, “Stay here with your brother.”

“What happened?” She asks, her eyes wide, but Neil blows her off, “Doesn’t matter, I need to talk to somebody.”

Max watches him go, then turns to Billy, taking note of how bad he looks, but not bringing it up. They don’t talk to each other much, but she does take up his hand, which is noticeably shaking badly, and rubs her thumb over his knuckles to try to calm him down.

“Are you okay, Billy?” She asks after a silence filled only by wheezy and uneven breaths, to which he replies by shaking his head no.

The parking lot clears out around them while they wait for Billy’s dad to come back, Max getting more on edge the longer they just sit in the truck, and Billy getting more worn out after two meltdowns and not being able to cool down.

Neil slams the trucks door when he comes back, answering before either Billy or Max can ask, “It’s taken care of.” and taking them home finally.

Max gets dropped off at home and told to explain the situation to her mother, while Neil takes Billy straight to the hospital. They tell him that two of his ribs are fractured, and when he asks, they tell Neil too that he can’t make the school pay the medical bills because it was Billy’s fault.

And that’s the straw that broke the camel’s back.

The very same night, Neil announces that they’ll be moving again, this time instead of a few towns over or just to a different school district, he wants to move them out of California entirely to a small town over in Indiana, where he lived before moving to Berkeley with Billy’s mother. Where things will be different, and safer, hopefully.

Max doesn’t get it, why it’s worth uprooting for a chance that things might be different for Billy, and she’s mad, at him and at his dad.

But she’s not the only one, because Billy isn’t exactly too keen on the idea either. It seems to him like it’s just an excuse to please Susan, like they’re leaving town because of the reputation their family has built with an autistic son that she’s always trying to run from, and he feels betrayed.

Susan is also being much snappier with Billy than before, getting on his case for everything from getting distracted and taking brakes while packing, for being too loud in the car, for being stupid and lazy and the reason they had to leave their idyllic life behind.

Nobody knows where to pin the blame, and it’s tearing their family apart.

Hawkins is the kind of town that’s supposed to be perfect for them, quaint and reserved, but they’re thrown head first into it, no time even to adjust, and the second day at his new high school, Billy has another bad meltdown.

There are already too many new things to take in about his new high school, but then he gets lost trying to tell the difference between the A and B wings in the halls, and he just gets so overwhelmed that the next time the bell rings he gets pushed over the edge.

He waits that first one out in the bathroom, terrified of the consequences, of being hurt again before he’s even done healing from the last time, but it never comes. There are no dark rooms or officers or anything of the sort at his new school, they just let him do his thing.

Even the times when he doesn’t get away and melts down right there in the hallway or class room, they just work around him. The first week in, he even finds a friend in Tommy H.

So maybe things were a little shaky at home, and there were still a couple of kids would snicker behind his back or a few rumors would spread, but the more time they spent there, the more Billy is actually maybe, just a little bit, looking forward to being in Hawkins.

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e-m-christina · 3 years

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Heathens Pt2 (Ivar X Warrior Reader)

The ship journey had lasted over three days. The afternoon sun burned your skin as it beat down upon the sea, causing the water to glimmer like a million little mirrors catching the sunlight. But you did not notice the scenery, you were determined not to give into hopelessness. Nor did your brother.

“Lord, unto thee do I lift up my soul. Let me not be ashamed, let not mine enemies triumph over me.” You prayed aloud, staring down at the shackles that bound your bloodied wrists.

“So, is this an interruption of your life’s journey...Or is it a part of it?” You looked up at Ivar. He was leaning against a thick rope, his eyes preying on you like a hawk. You stayed silent. You would not entertain these devils with argument. To your dismay, Ivar simply smirked, before looking off into the distance. Over the course of the journey, many viking men taunted you about your God, the true God, but it did not sway you. In fact it made you angry, and when you got angry, you would become even more determined not to give into hopelessness.

“Heahmund, are you alright?” You asked, noticing the state of your brother. He dark hair was matted, and dried blood covered his usually pale face.

“I do not think either one of us are alright, my dear sister.” Heahmund said, coughing up drops of blood.

“We are here!” You looked up to see a heathen pointing toward a mass of land only a few miles away.

Two men gripped your shoulders, digging their fingers harshly into your flesh as they dragged you and your brother through a set of iron doors. You were dragged into a great wooden hall. The hall was large, lit only by a two windows that ran across the top of the walls, and hanging in the centre of the ceiling was a humongous whale skeleton.

“On their knees.” You heard Ivar command to his men. You were thrown to the ground as the air got knocked out of your already battered lungs. You groaned as you pulled yourself up into a kneeling position. Above you, a Norseman sat upon a throne. On his braided hair sat a crown that sent shadows over his heavily tattooed face. By his side sat a beautiful woman wearing a crimson dress.

“What is the point of them?” The man on the throne leaned forward, inspecting you and your brother. You growled and spat in his face, making him recoil and wipe his cheek. “Why did you not just kill them?” The man said, glaring at you.

“Because they are both great warriors, Harald.” Ivar said, gesturing to you and your brother. “I have seen how they with my own eyes. I admire great warriors.” Ivar continued, limping around the side of Heahmund, before stopping behind you, but your gaze was still fixed on the man before you, the man that was now named Harald. You listened closely to their conversation, trying to gain information, afterall, they did not expect you to be able to speak or understand Norse.

“Even the girl? I did not know Christian women fought in battles.” Harald said with a frown. You could hear Ivar chuckle behind you.

“Nor me Harald, nor me. But I hope that they will both fight for us.” Ivar said, patting you on the shoulder. You lurched forward to get away from his touch.

“The women do not fight. I am the exception.” You said at last, surprising them with your Norse language.

“She speaks our language. Did you know this Ivar?” Harald asked, and for the first time, your eyes left his face, and flicked to Ivar.

“No, I did not.” Ivar said, raising his eyebrows.

“How did you come by learning our language, Y/N? Does Heahmund speak it as well?” Ivar asked, shoving you with his crutch. You shot a glare at him before looking to your brother. Heahmund was staring at Ivar, after hearing his name mentioned.

“King Ecbert taught me, before you Heathens slaughtered him like a beast. And No, my brother does not know your language.” You said, venom dripping from every word.

“The lord rules me. I shall want nothing.” You turned to look at Heahmund. He had begun to pray, glaring Harald in the eyes. You hissed as Ivar yanked your brothers hair sharply.

“No, no, no. Let him speak.” Harald asked, waving at Ivar to stop pulling Heahmunds hair. A smirk begun to form on your lips as a look of dismay flashed across Ivars face.

“I fear no evil, for you are with me Lord, your rod and your staff have comforted me.” You joined in on the prayer with your brother, looking directly into the eyes of Harald.

“What are they saying?” He asked looking to Ivar.

“They are praying to their God.” Ivar said. A flash of anger flickered across Haralds face as he stood up.

“A fat load of good that will do them!” Harald chuckled, regaining himself as Ivar simply smirked, hitting Heahmund across the head. You glanced at your brother, a small smile dancing on your lips. These Heathens were very easily to aggravate. That would come in handy.

“You prepare a table before me, in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” You say over and over, as the two men that brought you in, dragged you by your arms toward the door.

In the distance the faint sound of water dripping from an old dingy drain pipe splashed into a puddle on the floor. In the gloom all you could make out was the four stone walls that locked you in. In the water dripping silence you sat, back against the cold stone walls. You and Heahmund at been separated, thrown into separate rooms a few hours ago. You rubbed your painful wrists with your now freed hands, before turning to face Ivar, who was sat on a stool opposite you.

“There is going to be a war. A war that will make me king of Kattegat, my father’s kingdom. A war against the usurper, Lagertha, who killed my mother in order to be queen. And of course, a war between brother.” You listened to Ivar, peering at him in the darkness. You rolled your eyes. What did you care of his wars and family troubles?

“What of it?” You said, flicking some dirt off your trouser leg. You watched him carefully as he leaned forward, clasping his hands together.

“Y/n, you have a choice. Fight alongside me, or I kill you.” He said. You snorted, sitting upright. Though you pretended to be disgusted, your curiosity was peaked by his offer.

“What are your wars to me?” You asked, looking him in the eye.

“Your way of staying alive.” Ivar quipped, leaning back in his seat with a smirk on his face.

“I am not afraid to die for my faith.” You pulled yourself off the muddy ground and stood by the small window, peeking through the bars that secured it.

“I am not asking you to do that. I am not asking you to renounce your faith, or to fight against Christians.” You turned away from the window, fully facing him now. “All I am asking is for you to kill more of those who you call ‘Heathens’.” Ivar said, watching you as you took a few steps toward him. You crouched down on the ground below his stool with a raised eyebrow.

“Why do you offer me this choice?” You asked, slightly softer. You had begun to realize that Ivar could have killed you at any point, but he did not. He obviously needed you for something. You had thought God must have planned for this to happen.

“Because I am jealous of you.” He said at last. You frowned, turning your head to the side and beckoned for him to continue. “I would like to be like you, strong, whole...” Ivar began to trail off, looking at his lap. You felt a small pang of sympathy in your heart when his voice broke at the end. If you were entirely honest, you had forgotten that his legs did not work. You were going to say something, when he continued to speak.

“To be a great warrior like you. That is why I saved you, brought you with me. That is why I want you to fight alongside me.”

Your feet stumbled as your were dragged forward with a chain around your neck. The iron rubbed your throat, causing the skin to tear and bleed. A crowd of mucky Pagans crowded you, following your every step as Hvitserk clutched your now re-chained arms as rain pelted you, turning the ground into sludgy mud.

“Kill her!” The crowd roared as you were thrown to the ground. You groaned in pain, feeling a trickle of blood drip down your cheek.

“I told you to take her her to me, not batter her.” You looked up to see Ivar standing up, out of his chair, glaring at Hvitserk.

“Kill her!” The crowd cheered again as Hvitserk bent down, unlocking the chains from your wrists and neck. Ivar raised a hand, shushing the crowd instantly. You staggered up, spitting a mouthful of blood at the crowd, causing a small smirk to flitter across Ivars face.

“Possibly. We may kill her, if she does not agree, I will kill her.” Ivar said, as the crowd went mad again. You clenched your jaw, watching as Ivar stepped towards you. You hissed in pain as he ran his thumb across you cut cheek, wiping the blood away before continuing his speech.

“She will live if she and her brother both agree to fight alongside me. Which I hope she will do.” Ivar said the last part in a lower voice, making eye contact with you.

“Well, will she?” A man in the crowd yelled, causing you turn around and glare at him. You turned back to Ivar, who was staring at you intensely.

“Well Y/N? Will you fight with me?”

Thanks for reading! Part 3 coming soon!

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#Ivar the boneless #ivar x reader #ivar lothbrok #bishop heahmund #hvitserk #fanfic #romance #angst #x reader #fluff #vikings #lothbrok #ragnar #war

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lovlydovlyjaycie · 3 years

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Ævi - The Protector

Hey, so this is going to be a mini series on something I have tried to do before. But I thought of a different way to make it shorter and to make it make more sense. I hope you like it, this idea has been in my head for honestly.. a couple of years now lol. I just decided I really want to put it down somewhere. And where is better than here? Am I right?! lol

Summary: This is set in 2010. There are no such things as superheroes. Right? Maybe Iron Man, but that is it. It has to be. Y/n was just trying to celebrate her birthday, but that quickly changed when she got a gift from a mysterious man.

Warnings: Fluff, violence, maybe one swearword

Characters: Y/n, Bjorn Ironside, Ragnar Lothbrok, Floki, Lagertha, OC Emma, OC Lars, OC Sanna, OC Nils, OC David Mentioned: Iron Man, Odin, Ivar, Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd, Rollo

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Part 3

Bjorn Pov

This Frost Giant seemed to have gotten the upper hand on me. I was laying on the ground doing anything in my power to push him off, but nothing seemed to work. The Frost Giant got his sword and tried to push it against my throat, but before he could start doing that he fell limp. Y/n had killed him and the other Frost Giant. I knew she could fight, I was so proud of her. But she seemed to be a little distraught. “See you’re a better fighter than you think.” I tried making her feel better. I knew where were she was from before she got here, that fighting was not a skill you needed. But she was a natural, she just didn’t believe it. She had to let go of what ever thought was holding her back and I will keep reminding her of her to let go even if it is the last thing I do. After my comment she could only muster up a; “You’re stupid.” After all of that happened it made me laugh. She knew she did something incredible deep down. I quickly looked her up and down for injuries and I saw she had a cut on her arm. Or there used to be a cut, there was blood on her clothes but not on her arm. How strange. “Are you ok?” I asked y/n. Maybe it was blood of one of the Frost Giants. She also checked her arm like she was expecting a cut but nothing was there. ”I-I’m ok.. I thought I.. I’m ok-.” Then a sword went through her abdomen. Everything seemed to slow down and speed up at the same time in this moment. Her blood came gushing out the moment the sword got pulled back and I didn’t think twice and looked at the creature who did it. Another Frost Giant. The Frost Giant came charging at me, but I ducked away from his blows. In that time I picked up my axe I had dropped earlier and without thinking I threw my axe as hard as I could at his skull. I hit him right between the eyes and he dropped to the ground instantly.

Then I saw Y/n laying lifeless on the ground. This cannot be happening. A moment ago she saved me, a moment ago I kissed her, a moment ago I met her in the woods and she blasted me away. A moment ago she was alive. “No, no, no, no! Wake up!” I said as I kneeled down and held her head with my hands. “You are supposed to live! You hear me?! Come on wake up!” I yelled at her, hoping somehow she would wake up and this was all a bad dream. But nothing happened. Her cheeks were all gone of the red color it held when I was around her. Her eyes also looked like there was no life in her body anymore. “Come on wake up!” I yelled again. Nothing. I decided to pick her up and go back to the longhouse quickly. I don’t know why I felt like I needed to go there, but I did anyway. I also quickly picked up the sword I had given her also moments ago and ran as fast as I could.

Ahead of me I saw Frost Giants running. If this is the end faith had decided it and this is how I die as well. As I got ready for whatever the Frost Giants were going to do to me, nothing happened. They ran right past me. Was I dead as well? I can’t be right? Whatever that was I decided to ignore it and kept running towards the longhouse.

When I arrived my family was there. Ragnar, Lagertha, Rollo, Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd, Ivar and my friend Floki. They all seemed bruised up from the fight. “What happened id y/n ok?” Lagertha was the first one to notice me coming in and holding y/n. That seemed to gather everybody's attention. And I moved forward towards a table that I could lay y/n down on. and put the sword next to her. “One of the Frost Giants got to her. I.. She’s gone.” I felt defeated. She was the one to save us all. I convinced everyone that she was the one. I still think, no, I still know that she is the one to save us all. But this.. She was gone, how could she be gone. Ragnar came standing right next to me and put his hand on my shoulder. “Then we have to save us. It is what the Gods intended.” He spoke. Was it? Then why would they send her. “She was never going to save us, she didn’t even know how to fight she was weak and now she’s gone.” Ivar said from his spot far away from where everybody had gathered to stand by y/n. “Ivar have some respect.” Sigurd retorted. “Oh shut it. You only liked her for what was under her skirt.” Ivar retorted. This seemed to piss off Sigurd and myself as well. “Enough! We don’t know if she was here to save us or not, but now we will never know. Like father said, we have to save us. We have to fight for Kattegat. And we will win.” I said loudly. How dare they disrespect a beautiful woman like y/n. They didn’t see her fight. I turned around and held her hand. “She was our hope and now we are our own hope. That’s what she was here for..... Hope.” And I squeezed her hand. But then she squeezed back. Was I imagining things? “Y/n?” I said softly.

Y/n Pov

I was surrounded by darkness, floating. I didn’t feel like me. Then all of a sudden I felt something squeeze my hand, but it didn’t feel like I was holding anything. I tried to squeeze back. And then I felt it. It felt like a hand. Slowly I started feeling my whole body again. And my I felt my stomach, it felt like I was on fire. I wanted to scream, but no sound came out, no air came out, nothing. Even more slowly I could feel my whole body again and then I realized I was not breathing. I gasped for air and sat up, my eyes wide open. I was couching up a storm trying to catch my breath. I quickly glanced around me and saw Bjorn, Lagertha and Ragnar before something bright surrounded me and I flew up. Bright colors were surrounding me and it almost looked like I could see stars behind all the colors. Am I dead? What was happening? I went at a speed I had never experienced before.

I wanted to scream, but then I landed with a thud on something that looked like glass or crystal. I looked around me and everything was gold. In front of me was a tall man with golden eyes. He looked like a VERY strong men. Compared to him the Vikings I met were nothing. I looked behind me and saw the weird rainbow and out came a whole table flying at me. I quickly dodged it and the man didn’t seem to be fazed that I almost got hit by a table. As I started to stand up looking back at the rainbow thing a sword flew out as well. This one almost impaled me and then it landed on in the stairs. It looked very stuck. Some more planks flew out of the rainbow before it closed.

I turned towards the tall man with the golden eyes. “Who are you and where am I?” I asked him. “You are in Asgard my child.” He said as a matter of fact. Like that wouldn’t confuses me. “Am I dead?” I wondered out loud. Is this where people when they die. “No, You are quite the opposite.” I walked around the stairs, but he stayed standing still in his spot. “Who are you?” I asked again. “Heimdall.” What the.. I am dead. There is no question about it. This can’t be real. “You seem confused.” He noted. “Well yes. This past week has been really strange. I got thrown into some weird place where everybody is a Viking. They have been telling me that they need me to fight some Frost Giants, which is apparently a real thing.. I think or this is still some weird dream I can’t wake up from. Then I got woken up in the middle of the night where I had to fight said Frost Giant and got ... Stabbed.... Are you sure I am not dead?” I was pacing around him but stood still in front of him for that last part. “You are not dead. It is not your time.” He was still staring at the place the rainbow was before, like I wasn’t even there. “How are you sure I’m not dead?” I asked. “Because I only see living souls and yours is very much alive and you will be for a very long time.” He can see the future? “Why am I here?” I asked him, like he had all the answers. “The all father wants to speak with you.” Who..?

“Y/n.” I heard from behind me. From all of this going on I didn’t see anybody walking up towards me. “Who are you?” I asked the old man. One of his eyes was covered with a golden eye patch. “Who do you think?” I had my ideas, but saying it out loud made me feel like I was crazy. But he was waiting for me to answer him, So I just say it out loud. “Odin?” I was unsure of myself. This can’t be real. But he nodded his head. “Follow me y/n, we’ll get you some new clothes.” He told me as he started walking away. I looked down to now only notice the big cut in my dress and covered with blood. This only made me question even more if I was dead. But I decided to follow him anyway. We walked on a very long bridge going straight towards a golden.. castle? It was enormous. Was this really Asgard?

Odin had shown me around the castle, but it was all a lot to take in. He had introduced me to his sons Thor and Loki, his wife Freya and a handful of other people I already forgot the names of. It was a lot to take in. I was given new clothes, but I kept my belt I luckily didn’t lose in everything that was happening and put it on. Even though it was very ironic the tree became my symbol, it spoke to me. It also felt like they were playing a joke on me here as well, as I was given a white dress to wear.. again. I was asked to meet Odin outside of my chambers to follow him somewhere again.

We went into a room that was covered in gold again. Everything was gold here. I felt so small everywhere I walked here, because all the ceilings were so high and every room was so big. “Why am I here.” I asked Odin. I didn’t specifically mean this room. Just in general here on Asgard or with the Vikings. Although Bjorn was a definitive plus side to all of this happening to me, I’d still rather go to where I was from. “For many reasons. One to start with is that stone you have there.” He said pointing to my chest. I looked down and didn’t see anything. “I.. I don’t have a stone.” I responded. “You do. It is hidden right there.” He told me. He came closer to me and all of a sudden me chest started lighting up. It was the same light I saw when I touched the stone before. “You are it’s chosen protector.” Odin said like it was obvious. Then the light suddenly stopped. “Look I don’t know what has been happening and I don’t care, but whatever was just lighting up in my chest you can have it if it means I get to go home.” These last coulple of days made no sense and I just wanted to go home, everybody was probably so worried. “But the home you grew up in doesn’t exist. At least not yet.”

This confirmed what I have been afraid of. I am in the past. “I will never see my family again.” I said under my breath. My mom, my dad, Emma, Sanna, Lars and even Nils. “Not necessarily.” Odin spoke. “What?” I asked, from by the looks of Bjorn and everyone around me there it looked like I was at least a thousand years in the past. And that certainly is not someone’s average lifespan. “It needs a little more explanation. Come here.” He said walking towards a big golden table. On the table there was a tree. It looked like Yggdrasil.

“before creation itself there were seven singularities.” Odin started as the table started to light up. Above it was something floating, it looked like space. Odin continued. “Then the universe exploded into existence and the remnants of these systems were forged into concentrated ingots. Infinity stones.” He spoke as seven stones came in to view above the floating table. A blew one, yellow one, red one, purple one, green one, orange one and a slightly bigger white one compared to the rest. “These stones can only be brandished by beings of extraordinary strength. The blue stone otherwise known as the Space stone, yellow known as the Mind stone, red the reality stone, purple the Power stone, green the Time stone, orange the Soul stone and white the Life stone.” All the stones came into view one by one. “All these stones are powerful on their own. On their own the carriers can use the stone to wipe out an entire civilization. But to use more stones at once you need the Life stone to make it all work together. Because what is a soul, mind, power, time, space and reality all mean if it is not living. But soon after their creation the Life stone disappeared and was nowhere to be found, until you. Now a lot of people are trying to get the power you poses. Because once a group of people tried to use two of the stones without the life stone, but they were quickly destroyed by it.” I was shown images of all the death that was surrounding these stones. “And now you being here with the stone it means it is now possible to use more stones at once.” Odin went on to explain. “What if I give it to you to protect it? I’m not- I can’t protect it.” I told him. How was I supposed to do that? “The stone clearly has a life of it’s own and it chose you to defend it. Haven’t you noticed that anybody that came too close to you followed some repercussions?” He asked already knowing the answer. “The stone you posses shields you and gives you more power to protect you and the living around you. It has a very strong energy to keep the beings away that try to take it from you. Only you are it’s protector. You are the protector of the living as long as it’s needed. Maybe until you are back from where you are from. Vörðr Ævi.” Protector of Life.

Would that make me immortal? Protecting this stone until that time. And who is to say that I would be done protecting it by then. “So this stone is giving me strength, some kind of energy and immortality?” I asked him as he would know the answer. “Yes and I believe you can manipulate that energy in whatever way you want to.” Odin walked around the table towards me. “How would I do that?” I asked him. “That’s why you’re here. We are going to figure out how that works.” For some reason I got really excited. I felt really powerful. I believed him even though it all still sounded so crazy. “But the people on... Midgard.. There are Frost Giants there. If it all is true what you are saying, shouldn’t I be there before anything happens to them. If I am the protector of the Life stone shouldn’t I also protect the people that are living?” I asked him. “Then we better hurry up.” He said as the table stopped with its projection floating above it.

I had been training for three days, which was hard in general, but I was also trying to figure out how to use the energy I had to my advantage which was even harder. Diferent people were training me and I barley had any rest. One day it was Odin and Heimdall, other days I got to train with Thor and Loki and the last day I got to train with the Valkyries. I felt like Thor was a show off and Loki was usually more in the background of things, even though I noticed when he was not in the back he liked to make everything like a grand entrance. The Valkyries were amazing fighters and it was hard to keep up with them. The whole time I could only think that Lagertha would love to fight with them. But Heimdall and Odin were the hardest to fight with. My guess is because they knew what I poses. Odin had told me to keep the information of me having the Life stone for myself.

On the last day of my training Odin had brought me to Freya to put a spell on me that would make it impossible to detect I was possessing this power. It hurt to put the spell on me, it almost felt the same as when I first touched the stone. “It worked, I don’t feel any power on her anymore.” Freya said. Good I would go unnoticed. “This will stay between us. No one must know of your power as it could be far to dangerous for the universe to know.” Odin told me. “It is time for you to go back and I will ready my army to join you later. But before that I have one last gift.” Odin walked away for a second and then came out with a big box. “Freya and her maids made this for you.” He explained.

I opened the box and inside there were clothes or a suit. I pulled it out and held it in front of me. It was all a broken white color. The boots were gold and they would reach over my knees on the chest was the tree Yggdrasil in gold as well. Then there were some golden lines the accentuate curves. And lastly there was a long golden flowy cape that would reach the ground. “Thank you it is beautiful!” I told both Freya and Odin.

After that I suited up and followed Odin back to the Observatory of Heimdall. “What will I be facing down there?” I asked Odin. “The Frost Giants came in the possession of the space stone, that is how they got to travel to Midgard. They want to start another Ice age there.” I don’t know what I was expecting, bit it was not that. “How did they get it?” I asked. “Hela gave it to them. Chaos and death surrounds her.” So everything Bjorn told me was true. Hela was there with them. But they are all so strong and well trained and now I was supposed to stop them? How? “How am I supposed to stop all of them?” “I am getting my army ready as we speak and we will be there shortly after you arrive.

He didn’t gave me time to respond as he guided me towards where the rainbow was beaming. “You posses more power than you think y/n, now use it.” He told me. “I will keep an eye on you out there.” Heimdall said in his calm voice. I was about to walk into the rainbow before Odin said something. “Don’t forget your sword.” I took it from his hands and held it up. For a brief moment it seemed to light up. “Now it is ready to be used by someone powerful like you. Now go you don’t have much time.” Odin said and I turned and walked in the rainbow.

Everything was lighting up again and I could kind of see the stars behind the rainbow. It almost felt like this time it was quicker and I was back on earth, this time in my whole get up. I landed on the beach where everyone was staring at me. In the crowed I saw Bjorn running towards me. “Where have you been? Where you..?” He said as he looked up at the sky. “Yes. And now I’m here to help.”

...

Let me know what you think :)

Also the suit I’m having in mind is kinda inspired by Wonder Woman 1984. At least the boots would be the same and the shoulder pieces would be gold. Besides that I’m imagining it a one piece in white and not really like armor, like Wonder Woman has in the movie. And then of course a tree on he chest. Hope that makes sense :) And btw also no helmet.

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